Chapter 4 #2
Despite my preparation, I’m still completely unequipped for seeing Maya Tantamount in the flesh. A single still image and detailed description captured her features but failed entirely to convey her presence.
Her purple hair cascades down her back in waves of indigo and plum, catching the light with each careful step she takes. She moves with a deliberate grace that speaks of years of training, yet there’s something beneath it—a barely contained energy, like lightning trapped in a bottle.
Her scent hits me next, stronger and more complex than the lingering traces on the handkerchief.
Cherries and champagne flood my senses, but there’s more—a hint of something electric underneath, a spark that wasn’t captured in the fabric.
My pupils dilate before I can control the reaction, and I feel Cillian tense in my peripheral vision.
“Your Highness.” Her voice is melodic but guarded as she performs a perfect curtsy, holding the position with textbook precision. “It’s an honor to meet you.”
I force my face into the practiced smile that has charmed diplomats and courtiers alike, burying my visceral reaction beneath layers of royal training.
“Miss Tantamount.” The name feels significant on my tongue. “The pleasure is entirely mine.”
She rises from her curtsy, and I catch the briefest flash of something in her eyes—wariness, perhaps, or calculation. There weren’t many caveats in her records, fewer than most of the Omegas here.
But the Enclave records described her as “cautious” and “intelligent,” listing these traits as potential concerns rather than assets. They suggested she thinks too much for an Omega, questions too often when she should simply obey.
Looking at her now, I understand their concern. There’s nothing vacant or pliant in her gaze. Those eyes assess me as thoroughly as I examine her.
“I trust your stay at the Enclave has been comfortable?” I gesture toward the seating arrangement, inviting her to sit while maintaining the illusion that she has a choice in the matter.
“The Enclave provides everything an Omega could need, Your Highness.” Her answer is diplomatic to the point of emptiness, the kind of response drilled into Omegas through endless etiquette classes.
She settles onto the edge of the sofa, her posture perfect—back straight, hands folded in her lap, ankles crossed and tucked to the side. The picture of Omega refinement. Yet something about the set of her shoulders speaks of tension rather than submission.
I take the seat opposite her, aware of Cillian’s silent presence by the door. The matron has also stationed herself in the corner, ostensibly to chaperone but more likely to evaluate Maya’s performance.
“I’ve heard much about you,” I say, leaning forward slightly. “Your academic achievements are impressive.”
A flicker of surprise crosses her features before she smooths it away. “You’re too kind, Your Highness. I merely applied myself to the curriculum provided.”
Her modesty is practiced, but I sense genuine shock that I would mention her intelligence rather than her appearance or domestic skills. The subtle widening of her eyes betrays her. She obviously hadn’t expected me to have read her file so thoroughly.
I allow a hint of my genuine interest to show through the practiced charm. “And your records suggest a mind that would be wasted on mere household management.”
This time, she can’t quite hide her reaction—a slight parting of her lips, a quick dart of her eyes toward the matron, who has stiffened at my deviation from the expected script of Alpha-Omega introductions.
Something shifts in the air between us—a recognition, perhaps. In this moment, beneath the politics and biology and social ritual, we are simply two people seeing each other clearly for the first time.
Any mate of mine will have no choice but to navigate the dangerous waters of palace life.
I don’t need a simpering miss. I need someone smart enough to figure out how to swim with sharks without losing a limb.
“Tell me, Miss Tantamount,” I lean back in my chair, deliberately casual, “if you weren’t bound by expectations, what would you choose to study?”
The matron’s sharp intake of breath is audible even from across the room.
It’s not a question typically asked of Omegas.
Their education focuses on pleasing Alphas, running a household, managing children—not pursuing personal interests.
But I want to see beyond the carefully constructed facade the Enclave has built around her.
Maya hesitates, her fingers tensing slightly in her lap. I can almost see the calculation happening behind her eyes, weighing the risk of honesty against the safety of a proper, demure response.
“Political theory and historical diplomacy, Your Highness.” Her voice is steady, though quiet enough that the matron might not catch it. “Particularly the pre-Restoration treaties that eventually led to Melilla’s unification.”
My eyebrows lift of their own accord. Not art or literature, or even the acceptable feminine pursuits like music or languages, but the very foundation of our kingdom’s political structure.
Interesting.
“An unusual interest,” I observe. “What draws you to something so complex?”
I can’t quite the feeling that she trying not to attract me, providing answers that I’ll take issue with even if they’re the truth.
That just intrigues me more.
Her eyes meet mine directly now, a breach of Omega etiquette that sends a small thrill through me. “I believe understanding how peace was achieved in the past might help preserve it in the future, Your Highness.”
A diplomat’s answer—thoughtful, measured, and revealing a mind that thinks beyond her own immediate concerns to the welfare of the kingdom itself. The matron’s face has gone pale with horror at Maya’s forthright response, but I find myself leaning forward, drawn in by her unexpected candor.
Through the pack bond, I feel Cillian’s sudden alertness, like the snap of a taut wire.
He’s recognized what I have. This is no ordinary Omega trained to be a decorative, fertile appendage to an Alpha.
This is someone with vision, intelligence, and the quiet strength needed to stand beside power without being consumed by it.
The kind of mate that I’ve always hoped to find.
One who could stand beside me at court without cowering away from the darkness.
Someone who can survive.
I catch Cillian’s gaze briefly. His face remains impassive, the perfect guard, but through our connection, I sense his growing unease.
I keep my tone conversational while holding her gaze. “And what is it you want, Maya? More than anything else?”
She blinks once. “I’m not sure what you mean.”
“Do you want riches, or fame,” I prompt. “Or the ability to have a palace full of servants at your beck and call?”
She licks her lips in a nervous gesture, but holds my gaze. “Those things are nice, I suppose.”
“But they’re not what you really want,” I finish with the distant realization that I’m testing her. I lean forward, taking a deep inhale of that delicious scent. “Tell me what it is you really want.”
“I want…” She hesitates before trailing off.
“Tell me.”
“Freedom!” Maya blurts out. “I want freedom.”
The matron looks ready to faint. Eldritch intercedes, hustling away a red-faced Maya as she makes apologies to me for the outburst.
I let the matron’s assurances that there are more Omegas to choose from flow over me as we’re escorted out, too lost in thought to bother with a reply. Eldritch will figure out my intentions when she receives my request for another interview with Maya.
I’ve found her. A kindred spirit.
And more importantly, the Omega who can win me my throne.
Cillian is silent as we drive back to the palace, his ice-chip eyes fixed on the road ahead. The tension between us fills the car like smoke, making it hard to breathe. I watch the city blur past the window, trying to sort through my tangled thoughts.
It's his silence that finally breaks me.
"Are you going to say anything?" I ask.
He glances at me, his pale hair falling across his forehead. "What would you like me to say, Logan?"
"I don't know. Something. Anything." I drum my fingers against my thigh. "You haven't said a word since we left the Enclave."
Cillian's hands tighten on the steering wheel, his knuckles turning white. "Are you planning to tell her?" he asks abruptly, his voice cutting through the silence like a blade. "About our bond?"
The question catches me off-guard, though it shouldn't. Of course that's what's bothering him.
"Of course not," I reply.
He scoffs, a harsh sound in the confined space. "Of course not," he repeats, mockery edging his tone. "And you think she won't figure it out? That Omega is too smart for her own good, Logan. She'll see right through us."
"You're not giving her enough credit," I counter. "She's stronger than you think."
"Strong?" Cillian shakes his head. "That's not the point. You can't possibly expect a betrayed Omega to keep our secret. The moment you challenge her, she'll run like a frightened doe from a hunter."
His words twist something uncomfortable in my chest. Challenge her. The phrase conjures images of Maya standing before me, purple hair cascading down her back, her intelligent eyes meeting mine without flinching despite her designation.
"You don't know what she's capable of," I say, more to myself than to him.
Cillian glances at me, something unreadable flickering across his features. "And you do?"
The question hangs between us, loaded with implications neither of us wants to address. I turn away, watching the palace rise in the distance, its spires gleaming in the afternoon sun.
The truth hits me with sudden clarity. I won't know what Maya is capable of until I push her to her breaking point. Until I see how far she'll bend before she snaps. It's a test I've never hesitated to apply to others—soldiers, political opponents, even my own brothers.
Why should she be any different?
"I'll find out," I say finally. "One way or another."
Cillian says nothing, but I can feel his disapproval radiating through our bond. He thinks I'm being reckless, putting everything at risk for an Omega I barely know. Maybe he's right.
But I can't shake the feeling that Maya Tantamount is different. Special. Worth the risk.
But I might just break her trying to prove it.