The door opens with a soft click, and my rehearsed greeting dies in my throat.
Despite my preparation, I’m still completely unequipped for seeing Maya Tantamount in the flesh. A single still image and detailed description captured her features but failed entirely to convey her presence.
Her purple hair cascades down her back in waves of indigo and plum, catching the light with each careful step she takes. She moves with a deliberate grace that speaks of years of training, yet there’s something beneath it—a barely contained energy, like lightning trapped in a bottle.
Her scent hits me next, stronger and more complex than the lingering traces on the handkerchief. Cherries and champagne flood my senses, but there’s more—a hint of something electric underneath, a spark that wasn’t captured in the fabric. My pupils dilate before I can control the reaction, and I feel Cillian tense in my peripheral vision.
“Your Highness.” Her voice is melodic but guarded as she performs a perfect curtsy, holding the position with textbook precision. “It’s an honor to meet you.”
I force my face into the practiced smile that has charmed diplomats and courtiers alike, burying my visceral reaction beneath layers of royal training.
“Miss Tantamount.” The name feels significant on my tongue. “The pleasure is entirely mine.”
She rises from her curtsy, and I catch the briefest flash of something in her eyes—wariness, perhaps, or calculation. There weren’t many caveats in her records, fewer than most of the Omegas here.
But the Enclave records described her as “cautious” and “intelligent,” listing these traits as potential concerns rather than assets. They suggested she thinks too much for an Omega, questions too often when she should simply obey.
Looking at her now, I understand their concern. There’s nothing vacant or pliant in her gaze. Those eyes assess me as thoroughly as I examine her.
“I trust your stay at the Enclave has been comfortable?” I gesture toward the seating arrangement, inviting her to sit while maintaining the illusion that she has a choice in the matter.
“The Enclave provides everything an Omega could need, Your Highness.” Her answer is diplomatic to the point of emptiness, the kind of response drilled into Omegas through endless etiquette classes.
She settles onto the edge of the sofa, her posture perfect—back straight, hands folded in her lap, ankles crossed and tucked to the side. The picture of Omega refinement. Yet something about the set of her shoulders speaks of tension rather than submission.
I take the seat opposite her, aware of Cillian’s silent presence by the door. The matron has also stationed herself in the corner, ostensibly to chaperone but more likely to evaluate Maya’s performance.
“I’ve heard much about you,” I say, leaning forward slightly. “Your academic achievements are impressive.”
A flicker of surprise crosses her features before she smooths it away. “You’re too kind, Your Highness. I merely applied myself to the curriculum provided.”
Her modesty is practiced, but I sense genuine shock that I would mention her intelligence rather than her appearance or domestic skills. The subtle widening of her eyes betrays her. She obviously hadn’t expected me to have read her file so thoroughly.
I allow a hint of my genuine interest to show through the practiced charm. “And your records suggest a mind that would be wasted on mere household management.”
This time, she can’t quite hide her reaction—a slight parting of her lips, a quick dart of her eyes toward the matron, who has stiffened at my deviation from the expected script of Alpha-Omega introductions.
Something shifts in the air between us—a recognition, perhaps. In this moment, beneath the politics and biology and social ritual, we are simply two people seeing each other clearly for the first time.
Any mate of mine will have no choice but to navigate the dangerous waters of palace life.
I don’t need a simpering miss. I need someone smart enough to figure out how to swim with sharks without losing a limb.
“Tell me, Miss Tantamount,” I lean back in my chair, deliberately casual, “if you weren’t bound by expectations, what would you choose to study?”
The matron’s sharp intake of breath is audible even from across the room. It’s not a question typically asked of Omegas. Their education focuses on pleasing Alphas, running a household, managing children—not pursuing personal interests. But I want to see beyond the carefully constructed facade the Enclave has built around her.
Maya hesitates, her fingers tensing slightly in her lap. I can almost see the calculation happening behind her eyes, weighing the risk of honesty against the safety of a proper, demure response.
“Political theory and historical diplomacy, Your Highness.” Her voice is steady, though quiet enough that the matron might not catch it. “Particularly the pre-Restoration treaties that eventually led to Melilla’s unification.”
My eyebrows lift of their own accord. Not art or literature, or even the acceptable feminine pursuits like music or languages, but the very foundation of our kingdom’s political structure.
Interesting.
“An unusual interest,” I observe. “What draws you to something so complex?”
I can’t quite the feeling that she trying not to attract me, providing answers that I’ll take issue with even if they’re the truth.
