My mother's jaw tightens. She keeps eating, a tight smile on her face as she pretends her son isn't falling apart three feet from her elbow.
"You're distressed," my stepfather observes.
"I'm fine. Just tired from the move. I apologize if my scent is offensive."
"It's not offensive." His voice drops lower, something threading through it that makes my stomach turn. "It's informative. You'll need to learn better control if you're going to function in this household."
"Yes, sir."
"Perhaps additional training would help. I have certain expectations for the Omegas under my roof, and right now you're falling quite short of them."
My mother's gaze finds me briefly, carrying the expression I've learned to read over a lifetime: behave, don't ruin this, don't you dare.
I reach for my water to buy myself a moment, and my fingers close around the wrong glass.
Mr. Hale's hand comes down harder this time, and my composure breaks. A high and needy whine escapes my throat before I can catch it, everything I've spent years training out of myself pouring through a crack I can't seal.
The table goes silent.
I want to dissolve into the floor and never be found, to be anywhere except in this dining room with my stepfather's gaze fixed on me and my mother's disapproval radiating from across the table.
"I'm sorry," I choke out, starting to push to my feet. "I'm not hungry, may I please be excused, I'm sorry, I just..."
"Sit down."
The Alpha command hits like a blow, and my body obeys before my mind catches up. I'm back in the chair without any memory of moving, my muscles locked, every instinct screaming to comply.
"There will be rules in this house," Mr. Hale growls out. "You will learn them, and you will follow them, and you will not embarrass me or your mother with these displays. Is that understood?"
"Yes, sir."
"You will address me properly at all times. You will respond when spoken to. You will present yourself appropriately for meals. You will demonstrate the etiquette your mother claims to have taught you. And you will control your scent. I will not have you broadcasting your instability throughout my dining room."
Each rule lands like a nail being driven into wood as my mother watches with quiet approval.
"Now." Mr. Hale pushes back from the table and stands, straightening his jacket. He looks down at me with something that sits between satisfaction and appetite, and my skin crawls. "You will clean the kitchen when the meal is finished. Consider it your introduction to what it means to be a good little Omega in this household. Perhaps some honest work will remind you of your place."
"Yes, sir."
He walks out. My mother stands, smooths her dress, and finally looks at me directly. "Try harder tomorrow," she says, and then she's gone too.
The staff clear the remaining dishes around me while I sit frozen, hands shaking in my lap, eyes burning with tears I refuse to release. My body feels beaten even though only my hands took any real damage.
"You okay?"
Amos is still seated across from me, Dominic already gone. His expression is gentler than I expect, his pine scent drifting across the table, and even through the wreckage of my composure my body wants to lean toward it.
"Fine," I manage.
"You don't have to do that with me." He stands and rounds the table slowly, moving like someone aware of how close to the edge I am. "That was brutal. Even by his standards."
I don't know what to say, so I say nothing.
"Come on." He offers me his hand, and the unexpectedness of the gesture makes me stare at it for a moment. "I'll show you where the kitchen is so you can get the dishes washed and then actually rest."
The moment our skin touches, something jolts through my entire body, disorienting enough that my knees wobble and I have to grab the table edge to stay upright. Amos' nostrils flare as he catches whatever just shifted in my scent, and I brace for him to use it, for this to become another thing leveraged against me.
He steadies me with a hand on my elbow and guides me toward the kitchen.
