His voice is still neutral. He will tell Zymlor. Zymlor already has too much joy in this matter. My younger brother has sent fourteen messages since the mating registered. Bryklor sent:Six vesh. Worth it.My family is intolerable. Beatrice thinks I am a lot. She has not met the full court.
The thought should amuse me. Instead, it constricts my chest. She will meet them. Father. My brothers. The council. Theceremonial families. The tailors who value cloth like jewels. The healers will want readings. The archivists will render her name properly in Layn script. The public who will see an Earth omega mated to a prince and decide they have opinions. All of it is coming for her. All of it will touch her. My jaw clenches. No. Not touch. Approach. Nothing touches my mate without her consent. Or mine.
Except I am currently relocating her apartment without asking because she belongs with me. No one on Layn would leave a newly mated omega alone in a vulnerable dwelling across a city full of strangers. It would be negligent. Insulting. Proof that the alpha either lacked resources or devotion. I have both. Therefore, I act.
My ring warms. Beatrice’s heart rate is elevated but not in danger. Arousal is lower now. Discomfort moderate. Emotional state difficult to parse through the newness of the bond, though I suspect annoyance. I send her a message.
Are you okay?
Three dots appear. Then:Working. Stop being creepy.
My mouth curves. Halem’s eyes flick to my face and away again. I type:Not creepy. Just checking on my mate.
Her answer comes fast.Definitely creepy.
I should not enjoy this. I do.
The relocation takes less than two hours. Earth movers are slow, but Layn personnel compensate with terror and efficiency. The lease buyout requires eight minutes and an amount of money Beatrice will object to. Too bad. I will survive the objection if it means she never has to trust that elevator again.” By midafternoon, her belongings begin arriving. Books first. Good.
I stand in the east study while the staff unpacks them, resisting the urge to reorganize beyond basic subject matter. Journalism texts together. Cookbooks near the lower shelf because the spinedamage suggests frequent handling. Romance novels take over the largest shelf. Some titles are subtle. Others are not. Several involve aliens. One has a shirtless blue male on the cover whose anatomy is inaccurate, whose proportions are insulting, and whose jawline is mediocre. I remove it from the stack. Then put it back. Beatrice will know. I take it out again. I don’t care what she knows about the damn book.
By five, her clothing hangs in the dressing room, her documents are secured, and the chipped mug is on my desk. It is a humble object. White ceramic. Faded logo. Tiny crack near the handle. My mate kept the broken part. I touch the tissue-wrapped chip with one finger and place it back inside. Some things are not mine to fix. Then her ring flares hot enough to sting.
Fear. Shock. Hurt. My ring blazes with blue and gold lava. I jump to my feet. I am already moving when the phone rings.
Beatrice. Her fear has changed. Not physical danger. Emotional spike. Anger now, sharp and rising. Grief underneath it, thin and bright.
My mate is distressed.
The phone rings again, and I answer. “Beatrice.”
“Where is my couch, Skylor?”
Her voice is too calm. Every trained instinct in me recognizes danger.
“Disposed of,” I say cautiously. If my brothers were here, they’d turn purple with laughter.Why am I scared of hurting one furious little omega?
I look at the chipped mug. Perhaps I should mention the mug. The mug was preserved. Evidence of care may improve the situation.
“You threw away my couch?” she asks.
“I had it removed.”
“Just because you’re a prince, you can’t commit furniture murder with diplomatic immunity.”
My mouth almost curves. “It was not murder,” I say carefully. “It was mercy.”
The bond spikes. Beatrice inhales slowly. I hear it, and worse, I feel what sits beneath it. Not just anger. Hurt. Not over the couch alone. Over the empty room. My certainty shifts. Not enough to fall. Enough to become uncomfortable.
“Where are my other things?” she asks.
“My residence.Ourresidence,” I correct.
Another silence. A single silence from a five-foot-four human woman makes it hard to breathe.
“Why,” she asks, each word placed with terrible care, “are my belongings at your place?”
“Because you belong with me now.” There. The simple truth. Beatrice does not answer, so I continue, apparently having learned nothing from three days with this woman. “Your possessions are safe. Your books are shelved in the study. Your clothing has been organized. Your personal documents are archived. Your mug collection has been preserved.”
