A soft knock at the door makes me tense. Too gentle to be guards. Too hesitant to be a threat.
"Enter," I call, positioning myself near the letter opener.
The door opens to reveal a young woman—Beta, based on her neutral scent—carrying a tray laden with food. Her eyes are downcast, her movements careful.
"Lord Malakai sends his regards," she says quietly, setting the tray on a side table. "He thought you might be hungry."
I eye the food suspiciously. "How thoughtful. Did he also send someone to taste it first, or does he expect me to trust Shadow Court hospitality?"
The servant meets my eyes for the first time, a ghost of understanding in her expression. Without a word, she picks up a piece of the roasted meat and eats it, then tears off a piece of bread and does the same. She takes a sip from the goblet of wine, then a spoonful of the vegetables.
"Lord Malakai was quite insistent that you not be... uncomfortable," she says.
Uncomfortable. What a delicate way to phrase "poisoned."
I watch her for a long moment. No trembling. No pallor. No scent of fear or deception that would suggest she'd just poisoned herself to prove a point. Either the food is safe, or she's been given an antidote—and if Malakai wanted me dead, he would have done it in the throne room.
After she leaves, I approach the tray. The food is surprisingly appealing—roasted meat, fresh bread, vegetables I don't recognize but smell divine. My stomach growls, reminding me I haven't eaten since this morning.
I eat, tasting nothing, my mind already moving to the next problem.
Another knock at the door—firmer this time. When it opens, an older woman enters, flanked by three younger servants. Her steel-gray hair is pulled back severely, and her Beta scent carries the sharp tang of authority.
"Lady Seraphina," the older woman says with a perfunctory bow. "I am Mistress Kate, keeper of the Shadow Lord's household. I am here to prepare you for tomorrow's ceremony."
"And if I refuse to be prepared?" I ask, raising an eyebrow.
A thin smile crosses her wrinkled face. "Then we will prepare you regardless, and it will be considerably less pleasant for everyone involved."
I consider my options. Fighting now would be foolish—it would achieve nothing except perhaps injuring some servants and alerting Malakai to my true capabilities. Better to appear cooperative. Compliant. A proper Omega accepting her fate.
"Very well," I say with as much dignity as I can muster. "What does this preparation entail?"
"First, you will bathe," Mistress Kate says. "Then we will ensure the ceremonial gown fits properly. Lord Malakai has selected the traditional dress for his high bride—a title given only to the most politically significant wives of Shadow Lords, those whose unions seal major alliances."
High bride. The term makes my stomach turn. Not just bride. Not just mate. High bride—a position of importance, of power. Or perhaps just a fancier cage for a trapped Omega.
"And this gown?" I ask. "I assume it's black?"
"It is the ceremonial wedding gown of the late Lady Morgana, Lord Malakai's grandmother," Mistress Kate says, a note of reverence entering her voice. "It is considered a great honor. The gown has not been worn in three generations. Lady Morgana was also an Omega—an Omega Alpha, the rarest designation."
"Omega Alpha?" I've never heard the term.
"Someone born with Omega biology—the ability to bear children, go into heat, respond to Alpha commands—but who presents with Alpha secondary traits. Dominance. Aggression. The ability to command others, to exert Alpha pressure." She pauses. "It occurs in perhaps one in ten thousand presentations. They can command like Alphas but conceive like Omegas. Lady Morgana united three warring Shadow Court factions through sheer force of will and political brilliance, all while pregnant with Lord Malakai's grandfather. She ruled beside her mate as an equal, not a possession."
The implication hangs in the air: This dress belonged to someone powerful. Someone who refused to be just a breeding vessel.
"How fortunate for me," I say dryly, though something in my chest tightens at the thought.
The bath is drawn in the bathing chamber, the water scented with unfamiliar herbs and flowers. I submit to the ministrations of the servants, letting them wash my hair and scrub my body while I retreat into my mind, reciting assassination protocols and escape routes to keep myself calm.
When they finally bring the gown, I can't suppress a reaction. It's beautiful in a dark, disturbing way—black silk and velvet with silver embroidery depicting constellations and shadow symbols. The neckline plunges indecently low, and the back is almost entirely open, designed to display the claiming bite that will inevitably mark my throat. It's designed to display the wearer like a trophy, like a claimed Omega on her Alpha's arm.
"I will not wear that," I state flatly.
Mistress Kate's eyes narrow. "You will. Lord Malakai has commanded it."
"I am not yet bound to obey his commands," I counter. "I am not yet his mate."
