But the Omega I'm picturing wouldn't have gotten through that spike alone. He wouldn't have cleaned himself up, changed his clothes, walked back to his desk, and sat there for hours without anyone knowing what happened. An Omega who can do that while his body is in open revolt isn't soft the way I assumed. He's been holding himself together on nothing for years, with no resources, no allies, and a mother who made sure he can't function without her. The discipline that takes is something I recognize because I learned my own version of it from the same man currently testing Mattaniah's limits.
The difference is I learned mine as an Alpha heir with money and a mate who had my back. Mattaniah learned his from the bottom with nothing.
Which means the submission I've gotten from him costs him more than I calculated. An Omega who can endure what he did yesterday and still show up for work the next morning isn't someone who submits because he's weak. He's someone who has been refusing to kneel for anyone, and he chose to kneel for me.
"There's more," Amos says behind me. "When I found him in the garden, I could smell Father on him. Stronger than office proximity would explain. He wouldn't tell me what happened, but something went on before the spike hit."
I turn back to face Amos, my brow furrowing slightly. Father is moving faster than I thought he would and he’s been bolder than I expected. My focus shifts to my mate, my gaze dipping to his neck and his wrists from what I can beneath his shirt. "Has Father done anything to you?"
The question is familiar territory between us, a check I've been running since we were teenagers. Amos shakes his head.
"I barely exist when you're not around, you know that." A thin smile crosses his face without reaching his eyes. "I'm useful to him as a lever against you and invisible otherwise. Mattaniah doesn't have that buffer. He's at his cubicle most of the day but Father can call him whenever, and the suppressants aren't covering him anymore."
"I noticed. His scent's been leaking through all morning."
"It's going to get worse. The spikes will come more often, the blockers will keep failing, and Father is going to catch every bit of it." Amos leans forward on the desk. "We need to move now, Dom."
He's right. The timeline I built three days ago is already dead, outpaced by biology that doesn't care about strategy. "I'll handle it." I sit down and pull up my email, trying to ignore theemotions building in my chest. As much as I want to take Amos against the wall or drag his pretty ass home and bury myself in it, I can’t. "Go back to your office."
Amos visibly shudders, his scent sweetening slightly before he collects his reports, only pausing by the door. "Be careful with him today. He's running on fumes and fear."
"He's not fragile, Amos."
"No, he's not. That's exactly why you need to be careful." He leaves, and I sit with that for a moment before I start typing. The email is two lines, addressed to Mattaniah.
My office, 2pm, come alone.
The next three hours pass in meetings I don't need to attend while I run scenarios behind the public-facing part of my attention. By two o'clock I've dismissed my assistant, closed the blinds on the glass wall facing the corridor, and cleared the space beside my desk.
He knocks at exactly two and enters with the anxiety of someone who spent three hours deciding whether to show up. He looks worse than he did this morning, the shadows beneath his eyes deeper and his skin pale beneath its warmth. His scent is churning behind the blocker, pushing against the chemical suppression while something sour threads underneath.
He stands in front of my desk with his hands clasped behind his back, the perfect picture of an assistant awaiting instruction.
"Sit down, Mattaniah."
He reaches for the chair across from my desk.
"Not there." I nod toward the floor beside my chair. "Here."
His hand freezes on the chair back. I watch the collision happen across his features, the training that says obey meeting something underneath that pulls him toward the floor even as his mind resists.
"That's not appropriate."
"The door is closed and the blinds are drawn." I turn back to my computer and begin scrolling through a report, removing the pressure of being watched. "You've had a difficult few days and you don't need to perform right now."
The control I need right now isn’t something Mattaniah will understand, not yet, anyway. However, I’m more curious to see if he’ll obey and even more curious to see if he’ll melt into this moment the way he melted the first night. Maybe it was a fluke and his body just needed the touch. Or maybe this is him, his Omega crying out for help beneath everything else.
The soft sound of his knees meeting the carpet sends a pulse through my chest. I give him a ten-count to settle before I glance down. He's kneeling beside my chair with his hands in his lap and his head bowed, the rigid line of his shoulders already beginning to soften. I expected him to sit but not to kneel.
Has he done this before or is this just the most comfortable position?
His scent shifts as the haze thins and the coconut pushes through. His body is responding to the act of kneeling itself, submission triggering something that the suppressants can't fully block.
I work with one hand, scrolling through reports and typing notes, while the Omega beside me gradually stops fighting. His breathing slows first. Then his shoulders drop, the tension draining in increments. His head drifts toward the arm of my chair, hovering in the gap between wanting the contact and allowing it.
I shift my arm so my hand hangs off the armrest, my fingers close to his hair. He takes a full minute to close the distance, his curls inching toward my fingertips in a negotiation between need and caution. When they finally brush my hand, a tremor runs through him and his breath leaves in a long exhale.
My fingers settle into his hair and scratch gently against his scalp as his body shudders once and goes loose, his weight shifting until his temple rests against my thigh.
