"When I knock," he says, his voice low enough that I feel it in my chest, "you answer. When I tell you to open a door, you open it. You do not make me wait. You do not make me repeat myself. And you do not lock doors in my house. Do you understand?"
I nod frantically.
"Words, Omega."
The command hits me like a physical force, and the response tears out of me before I can moderate it. "Yes, sir. I understand. I'm sorry, I won't do it again, I'm so sorry."
I hate how easily the submission comes. My body wants to sink to its knees, bare my throat, show him I'm not a threat, and the urge is so strong my muscles shake with the effort of staying upright. Every instinct my mother spent years teaching me to suppress is surging toward the surface, and this Alpha's presence is pulling them up faster than I can push them down.
His gaze travels over my body in a way that makes my skin crawl. I'm still in my work clothes, and yet, I have never felt more exposed.
"Dinner is in ten minutes," he says. "You will come downstairs, you will sit where I tell you to sit, and you will demonstrate proper Omega etiquette throughout the meal. Your mother assures me you've been trained, but I have my doubts based on this display." His lip curls. "Do not embarrass me. Whatever you were in your old life, you are part of this household now. You will act accordingly."
"Yes, sir," I whisper.
He holds my gaze for another beat, then turns and walks away, leaving my door hanging open on its broken hinges.
My legs give out the moment his footsteps fade down the stairs, and I slide to the floor with my teeth chattering.
It takes me a full five minutes to regain my strength before I rush to the bathroom to wash my face and strip off my apron. There’s no time for anything else, my hand finding my scent blockers in my pocket. I shouldn’t but I dry-swallow two more pills even though I know I shouldn't. I've already taken more today than I usually take in a week. My body isn't listening to reason, and I need every barrier I can build between myself and the responses trying to break through.
The walk downstairs makes the scents stronger with every step. If I can just get through this meal, just prove I know how to behave, maybe I can find a pattern I can navigate.
A long table dominates the dining room as I step inside, set with more silverware than I know what to do with. My stepfather sits at the head, my mother to his right. Across from where I'll apparently be sitting, Dominic and Amos' gazes are glued to me as I head to my seat.
Amos' brow furrows slightly as he takes in my appearance, something almost sympathetic moving across his features. Dominic's expression is harder to read, those dark eyes tracking my every movement with an attention that makes the hair on my arms stand up.
"Sit." My stepfather gestures to the chair on his left, the one directly beside him.
My legs carry me there because the alternative is standing in the doorway until he commands me again, and that would be worse. The chair scrapes when I pull it out, Richard’s expression hardening.
"Quietly. Omegas should move through a space without disrupting it."
"Yes, sir. I'm sorry." I lower myself as carefully as I can, trying to take up as little space as possible.
Staff I didn't notice begin serving the first course, a delicate soup that smells expensive and looks like it belongs in amagazine. I wait until my stepfather lifts his spoon before reaching for my own, and my fingers close around the wrong one.
Mr. Hale's hand cracks against the back of mine before I've registered the mistake, the sharp sting pulling a gasp from my throat. "Soup spoon is on the outside. You work inward as the courses progress."
"I'm sorry. I forgot, I'm sorry, I won't..."
"Don't apologize. Just do it correctly."
I pick up the right spoon with trembling fingers. My appetite has vanished entirely, but I force myself to take a sip. The taste doesn't register. Nothing registers except the pounding of my heart and the weight of everyone's attention.
The meal continues in the same vein, every mistake earning immediate correction. A sharp word when I reach for my water glass at the wrong moment. A sting to my hand when I rest my elbows on the table. Cutting remarks about my posture, my expression, the way I hold my fork.
My stepfather's attention is relentless, and the rules pile up until I can barely track them, my hands shaking so badly by the third course that I nearly drop my knife and earn another smack that makes tears prick at my eyes.
I blink them back. I will not cry at this table.
But my control is slipping, my body's responses breaking through the chemical barrier I've relied on for years, Omega instincts pushing against everything I've built to contain them.
The problem is that it's not just my stepfather's presence doing this. My body is trying to sort through these Alphas and find safety or at least something to orient itself around, and the effort of stopping it is costing me everything I have.
My scent goes sour despite my best efforts.
I know the moment it happens because Mr. Hale's nostrils flare and his eyes darken again, that same quality from thebedroom returning to his expression. Across the table, both of my new stepbrothers’ expression fill with interest.
