8. Through The Authors Eyes
8
THROUGH THE AUTHOR'S EYES
~KIERAN~
T here's something inherently captivating about watching someone lose themselves in a story.
The way their eyes dance across pages, how their expressions shift with each new revelation, the subtle changes in their breathing as tension builds and releases. It's like watching a private performance where the reader becomes both audience and actor in their own intimate theater.
Particularly when that reader is currently devouring the words I wrote just months ago.
The Omega – Kamari – sits across from me in our private VIP booth, completely absorbed in the leather-bound advance copy of my latest novel.
The book I'd "happened" to have with me, the one I'd so casually offered when she mentioned enjoying dark romance.
She hasn't looked up in twenty-three minutes.
Not that I'm counting.
The crystal wine glass beside her catches the ambient lighting of Cardinal's elite section, the deep red liquid within barely touched. She lifts it occasionally, taking small sips that seem more automatic than conscious, her eyes never leaving the page.
Even in the dim lighting, I can see how her pupils dilate at certain passages, how her breath catches at particularly intense moments. The way her free hand sometimes rises to touch her neck unconsciously when reading the more...heated scenes.
Fascinating.
She's young – definitely not the legal drinking age of twenty-one, though in establishments like Cardinal's, such technicalities are overlooked for the right clientele. Her features hold that softness of youth, but there's a maturity in her eyes that speaks of experiences beyond her years.
The traditional saree she wears captures my attention once again.
The fabric, while clearly aged, has been maintained with extraordinary care. The combination of royal blue, crimson red, and pristine white isn't random – these colors carry specific meaning in Indian culture, typically associated with pre-marriage ceremonies and blessings.
My mind drifts to last summer, when I accompanied Ezekiel to India. He'd been visiting family, reconnecting with roots he sometimes struggled to balance with his Korean heritage. I'd gone along under the pretense of research for my writing, but the truth was more complex.
I needed to understand.
To truly write authentic characters, you have to immerse yourself in their world. You can't just Google cultural details and expect to capture the soul of a people. You have to breathe their air, walk their streets, listen to their stories told in voices that carry generations of history.
The women in his family had been particularly helpful, especially once they realized I wasn't just another foreigner looking to exoticize their culture for profit. They shared traditions, explained symbolism, and demonstrated the intricate art of draping sarees just as Kamari wears hers now.
"Each fold has meaning," Ezekiel's grandmother had explained, her weathered hands demonstrating the precise movements. "Each pleat carries stories. When we dress this way, we wrap ourselves in our history."
Looking at Kamari now, I can appreciate the expertise in her draping.
Despite her earlier run through the rain, despite all that's happened tonight, her saree maintains perfect pleats. The pallu – the decorative end piece draped over her shoulder – falls with elegant precision that speaks of years of practice.
The fabric itself tells its own story. The intricate zari work – real gold thread embroidery, not the machine-made imitation – has the particular patina that only comes with age and careful preservation.
This isn't just any saree; it's an heirloom piece, probably worth more than that receptionist's annual salary.
Not that Victoria would have recognized its value.
My lip curls slightly at the memory of her ignorance. Her attempt to shame someone for their cultural dress while working in an establishment that trades on exclusivity and sophistication... The irony would be amusing if it weren't so pathetic.
A small gasp draws my attention back to Kamari.
She's reached what I assume is a particularly intense scene – judging by how she's inadvertently leaned forward, her whole body tensed with anticipation. The wine glass dangles forgotten between her fingers, and I find myself reaching out to steady it before it can slip.
The movement catches her attention, making her jump slightly.
"Sorry," she whispers, a blush coloring her cheeks as she carefully sets the glass down. "I got carried away."
"Don't apologize," I tell her, keeping my voice soft to match hers. "There's nothing more gratifying than seeing someone fully immersed in a story."
Her eyes light up at that, and for a moment, I see past the fear and uncertainty that's been shadowing her features all evening. This is her true self – passionate, engaged, hungry for experiences even if they're only on paper.
"The writing is incredible," she says, her fingers trailing reverently over the page. "The way the author captures the internal struggle of the Omega protagonist...it's like they've lived it themselves."
If she only knew.
I hide my smile behind my own wine glass, savoring both the aged Bordeaux and the unintentional compliment.
Writing from an Omega's perspective had been challenging, requiring months of research and countless interviews. The fact that she – an actual Omega – finds it authentic is more validating than any critical review.
"The cultural details especially," she continues, enthusiasm making her forget her earlier shyness. "Most authors just use culture as window dressing, you know? Pretty clothes and exotic foods, but no real understanding. But this..." She taps the page emphatically. "The way they write about family expectations, about the weight of tradition...it feels real."
"Perhaps the author spent time in India," I suggest, watching her reaction carefully. "Research for the book."
She nods thoughtfully, still more focused on the page than our conversation.
"They must have. The details about the pre-wedding rituals are too specific to be googled. And the way they describe the mother's conflicted feelings about arranged marriages..." She trails off, something darker passing through her eyes.
Personal experience then.
I make a mental note of her reaction.
Every detail matters when you're trying to understand someone, and Kamari Prava Ahvi is proving to be one of the most intriguing puzzles I've encountered in quite some time.
The book she holds is special – not just because I wrote it, but because it's the first novel I've chosen to self-publish.
After years of working with major publishing houses, I decided to take a risk. To maintain complete creative control over a story that felt too personal, too important to be shaped by market demands and focus groups.
The irony isn't lost on me that now, barely a week after announcing my plans to self-publish, my phone won't stop buzzing with offers from the top five publishing houses in the country. Each one trying to outbid the others, throwing around advance numbers that would make most authors weep.
My agent thinks I'm crazy for not jumping at their offers.
"You're Kieran Blackthorn," she'd argued during our last call. "You don't need to prove anything by going indie."
Laughable conversation if you asked me.
But it was never about proving anything.
It was about telling this story properly, about giving voice to the countless Omegas whose experiences get sanitized and romanticized by traditional publishers. About creating something raw and real and uncompromising.
Something that might help readers like Kamari feel less alone.
A subtle shift in the room's atmosphere pulls me from my thoughts. Damon has returned from whatever "business" required his attention, his presence immediately commanding even in our secluded VIP section. He slides into the booth beside Kamari with practiced grace, his movement causing her to lean slightly toward him without seeming to realize it.
Interesting.
The way her body responds to him speaks volumes about their compatibility, even if neither of them fully recognizes it yet. Her Omega instincts clearly recognize something in him that calls to her on a primal level.
Just as they did with Ezekiel earlier tonight, though she doesn't know he's part of our unconventional pack.
Probably doesn’t know I was watching from a far since I do like to keep tabs on everyone in our pack.
Rhetts the only one I don’t have to really “monitor”.
The crazed wild card can monitor himself.
I take another sip of wine, cataloging every detail of their interaction. The way Damon's hand comes to rest possessively on the back of her chair, how her breathing subtly changes when he leans closer to see what she's reading.
The entire dynamic feels like watching the opening chapters of a story writing itself.
Now that's an interesting thought.
My fingers itch for my keyboard, mind already composing potential scenes. The reality unfolding before me holds more tension, more authentic chemistry than anything I could fabricate. A runaway Omega bride finding herself entangled with a pack of Alphas who defy every convention...
It practically writes itself.
But there's darkness lurking beneath the surface of this budding romance. I haven't missed the shadows that cross Kamari's face when she thinks no one's watching, or the way she occasionally glances toward the exits as if mapping escape routes.
The threats from Prince Rajveer weren't idle words, and whatever pack she fled from won't simply let her go.
Not when there are business deals and family honor at stake.
She's running from something far more dangerous than a simple arranged marriage.
I observe as she unconsciously shifts closer to Damon, seeking protection she doesn't even realize she's asking for. Her fingers still trace the pages of my book, but her attention has splintered now, divided between the story in her hands and the very real drama unfolding around her.
Life imitating art...or perhaps it's the other way around.
A sharp gasp breaks through the comfortable silence of our VIP booth.
I watch with rapt attention as Kamari reaches for one of the black napkins folded with military precision on our table.
Her movements carry an air of barely contained urgency as she carefully places it between the pages of my book, using it as an impromptu bookmark before setting the volume down before her.
She doesn't say anything at first.
The silence that follows is fascinating – charged with unspoken thoughts that play across her features like shadows in candlelight. I find myself leaning forward slightly, intrigued by the rapid succession of emotions flickering through those expressive brown eyes.
Damon, ever the impatient one, shifts beside her. I can read the tension in his frame – he's never been good at waiting, at letting situations unfold naturally. His fingers have found their way into Kamari's hair, absently playing with the long black strands in a gesture that seems unconscious on his part.
She doesn't notice either.
"Why did you stop?" I finally ask, breaking the charged silence before Damon's patience runs out completely.
A blush immediately colors her cheeks, the kind of genuine reaction that can't be faked. It spreads down her neck, disappearing beneath the intricate embroidery of her saree's blouse.
"It's stupid," she mutters, fingers fidgeting with the edge of the napkin-turned-bookmark.
I can't help but smirk at her obvious discomfort, tilting my head as I study her.
"Try us," I suggest mildly. "Let us be the judge of whether it's truly stupid."
The blush intensifies impossibly further.
She groans – a delightfully unguarded sound – before covering her face with her hands in a gesture that somehow manages to be both childish and endearing.
"I stopped because..." Her voice comes out muffled through her fingers, barely above a whisper. "The girl's going into heat and the pack is doing all these sinful things which are fantastically written but if I continue..." Another frustrated groan escapes her before she drops her hands in defeat. "Never mind! It's stupid!"
My smirk widens at her continued discomfort, but before I can respond, Damon makes his move.
With that casual dominance that comes so naturally to him, he captures her chin between his thumb and forefinger, forcing her to meet his gaze. The gesture should seem aggressive, but there's something almost tender in how carefully he handles her, as if she's made of the finest porcelain.
They make quite the picture – Damon leaning close, Kamari looking up at him with those wide, startled eyes. Their proximity speaks of intimacy, of unacknowledged attraction that simmers just beneath the surface.
If I didn't know better, I'd think they were lovers sharing a private moment rather than two strangers who met mere hours ago.
Though perhaps 'strangers' isn't quite the right word anymore.
"I don't get all the philosophies and dynamics of reading and storytelling like Kieran over there," Damon says, his voice dropping to that dangerous purr that usually precedes trouble. "But it does intrigue me enough to hear you finish expressing how the book makes you feel."
I watch as another wave of color floods her cheeks, but this time something else enters her expression – a spark of defiance that makes her brown eyes flash with sudden fire.
It's especially noticeable in how her pupils dilate, revealing more about her emotional state than she probably realizes.
"Or is that something Omegas don't share about because it's a weakness?" Damon pushes, and I have to hide my amusement behind my wine glass.
He's always known exactly which buttons to push.
Watching him work is like observing a master artisan. He knows precisely how to provoke the reactions he wants, how to peel back layers of propriety to expose raw truth underneath.
Our little princess's weakness is clearly her emotional reactions, and Damon, ever the strategist, has already mapped out exactly how to trigger them.
Sure enough, Kamari's spine straightens, indignation overwhelming her earlier embarrassment.
"I-It's not a weakness to be turned on by a detailed ten-page sex scene!" she declares with unexpected volume, just as our waitress arrives with our dessert order.
The timing is absolutely perfect – the kind of scene I couldn't write better myself.
The waitress, consummate professional that she is, doesn't even blink as she sets down two cups of coffee, a cup of tea, and three servings of vanilla ice cream with practiced precision.
Kamari looks like she wants to sink through the floor, her entire face now resembling a ripe tomato.
The blush has spread down her neck, disappearing beneath her saree's modest neckline, and I find myself wondering just how far down it goes.
"Thank you for the swift delivery," Damon tells the waitress smoothly, his hand never leaving Kamari's back.
His perfect manners only seem to fluster our Omega further, as if his casual acceptance of her outburst makes it somehow more embarrassing.
I can't help but let my smile grow as I observe them.
The dynamics at play are fascinating – Damon's calculated provocations, Kamari's instinctive responses, the way they seem to orbit each other without fully realizing it. She fits into our world with surprising naturalness, despite – or perhaps because of – her obvious inexperience with its darker aspects.
The writer in me can't help but catalogue every detail: the way her fingers twist nervously in her saree, how Damon's touch seems to both calm and excite her, the subtle ways her body language shifts between fight and flight.
It's all valuable data, all potential material for future stories.
Though somehow I suspect her real story might prove more interesting than anything I could write.
The waitress retreats with silent efficiency, leaving us alone with our desserts and the lingering echo of Kamari's embarrassing declaration.
The ice cream is already starting to melt, three perfect scoops crowned with fresh vanilla beans – evidence of Cardinal's attention to even the smallest details.
My gaze returns to my book, still sitting closed before her.
I know exactly which scene made her stop – wrote it carefully, crafted each word to elicit precisely the kind of reaction she's having. The fact that it's working so effectively is both gratifying and intriguing.
Perhaps I should tell her who really wrote it.
But no…that revelation can wait.
For now, I'm content to watch this story unfold naturally, to see how she navigates this world she's stumbled into. Between Damon's intensity and my observation, she's handling herself remarkably well.
Though I suspect the real test will come when she meets the rest of our pack.
"The point of sex scenes written correctly is to have physical and emotional reactions on those reading," Damon observes, his voice carrying that particular tone he uses when making a point that serves multiple purposes.
His eyes find mine across the table, a silent communication passing between us.
We both know exactly why that scene affected her so strongly – I wrote it specifically to provoke such reactions. The careful build-up of tension, the precise pacing, the deliberately chosen words...all crafted to elicit exactly the response our little Omega is displaying.
"The author is probably doing a good fucking job if it's turning you on," he continues, that sinful smirk playing at his lips as his attention returns to Kamari's flushed face.
I watch as she tries to wiggle in her seat, no doubt attempting to ease the arousal the scene sparked.
Even through the yards of fabric that make up her saree, I can tell she's pressing her thighs together, seeking relief she won't find in such a public setting.
The idea of her being wet with slick does things to me I’d rather not admit.
"It's still weird..." she protests weakly, her voice barely above a whisper. "And it isn't the place for a nineteen-year-old to get all horny or whatever," she adds, turning her head to the side with adorably pouted lips.
Nineteen.
The confirmation of her age makes something in my chest tighten. So young, yet carrying burdens that would break those twice her age.
Her next words only emphasize this disparity.
"Aren't you guys like...I don't know...worried to have a minor in these parts?"
Damon merely shrugs, his fingers still weaving through her hair – a gesture she's finally noticed but seems disinclined to stop.
A server appears silently at his elbow, placing a crystal tumbler of whiskey before him with practiced efficiency before vanishing like a ghost.
I watch as he swirls the amber liquid, the movement deliberate and hypnotic. Kamari's eyes follow the motion, seemingly transfixed by the play of light through the crystal and liquor.
"Age in the realms of Alphas, Omegas, and Betas shouldn't matter much," he finally says, his voice carrying the weight of someone who's given this considerable thought. "Yes, age gaps are inevitable, especially with the ratio between Alphas and Omegas being so wide these days, but as long as it's not predatory and there's a form of respect, it's fine."
The look that crosses Kamari's face is fascinating – like she's just witnessed someone solve an impossible mathematical equation. Her eyes widen slightly, lips parting in surprise as she processes his words.
"Why do you seem so surprised by those words?" I ask, genuinely curious about her reaction.
A huff of frustration escapes her, the sound carrying years of built-up resentment.
"Well, my husband…or well, ex-supposed-to-be husband I left at the altar with his pack for obvious miscommunication and very potent differences…would argue with such viewpoints."
"Give me an example," Damon prompts, his interest clearly piqued by this glimpse into her past.
The request seems to unlock something in her. She straightens in her seat, that spark of defiance returning to her eyes as words begin pouring out of her.
"Maharaja Adhiraj Vikram Singh," she practically spits the name, each syllable dripping with disdain. "Big shot Alpha from one of India's most 'prestigious' business families. He and his pack of entitled bastards think they own everything and everyone just because they have some royal lineage and more money than sense."
The venom in her voice when speaking his name tells volumes about the trauma she's experienced.
I make careful note of it – both for potential future reference and because something about her tone suggests there's far more to this story than a simple case of arranged marriage gone wrong.
"He has very…specific ideas about an Omega's purpose," she continues, her hands clenching into fists in her lap. "According to him, we exist solely to pop out babies and fuck brutally with his pack and anyone else he invites to use his 'property.' And if that means the whole damn town gets a turn? So be it."
The casual way she describes such abuse makes my blood run cold.
Even Damon's hand stills in her hair, his expression darkening with each word. We've both seen enough of the world's darkness to know she's not exaggerating – if anything, she's probably downplaying the horror of her situation.
These kinds of arrangements aren't uncommon in certain circles, especially among wealthy traditional families.
Omegas treated as breeding stock, as toys to be passed around at their Alpha's whim. It's one of the many reasons I started writing – to expose these practices, to give voice to those who suffer in silence.
But hearing it described so matter-of-factly by someone so young...
The writer in me wants to document every detail, to craft her experience into a story that might help others escape similar fates.
The man in me wants to hunt down this Maharaja and his pack, to make them suffer for every moment of pain they've caused.
And I know I'm not alone in that desire.
I can see it in the way Damon's jaw clenches, in how his fingers have shifted from playing with her hair to resting possessively on the back of her neck. His protective instincts are clearly warring with his strategic mind – wanting to shelter her while simultaneously calculating how to best use this information.
The tension in our booth has shifted, becoming something heavier, more dangerous. Even the ambient sounds of Cardinal's VIP section seem muted, as if the very air recognizes the gravity of what's being revealed.
Kamari seems oblivious to the effect her words are having on us, too caught up in finally being able to voice her truth.
“Controlling, possessive, but not in an attractive way. It’s all in a way to diminish another. Anyone he deems is below him or low enough to what he’d consider walking-over-level must abide by everything he requests, no matter how sinister. If it means you’re losing your life in the process, so be it. That’s the least one can do with the rare opportunity of being in his and his pack’s presence.”
The words continue to pour out of her, each one adding another layer to the picture of abuse and objectification she escaped from.
No wonder she ran.
But running from someone like Maharaja Adhiraj Vikram Singh isn't as simple as leaving him at the altar.
Men like that don't accept rejection – they see it as a challenge to be overcome, a slight to be avenged. The fact that Prince Rajveer is already aware of her presence here suggests the net is closing around her — faster than she realizes.
She needs protection.
The thought comes unbidden, but I know it's true.
As I watch her continue her impassioned explanation, I can't help but think of how perfectly she might fit into our unconventional pack.
How our various skills and connections could keep her safe while allowing her the freedom to grow into herself.
If she's willing to take that risk.
If we're willing to take that chance.
"—and his smell," Kamari's voice cuts through my contemplation, drawing me back to her ongoing critique of her almost-husband. "Goddess, his smell was probably the worst part. He and his whole pack smelled horrendous."
Now that's interesting.
"How did they smell to you?" I ask, genuinely curious.
Scent compatibility is one of the most crucial factors in pack dynamics, yet it's rarely discussed so openly.
I take another deep breath, letting her scent wash over me again. I'd noticed it the moment we entered Cardinal – jasmine and cardamom mixed with something sweeter, like wild berries warmed by the sun. There's a deeper note underneath, and the best way to put it is the smell you take in when you’re surrounded by books in the heart of a library.
It's...intoxicating.
I've never encountered an Omega who smelled quite so appealing, which might explain why I've been unusually relaxed in her presence. Even now, hours after first meeting her, her scent continues to entrance me.
Her nose wrinkles in disgust as she recalls her ex's scent. "Maharaja Adhiraj smelled like burnt tires," she declares with such vehemence that Damon's eyebrows rise in interest.
"Elaborate," he prompts, his fingers still absently playing with her hair.
"It was like...imagine someone burning rubber, but then they try to cover it up with expensive cologne." Her hands move animatedly as she describes it. "But not good cologne…the kind that tries too hard, that's all synthetic and sharp. Like those knock-off fragrances that give you a headache after five minutes."
I can't help but smile at her vivid description.
"And the rest of his pack?"
"Even worse!" She leans forward, warming to her topic. "His beta, Rajesh, smelled like stale cigarettes and moth balls. Then there was Vikram, motor oil and something metallic, like old pennies. And don't even get me started on Aahan..." She shudders dramatically. "Overripe bananas and wet dog. I swear, it was like they actively tried to find the worst possible combination of scents."
The way she describes it, I can almost smell it myself.
Scent incompatibility is one thing, but what she's describing goes beyond that. It sounds like her body was actively rejecting their pack on a biological level.
"What's the difference?" I ask carefully. "Between their scents and what you'd consider a good pack scent?"
Her cheeks flush slightly as she glances between Damon and me.
"Well...take you two for example." She turns toward Damon first. "You smell like aged whiskey and leather-bound books, with this undertone of real oud…not the fake stuff they sell in mall kiosks. It's...powerful, but not overwhelming. Like walking into an old library where they keep the rarest first editions."
Interesting that she can distinguish real oud from synthetic. Also interesting how the similarities when it comes to the midst of a library surrounded by aged books and the aroma projected in such environments.
"And me?" I can't help but ask, curious how she perceives my scent.
Her blush deepens.
"You're...different. Like fresh cappuccino and buttery toffee, but there's also this hint of London Fog tea and lavender. It shouldn't work together, but it does. It's...comforting. Sophisticated."
She takes another careful breath, as if cataloging our scents.
"The way your scents blend…it's perfect harmony. Like a duet where both voices complement each other instead of competing. I can only imagine if you two smell this amazing together, the rest of your pack must be equally divine."
The observation is surprisingly astute for someone so young. Most people don't recognize the complexity of pack scent dynamics, let alone describe them so eloquently.
"I've read about it in books," she continues, almost apologetically. "Especially in Xavier Knight's novels. The way he describes scent dynamics between packs...it feels so real, you know?"
Xavier Knight.
My pen name falls from her lips with such reverence that I have to hide my smile behind my wine glass. If she only knew she was praising my work to my face. The irony isn't lost on me that she's currently reading my latest unreleased book while citing my earlier works as reference.
I chose that name carefully – Xavier meaning "new house" or "bright," and Knight carrying connotations of both protection and darkness. It's become synonymous with the steamier side of dark romance, though few know the reclusive author's true identity.
"I know I should understand more about these things," she admits, her voice growing softer. "Usually, an Omega would know all the details about their second gender by my age. But..." She trails off, something vulnerable entering her expression.
"But?" Damon prompts gently, his hand moving to rest supportively on her lower back.
"My Mother didn't have the privilege to really teach me Omega 101," she explains, her fingers twisting in her saree. "Father's focus was entirely on making me wife material. How to please a husband…how to maintain a household's honor. He never cared about teaching me about my own pleasure or needs."
The bitterness in her voice speaks volumes about her upbringing.
It's a common story among traditional families – Omegas raised to be decorative and compliant rather than educated about their own biology and needs.
I've written about this exact issue in several of my books, using fiction as a vehicle to explore these cultural dynamics. The fact that she's found solace in those stories, that she's learned about her own nature through them, makes me feel oddly protective.
"That's why Xavier Knight's books helped so much," she continues, unaware of how her words affect me. "The way he writes about Omega experiences...it's like he actually understands. Not just the physical aspects, but the emotional complexity. The way society tries to shape us into these perfect, submissive creatures while ignoring our actual needs."
If she only knew how many hours of research went into creating that authenticity.
The interviews with Omegas from various backgrounds, the careful study of cultural dynamics, the countless revisions to ensure every detail rang true. I've always believed that fiction, when crafted carefully, can be more honest than reality.
Looking at her now, seeing how my words have helped her understand herself better, makes all that effort worth it.
Though I can't help but wonder how she'd react if she knew Xavier Knight was sitting right across from her, watching her blush over his sex scenes.
"You've never been around a pack that thrives off their Omega being pleased?"
Damon's question hangs in the air between us, weighted with implications that go far beyond its surface simplicity.
I expect Kamari to retreat into shyness, to display that endearing blush that's colored her cheeks so frequently tonight.
Instead, she considers the question with surprising gravity.
Her expression turns thoughtful, analytical even, as if she's been presented with a complex philosophical query that demands careful consideration. The shift in her demeanor is fascinating – gone is the flustered young woman from moments ago, replaced by someone more contemplative.
"No," she finally answers, her voice carrying a clarity that catches my attention. "I've never been around a pack of men, Alpha or Beta, who've acknowledged the idea of me feeling comfortable in the same shared space, let alone care about how I please myself in or outside of their company."
She reaches for her wine glass with deliberate grace, finishing its contents in one impressive swallow.
The gesture carries undertones of rebellion, a subtle defiance against years of cultural conditioning about proper feminine behavior. I find myself cataloging these little acts of rebellion, these moments where she chooses to break free from the constraints of her upbringing.
"It kind of made me rebellious in my youth," she continues, setting the empty glass down with careful precision. "It's why I'm not a virgin."
The casual way she drops this revelation makes both Damon and me go still. In traditional Indian culture, an Omega's virginity isn't just valued – it's practically deified.
The fact that she can discuss its loss so openly speaks volumes about her journey toward self-determination.
"Obviously in my culture, innocence and purity is another level of worship they take seriously," she explains, echoing my thoughts about cultural significance. "But the idea of having to preserve that for a group of men who probably wouldn't care if I ate, drank water, or even breathed the same oxygen as them freely? It gave me the ick."
The modern slang contrasts sharply with the weight of her words, creating an interesting dichotomy. She bridges two worlds – the traditional values she was raised with and the modern sensibilities she's chosen to embrace.
It's a delicate balance, one she seems to navigate with surprising awareness.
"It made me feel no value for myself," she continues, her voice taking on a harder edge. "That I was but an object meant to be used and abused and nothing more. Why would I offer my purity away just to get the approval of greedy men who will gather in the room to ensure the sheets are stained with blood?" She shakes her head, disgust evident in her expression. "It's culture, sure, but it's preposterous in my opinion."
I watch the play of emotions across her features as she speaks – anger, defiance, and underneath it all, a vulnerability that makes my protective instincts stir.
This isn't just youthful rebellion; it's a conscious rejection of systemic oppression disguised as tradition.
"Getting to lose that was more liberating than I expected it to be," she admits after a thoughtful pause. "It wasn't anything special...well, not to say it didn't mean something special to me, because it did in a sense. The guy was young like me. Not sixteen obviously, but three years older, which was fine with me."
Her expression softens as she recalls the memory, and I find myself leaning forward slightly, drawn in by the shift in her energy.
"Despite my lack of experience, he was actually gentle. Kind. Warm. He didn't rush things or only care about his needs and reaching his high. He made it just right, which was what I needed."
There's something almost poetic about how she describes it – not just the physical act, but what it represented. A reclamation of power, a conscious choice to take control of her own pleasure and destiny.
"It was like my Goddess wished to prove to me that despite the cruelty harbored in this world where hierarchy is emphasized on every ladder of existence, there are a few good apples in the world." A small smile plays at her lips as she continues. "I never really got his name because I left before he woke up, but he proved to me that not every Alpha was a jackass hoping to use an Omega like a washcloth."
The raw honesty in her voice is compelling.
She speaks without shame about choices that would scandalize her community, yet there's nothing crude or boastful in her manner. Just simple truth, offered without apology or justification.
"That's why I knew when my father offered my ex-soon to be husband and his pack as potential marriage material, I was immediately turned off by the idea cause I knew there was better out there. That I could do better." Her nose wrinkles slightly in distaste. "Besides, all of them were in their late 30s and early 40s, and though I enjoy my age gap romances, my cut off is a 15 year gap."
I can't help but grin at that last statement, doing the quick mental math. At nineteen, her fifteen-year cutoff puts her maximum acceptable age at thirty-four. A limit that our pack, interestingly enough, all falls comfortably within.
Damon at thirty-three, myself at thirty-two, Ezekiel at twenty-nine...we're all just under that arbitrary line she's drawn. Even Rhett, our youngest at twenty-two, fits comfortably within her acceptable range.
The universe does seem to have a sense of humor.
It's fascinating how she's developed such clear boundaries despite – or perhaps because of – her restricted upbringing.
She knows exactly what she wants and, more importantly, what she won't accept. That kind of self-awareness is rare in someone so young, especially given the cultural pressures she's faced.
I catch Damon watching her with that intense focus he usually reserves for particularly complex business negotiations. He sees it too – the potential in her, the strength underneath her youth and apparent vulnerability. This isn't just some naive Omega running from an arranged marriage.
This is someone who's thought carefully about her choices, who's actively seeking a better future rather than just fleeing a bad past.
The writer in me appreciates the narrative symmetry of it all. The cynical businessman recognizes the strategic advantage our ages might provide in winning her trust. But there's another part of me – the part that's been watching her all evening, cataloging her reactions and responses – that sees something more significant in this revelation.
She's not just running from an unwanted marriage. She's running toward something specific – a vision of partnership she's pieced together from experience and hope and yes, probably more than a few romance novels. She wants connection, respect, pleasure freely given and received.
All things our pack could offer her, if she's willing to take that risk.
The thought settles over me with unexpected weight.
As both Xavier Knight and Kieran Blackthorn, I've written countless stories about fated mates and destined connections. I've always treated them as convenient plot devices, useful tools for moving narratives forward.
But watching Kamari now, seeing how naturally she fits into our world despite – or perhaps because of – all her contradictions... I'm beginning to understand why those tropes persist.
Sometimes the universe does have a plan, even if its methods seem chaotic at first glance.
Though I suspect this particular plan might prove more complicated than any story I've written.