Quincy
What could be the meaning of it? Omegas didn’t attend council meetings, and he wasn’t important enough to speak to—or be spoken to—in a public setting.
Home, which hadn’t felt safe in well over a year, but which was the closest he had to long for anyway. They had summoned him to the earl’s castle for the introduction, but until now he had assumed they had simply forgotten to tell him that he was free to go.
He was announced and bowed in the direction of the high chair—the Earl of Veolia was old, cranky and traditional.
Rumour said he’d wanted to go back to war after losing his foot, but had been prevented from it by the council who’d demanded he stay and ensure the lineage instead, sending his younger brother in his stead.
It was bad enough that he risked a quick glance around the room, heart skipping when he recognised the Saranian lord.
No, not a lord, he saw, because now the young man wore the collar that identified him as an earl.
What was the head of the Saranian dynasty doing talking to the likes of him?
“The Earl of Saran has done you a great honour,” the old man went on as Quincy fixed his gaze on the far wall and did his very best to stay upright.
This could not be happening. He was forty years old, and he had never been a great beauty; no one could want him, but specially not a man in desperate need of an heir and—
“Kneel.” This he heard, and it came with a helpful hint of alpha will that meant he nearly fell to the ground.
Strong hands caught him by the elbows and slowed his descent.
And then he was there, right where they wanted him; half collapsed on the faded rug, its intricate patterns digging into his knees, throat tight and looking up into unfamiliar violet eyes, brain scrambling for words, body ready to roll over and run.
If there had been anywhere to run at all.