The Omega Suite is exactly as I remember it, silk and velvet masking the bars on the windows and the reinforced lock on the door. A cage dressed in luxury, designed to keep its occupant comfortable and contained. Her bag sits in the corner, still packed, as if she expects to leave at any moment.
She won't. But I admire the stubbornness that keeps her hoping.
I find the pills hidden beneath a fold of clothing, exactly where my sources said they would be. The bottle is small, amber plastic, completely unremarkable. I shake it once and hear the rattle of tablets inside. Fewer than there should be. She's probably been doubling her doses, trying to fight off what her body already knows is inevitable.
Five pills left.
I pocket the bottle and take a moment to examine her other belongings. The photograph of Helena and her parents, worn at the edges from handling. The notes filled with cramped handwriting that I've already had transcribed and analyzed. A few changes of clothes, practical rather than fashionable. A small knife hidden in the lining of the bag, the kind of blade Helena would have taught her to conceal.
I leave the knife. Let her keep her illusions of defense. They won't matter soon.
The notes gives me pause. I've read the transcripts, studied every word Helena wrote about the Carswell bloodline and the omega gene that surfaces every few generations. But holding the originals feels different. More intimate. This was Helena's gift to her granddaughter, a record of everything Iris would need to know when the truth finally emerged.
Helena intended to tell her. The notes make that clear. She was preparing Iris, searching for the right words to explain what she was and why it mattered. Death stole that opportunity, and now the explanation falls to me.
I could be gentle about it. I could sit her down, show her the journal, walk her through the history and the biology and the reasons her grandmother kept her hidden. I could give her time to process, time to grieve, time to accept.
I won't.
I settle into the chair by the fire to wait for her return. My reasons are practical. The bond needs to be completed. The pack needs an heir. Her omega nature needs to be acknowledged and accepted before it drives her mad with wanting.
The justification sounds hollow even in my own head.
The truth beneath is simpler and uglier. I want her desperate. I want her stripped of the chemical armor Helena wrapped around her, forced to face the full weight of what she is. I want her to need me the way I've needed her through all those years of watching. I want her to understand that the craving burning through her blood has only one cure, and I'm the only one who can provide it.
Cruelty dressed as necessity. Helena would have seen through it immediately. Iris will too, eventually. But by then, she'll be mine in every way that matters.
The fire crackles. The minutes stretch. I listen to the distant sounds of the keep settling into evening and let the anticipation build.
She'll return soon. And when she does, the game changes.
The door opens, and Iris steps inside before she registers my presence. I watch the exact moment awareness hits her: the slight hitch in her stride, the tension that locks her shoulders, the way her hand moves instinctively toward the knife she thinks I don't know about.
Then her gaze finds me, and fury ignites in her eyes.
"What are you doing in my room?"
"Waiting for you." I don't rise from the chair. Let her come to me and feel the power differential in every step she's forced to take. "We need to talk."
"We have nothing to talk about." She moves toward her bag, and I see the moment she realizes it's been disturbed. Her hands shake as she digs through the clothing, searching for the bottle that's no longer there. When she looks up, her face has gone pale beneath the fever-flush. "Where are they?"
I pull the bottle from my pocket and hold it up to the firelight. The pills rattle softly inside.
"Looking for these?"
She crosses the room faster than I expected, reaching for the bottle with desperate hands. I close my fist around it and let her fingers scrape uselessly against mine.
"Give them back." Her voice cracks. "Those are mine. You had no right."
"Everything in this keep is mine." I rise from the chair, and she stumbles back a step before catching herself. "Including you."
"I'm not your property!"
"No." I step closer, and her breath catches despite her anger. The flush on her cheeks deepens, spreading down her throat to disappear beneath the collar of her dress. Her pupils are blown wide, and I can see the rapid flutter of her pulse at the hollow of her neck. "You're my mate. Whether you accept it or not, your body already knows."
The word lands like a blow. She stares at me, and I watch understanding dawn in her eyes. Slow at first, then faster as the pieces click into place. The symptoms she's been experiencing. The changes in her body. The way she's been drawn to me despite her hatred.
Horror follows close behind.
