He still watched over Arden, albeit from a distance.
If Arden tried to talk to him or join him in the library, or for a walk, or sit next to him at dinner, he’d snap at him to “Go away. Give mepeace, in the name of the gods!” but at least he didn’t…he didn’t ignore him.
On the contrary, if Lassit was in residence at Dalbryn, Arden sensed his gaze like a physical thing.
All the time.
Aloys was the one who changed the most.
He was only a year older than Arden, and they had been the closest. They’d play together all day long, running around the estate from dawn to dusk. And then Aloys’ legs grew longer and he stopped running beside Arden and instead towered over him. He laid down muscle, and began to look at Arden strangely, and Arden…Arden grew nervous of his own brother.
So when Aloys presented and pushed him away as Lassit had done, Arden accepted it without complaint.
His younger siblings were still in the nursery, and those last few years of childhood were lonely ones for Arden. They weren’t untroubled, but they certainly were in comparison to what happened when he did finally present.
He was sixteen. Summer was over and Jack, who usually spent his summer months at the neighbouring estate, had gone back to Avendene. Although Arden had grown used to barely seeing him anymore, that year, Jack had sought him out once or twice. Unlike Aloys, Arden liked the way Jack looked at him, with his head tilted to one side, eyes warm and kind, and expression pensive.
He’d known, too, hadn’t he?
Of course, Jack was in his twenties back then, a boisterous young alpha finding his way in the world, far too busy and important to waste much time with romantic, late-blooming boys who were too stupid to know their entire world was about to change.
Sometimes, Arden wondered what would have happened if Jack had been there, rather than the footman. It would have been nicer, he knew that much. Arden was safe with Jack.
Jack wouldn’t have lost control.
The footman had of course apologised profusely, once the butler heard Arden’s cries and brought along a couple of betas and dragged him off Arden. His name was Clarke, and no one blamed him.
It was Arden’s fault after all, for suddenly blooming in front of the lad.
Clarke was barely a handful of years older than Arden himself, and he hadn’t encountered an omega in his life. Until that day, very few people at the Hall had. It was understandable that he’d reached out and grabbed Arden when he’d come to the library with the tea tray, when Arden had looked up at him, taken a deep breath of the young alpha before him, and smiled.
If Arden hadn’t flinched away when Clarke reached out and collared his throat, Clarke’s prey drive wouldn’t have kicked in.
He wouldn’t have chased Arden all the way out of the library, through the morning parlour and halfway up the stairs.
He wouldn’t have dragged Arden roughly down the steps, bruising his elbows and knees, pushed him down and made him cry.
Clarke wasn’t allowed near Arden after that.
When Arden realised he hadn’t even seen him from a distance for a few weeks and enquired about it, he learned that Clarke and Lassit had got into some sort of terrible alpha fight. Papa had to send Clarke to one of the northern estates. They said it was so Arden didn’t do something else unwise, like bond with Clarke. It was all nonsense.
He and Clarke were just friends. Or friendly enough, at least.
Clarke had even written to him, to apologise and, he said, to make him smile again.
He should smile more, Clarke said. He was so pretty when he did.
Even before they sent Clarke away, Arden had begun to feel the burden of his omega nature. His parents hadn’t quite knownwhat to do with him. There hadn’t been an omega in the family for at least four generations, Papa told him. But they would take good care of him. He mustn’t worry.
They did take care of him. Arden knew it, and was grateful. The problem was, ‘taking good care’ meant that after that one heated, frightening moment in the library (and the morning parlour, and the stairs) with a tall, intense boy, Arden was shuffled off to his own private wing. He rarely saw visitors. He never left Dalbryn.
His one consolation was that he still got to see and play with his younger brother and sister. He’d loved them so fiercely—more, even, than he’d loved Lassit and Aloys. His older siblings had always been rough with him, beforeandafter they all presented. It was simply how older brothers were, he knew that.
The little ones had loved him back.
Until they presented, too.
Dahli was as much an alpha as Lassit. One day she was his playful, sweet sister, and the next she didn’t have time for him, dismissed his opinions on everything, and told him to, “Go away, Arden. You’re so dull.” She stopped coming to his wing entirely. Even when he sent notes, inviting her to join him for tea, or to play cards, or read with him. They never did finish the series of adventure stories they’d been working through.
