I stare at the unassuming entrance to the Enclave, its polished stone facade betraying nothing of what lies within. The sprawling complex stretches across manicured lawns, the quiet dignity of the place belying its true nature.
Beside me, Cillian stands with his shoulders rigid, jaw clenched tight enough to crack teeth. His pale hair falls across his forehead, obscuring those ice-chip eyes that I know are fixed anywhere but on me.
A scent-saturated handkerchief burns in my pocket like a hot coal. My fingers twitch. Before I can stop myself, I’ve pulled it out, making a theatrical show of dabbing at my brow despite the cool spring air.
It wouldn’t do for anyone to see a prince of the realm salivating over an Enclave scent sample.
There had been dozens sent to my office, attached to dossiers with pictures of every pretty Omega of mating age currently on offer.
But this is the only one I haven’t been able to get out of my head.
The scent hits me immediately—cherries and champagne, intoxicating and light. It hits me like a drug, a surge of adrenaline through my veins in a physiological response I expect, but can’t control. The fabric is soft against my skin, and I hold it there a moment longer than necessary, drawing in another breath before tucking it away.
Fuck, I love this scent.
From the corner of my eye, I catch Cillian’s subtle flinch, the slight tightening of his shoulders. He notices everything. Of course he does. The breach of etiquette means nothing—openly scenting an Omega’s handkerchief in public speaks to a lack of restraint unbecoming of an Alpha of my station—but Cillian’s disapproval cuts deeper than any social misstep.
A flash of guilt surges through me, hot and uncomfortable.
I saved his fucking life.
And he’s pouting.
I push down the guilt, burying it beneath layers of practiced restraint.
What choice do I have about any of this? My father made his expectations crystal clear. A female Omega. Heirs. The continuation of the Corellian bloodline. The kingdom requires it, and my position as potential heir demands it. Cillian knows this as well as I do.
And if I can find a mate who smells as good as this one and will also please my father with her accomplishments, then that’s even better.
Cillian knows neither of us has a real choice in any of this.
The bitter taste of resentment coats my tongue. He might have a right to jealousy, to his resentment, but that doesn’t make it any easier for me to tolerate.
The worst of it—the secret I’ve tried to keep to myself—is just how much this Omega’s scent affects me. The cherry-champagne fragrance isn’t merely pleasant or appealing. It calls to something primal within me, a response so visceral it frightens even me.
I don’t believe in a perfect match. One Omega isn’t substantially different from another.
But that didn’t stop me from wrapping this damn handkerchief around my face like a bandit mask while I fucked a harem beta from behind last night.
Cillian won’t let me touch him, so the harem betas will have to do.
I haven’t commanded him into my bed, even though I could. He should be grateful for my restraint. He should be even more grateful that I’m trying my best to spare his feelings. It’s better to let him believe that coming to the Enclave to meet this Omega is merely duty, a political match fueled by my ambition to the throne. Better to let him think I’m approaching this with the same reluctance he feels.
Maya Tantamount.
I’d read every word in her file, stared at the posed picture of her like I was trying to commit it to memory. Searching for the flaw that would make her unsuitable and failing to find it.
The massive doors of the Enclave’s outer courtyard swing open, revealing a well-manicured but deserted lawn and the fortified building just beyond. She’s in there somewhere, the purple-haired Omega whose scent has haunted me for weeks.
I can’t decide if I’m hoping that she meets the wild expectations my mind has set for her.
If I’m lucky, she won’t.
Cillian shifts beside me, readying himself for the introduction. His loyalty remains unshakable even as his heartbreaks. I straighten my jacket, square my shoulders, and prepare my royal mask.
The king will have his heir. The kingdom will have its future. And I will have the Omega whose scent calls to me like a siren song, while my supposed beta stands guard over a happiness he believes he won’t ever share.
Except I will share it, if he would just give me the chance to prove it.
