"You see," she continues, nuzzling against my throat in a display that would be inappropriate in any civilized court, "the difference between Lord Blackmoor and my Warlord is quite simple. Blackmoor bought a commodity. Ghazrek claimed his mate."
Her teeth scrape against my jaw, and a possessive shudder racks my frame. She's performing for the humans, yes, but there's nothing false about the desire threading through her scent.
"I suggest you return to my father with a simple message," she says, her voice carrying clearly across the shocked silence. "His daughter is no longer for sale. She's found a master who values her properly."
The word 'master' is delivered with such deliberate provocation that I can practically taste the scandal she's creating. These humans will go home with stories that will keep noble ladies clutching their pearls for months.
"This is obscene," Harwick whispers.
"This is honesty," she corrects, pressing closer until our bodies are flush. "This is what you were really selling—access to an omega's body. At least here, I'm cherished for it instead of simply used."
Her hand slides up to cup my face, turning my head so she can whisper against my lips, her words pitched just loud enough for the delegation to hear.
"Show them who I belong to now."
The invitation in her voice is unmistakable. My control finally snaps. I capture her mouth in a kiss that's pure claiming, all tongue and teeth and the kind of possession that leaves no room for doubt. She melts into it and moans, the sound echoing off the stone walls, her body arching against mine in a display that makes it crystal clear exactly how thoroughly she's been claimed.
When I finally release her, she's panting, her lips swollen and her eyes dark with genuine arousal. The performance has become something real, something that sets my blood on fire and makes the rut stir restlessly in my veins.
"Enough," I growl, the word coming out lower and more raw than I expected. Not because I'm angry, but because watching her reclaim her power like this has affected me more than I expected. "You have your answer. Now get out."
The human delegation doesn't need to be told twice. They scramble toward the exit like rabbits fleeing wolves, Harwick clutching his useless documents.
As the doors close behind them, Vesha remains draped across my lap, her breathing still uneven from our kiss. The fury that drove her performance is transforming into something else entirely, something that makes her scent darken with fresh arousal.
"Well," she says, her voice slightly breathless, "that was satisfying."
"You've just created a scandal that will echo through every human court," I tell her, though there's admiration in my voice rather than censure.
"Good," she says, satisfaction sharp in her voice. "Let them all know exactly what happens to women who get sold like breeding stock. Maybe the next omega will have better options."
She shifts in my lap, and I feel the heat beginning to build in her again—not the desperate, painful heat of suppression magic failing, but something deliberate and chosen. Her body's response to the power she just claimed, to the choice she made to embrace what she is rather than hide from it.
"Besides," she adds, her voice dropping to something that makes my tusks ache with the need to mark her again, "someone should probably make sure I'm properly bred. For the good of the alliance, of course."
The political justification is paper-thin, a transparent excuse for what we both want. But I smell the truth beneath her words—this isn't just defiance or performance anymore.
This is desire, pure and honest and absolutely intoxicating.
"Of course," I agree, rising from my throne still holding her. "For the alliance."
Her answering smile is all teeth and promises of delightful trouble.
Perfect.
VESHA
The next day, the stronghold buzzes with preparations for the claiming ceremony. The orc seamstresses circle me, their massive hands surprisingly gentle as they adjust the flow of midnight blue silk. The fabric pools on the stone floor of what used to feel like a prison cell, but now... now it could start to feel like home.
"Hold still, my lady," Aino murmurs, her tusks catching the morning light. "The drape must be perfect."
"It is a queen's gown," Yara, another seamstress, adds, her voice a low rumble of satisfaction as she smooths a wrinkle from the shoulder. "Strong, but with grace. Like you."
The compliment, so simply given, warms me more than the morning sun. I look at my reflection, at the woman staring back in a dress the color of a mountain night sky. The silk is heavier than human finery, whispering of authority and permanence with every rustle. It feels less like a costume and more like a second skin.
"The embroidery tells the story of our clan," Aino explains, tracing a silver thread pattern at the hem. "See? The mountain, the twin moons, the first Warlord's axe. You will wear our history."
Through the window, I see the human envoys' camp. "They're still here," I murmur.
