Father kept a metal ruler on his desk back then, too. He used it on me and Amos whenever our behavior fell short of his standards, rapping our knuckles until we learned to sit straight and speak when spoken to and move through his house without making a sound.
He stopped the day we presented as Alphas. Hitting an Alpha son is a challenge, a declaration of dominance that invites retaliation, and Father is too strategic to provoke a confrontation he might not win. But an Omega is different. An Omega's biology is wired to absorb correction from a dominant Alpha instead of fighting back, and Mattaniah's training must have made him even more susceptible. Father isn't just correcting him. He's exploiting a biological response the Omega can't override, and his mother made damn sure he'd never even try.
My pen cracks. I ease my grip and set it down before anyone notices, redirecting my attention to the quarterly review. Amos is two seats to my left with his jaw tight, my mate watching Father's hand too.
The meeting grinds through another hour. Father corrects Mattaniah's posture twice and the angle at which he holds his water glass once, each correction tossed at him without eye contact like an afterthought. Mattaniah absorbs every one and adjusts immediately, his compliance seamless enough to look voluntary.
When the meeting ends, Mattaniah gathers the notes and follows Father out without looking at me. I give it three minutes, then find Amos in his office.
He's standing at the window with his arms crossed and his glasses pushed up into his hair, which means he's too agitated to care about seeing clearly. "Close the door," he says without turning around.
Had it been any other moment, I would make Amos pay for giving me a direct order. I close the door and lean against the frame. "How long has he been doing that?"
"The touching?" Amos turns to face me. "All day. Shoulder, back of the neck, lower back, always in contexts where it reads as authority rather than anything else."
"Did you see his knuckles?"
Amos' expression tightens. "I saw them this morning when he brought Father coffee. He kept tucking his hands against his thighs like he was trying to hide them."
"Father's using the ruler on him." I hate the memories that come with that fucking ruler. It’s probably even the same one. "He used to do that to us, remember? Before we presented. Same marks, same placement." I push off the doorframe and cross to him. "He stopped hitting us the day we became Alphas because that would've been a challenge. But Mattaniah can't challenge him. His biology won't let him, and whoever trained him made sure his mind won't either."
"He's grooming him." Amos says it flat, without softening the word.
"Yes." I fit my hand against the back of Amos' neck where Father's hand sat against Mattaniah's an hour ago. Amos leans into my touch immediately, his body softening, his chin tipping forward. The difference between what this gesture means when I do it and what it means when Father does it hits me. "He's already establishing physical contact in front of an audience. That means he's confident enough to escalate."
"I know." His voice is muffled against my collarbone. "I just need you to acknowledge that what we're doing isn't clean."
"No, it’s not. It's necessary." I press my thumb into the knot of tension at the base of his skull. "The Omega is ours, Amos. Father has the mother. Mattaniah is ours to deal with."
He pulls back enough to look at me with one eyebrow raised. "Ours?"
"You know what I mean."
"I know what you said." The corner of his mouth twitches. "I also know you came to bed last night tasting like slick and talking about him like he was the most interesting thing that'shappened to you in years. The strategic timeline seems to be running behind the emotional one."
I kiss his forehead because he's right and I'd rather acknowledge that with my mouth than my words. "Get back to work." It’s a soft command layered beneath amusement but a command nonetheless.
By six, the executive floor has mostly emptied, Father having left an hour ago for a dinner meeting. I’m ecstatic that family dinners aren’t going to become the norm nor required after the first night Mattaniah and his mother came to the house.
The filing room beside Father's office is where I find Mattaniah after I pack up, kneeling on the floor surrounded by boxes of documents that haven't been touched in a decade. His hair is escaping its bun in dark curls around his face, his jacket discarded over a chair, his shirtsleeves rolled to the elbows. The overhead lights wash the color from his skin and make the shadows beneath his eyes look deeper than they should.
He doesn't hear me in the doorway as he quickly moves through the files with a competence that tells me this isn't the first time someone has buried him in busywork to keep him available after hours.
"That's going to take you all night."
He startles hard enough to scatter a stack of folders, his head snapping up, his scent spiking before he wrestles it flat within seconds. "Mr. Hale wants the quarterly archives reorganized by morning. I'm almost done."
"You're not close to done; there are six more boxes behind you." I step into the room and crouch beside him, my shoulder pressing against his as I reach for a misplaced document. "And my father left you here with twelve hours of work and no intention of paying you for it."
He stiffens at the contact but holds his ground. The pulse hammering in his throat tells me that staying costs him. "Youdon't have to help me." He murmurs, keeping his eyes on the files. "This is my job."
"This is busywork designed to keep you in the building alone after hours." I sort three files into their correct locations and reach for the next stack, positioning myself so our knees touch. "I noticed him touching you in the meeting today."
His hands go still.
"It's fine." His voice goes flat, the tone he seems to use around Father. It’s soft enough to mistake for submission but it’s really just obedience. "He's my employer, and he's allowed to direct me physically."
"He's yourstepfather, and he's testing how far you'll let him go,” I grind out, setting the files down and facing him, close enough that my scent fills the space between us. "When you finally let go, it will be for us, not my fucking father."
