The moment the words leave his mouth, I feel Vesha go rigid in my arms. Her scent spikes with something sharp and furious, the sweet amber-blossom base turning dark with rage.
Belongs to him.
"Belongs?" she repeats, her voice deceptively quiet. She straightens in my arms, no longer the exhausted woman who collapsed in the tunnels. This is someone else entirely—someone with steel in her spine and fire in her eyes. "I belong to Lord Blackmoor?"
"The contracts are legally binding," Harwick says, relief bleeding into his voice at her response. "Your father accepted the bride price months ago. Lord Blackmoor is waiting for your return to complete the ceremony."
"And what exactly did my father sell?" The question comes out like silk wrapped around a blade. "What precisely is Lord Blackmoor buying?"
Harwick shifts uncomfortably. "A marriage alliance, of course. A beneficial arrangement for both families?—"
"No," Vesha cuts him off. "He's buying an omega. Isn't he? A rare omega to breed his heirs and strengthen his bloodline. He's buying a broodmare, and my father sold me like prize livestock."
The silence that follows is deafening. Even my own council members, who are used to the brutal honesty of orc politics, are struggling to hide their smirks behind their fists.
"That's... that's not how we would phrase it," Harwick stammers.
"But it's what you mean." She slides from my lap and stands, and I let her go, curious to see where this leads. "Lord Blackmoor—what is he, sixty? Seventy? How many wives has he buried already?"
"Three," the youngest envoy answers before he can stop himself.
"Three wives dead in childbirth, trying to give him the heir he craves." Her voice carries across the chamber like a whip crack. "And now he's bought himself a guaranteed omega to finish the job."
She paces in front of the human delegation, and there's something predatory in her movements that reminds me why I was drawn to her in the first place. This is not a woman who accepts defeat quietly.
"Tell me, Lord Harwick," she continues, her voice sweet as poisoned wine, "what happens if I refuse to honor thiscontract? If I choose not to return to Lord Blackmoor's bed?"
"The family would be ruined," Harwick admits. "The bride price would have to be returned, plus penalties. Your father would lose his lands."
"So my choice is to be Lord Blackmoor's broodmare, or destroy my family." She stops pacing and turns to face them fully. "How wonderfully generous of you all."
The rage rolling off her is intoxicating, her scent dark and wild and absolutely magnificent. This is the woman I sensedbeneath the careful mask—fierce, intelligent, refusing to be broken even when cornered.
"But you know what?" she says, and her voice drops to something almost conversational. "You're absolutely right. I am breeding stock. I am a commodity to be bought and sold and used."
She turns to look at me, and the heat in her dark eyes makes my blood sing.
"The only question is who gets to use me."
Before anyone can react, she moves toward my throne. Her hands go to the laces of her dress, and I watch with growing hunger as she loosens them just enough to bare her throat—and the silver bite mark that brands her as mine.
"You want to treat me like livestock?" she asks, settling herself sideways across my lap so she's facing the human delegation. "Fine. But I choose my stud."
Her hand tangles in my hair, pulling my head down until my mouth is against her exposed throat. The bond mark glows silver at the contact, and her scent explodes through the chamber—arousal and defiance and the unmistakable perfume of an omega presenting herself to her chosen alpha.
"Vesha!" Harwick's voice cracks with horror.
"LadyVesha," she corrects without moving her mouth from my ear. "Soon to be Queen Vesha. My alpha has already claimed me, already marked me, already bred me properly." Her tongue darts out to trace the edge of my ear, and I fight the urge to respond right here in the council chamber. "Lord Blackmoor can have his bride price back. I've found a better stallion."
The deliberate crudeness of her words makes several of the envoys flinch, but she's not done. Her free hand slides down to rest over her belly, the gesture unmistakable.
"For all we know, I'm already carrying the heir to the Stoneblood clan," she purrs. "What do you think Lord Blackmoor will say about that?"
The youngest envoy looks like he's going to be sick. Harwick has gone white as winter fog.
But I can smell what they cannot—the complex layers of her scent telling a story of fury transformed into power, of a woman who has decided to reclaim control of her own fate by embracing what others would use to chain her.
Magnificent.
