Chapter 3 Mattaniah #2
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 the bedroom returning to his expression. Across the table, both of my new stepbrothers’ expression fill with interest.
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.
The space matches the rest of the house, all stainless steel and marble, but the staff have already cleared most of the dishes, leaving just a few pots and pans soaking in the sink.
"It's not as bad as it looks," Amos says, releasing my arm. "He likes to make things seem harder than they are." He lingers in the doorway, then sighs and pushes a hand through his hair. "For what it's worth, I'm sorry about tonight. You caught him on a bad day."
I seriously doubt that. But I appreciate the attempt. "Thank you," I whisper.
The moment he disappears into the hallway, tears streak down my cheeks at the utter humiliation of being treated like a goddamn child. I’ve always known my mother wouldn’t come to my rescue but having her watch while Mr. Hale just…
A sob catches in my throat as my face heats. Even as much as I hated being molded like that, my body kept reaching for Dominic and Amos, their stares, their approval, and their assessment of the situation.
This isn't supposed to happen and fuck, I have no idea how to counteract it.