Chapter 4
ARATUS
I give her the east wing because I want to watch her struggle.
Three rooms connected by ice-carved archways—bedroom, sitting room, bathing chamber. Everything she needs if she's smart enough to figure it out. Which she isn't. Not yet. But intelligence isn't the lesson here. Humility is.
I lean against the doorframe as she limps into the bedroom, those expressive brown eyes taking in the space with the kind of calculation I've seen her use at dinner parties. Cataloguing assets, weighing options, looking for advantages that don't exist anymore.
The massive bed dominates the room—dark wood frame draped with white furs that cost more than most humans earn in a lifetime. Fireplace ready with wood stacked in perfect symmetry. Basic furniture arranged just so. A wardrobe filled with necessities she hasn't discovered yet.
Everything she needs to survive comfortably. Nothing she's earned. Yet.
"Where are the servants?" Her voice is hoarse from three days of cold and climbing, but it still carries that imperious tone she's perfected over twenty years of never being denied anything.
"There are none."
She turns to stare at me like I've spoken a foreign language. Her face cycles through confusion, disbelief, and dawning horror as the implications sink in.
"What do you mean there are none? Who maintains this place? Who cooks, who cleans—"
"You do." I let that sink in, enjoying the shock that flickers across her features.
Twenty years of servants anticipating her every need, and now she's facing the prospect of doing things for herself.
"The palace keeps itself running through magic.
Food appears in the kitchens each morning.
Water flows when you need it. The structure maintains itself.
But cooking, cleaning, fire-tending—that's all you now, princess. "
"I don't know how to do any of those things." Not defensive. Just stating fact with the kind of matter-of-fact honesty that emerges when someone's world tilts completely off its axis. "I've had servants my entire life."
"Then you'll figure it out." I push off the doorframe, ice crystals forming where my shoulder touched the stone. "Or you'll be cold and hungry. Makes no difference to me."
That's not entirely true. It makes every difference to me. But she doesn't need to know that yet. Doesn't need to understand that every moment of her discomfort is carefully calculated, every lesson precisely designed to strip away the layers of entitlement and reveal the woman underneath.
I've had six centuries to perfect this process. To understand that breaking someone completely creates an empty shell, while controlled pressure shapes something worth keeping.
She needs to choose submission, not have it forced on her. And choice requires consequences.
I leave her there because I want her to understand something fundamental: no one is coming to save her. No servants to fix her problems. No daddy to throw money at her tantrums. Just her, alone, with only herself to rely on.
And me, watching from above like a predator stalking wounded prey.
I settle in my chambers three floors up and wait for the inevitable.
The palace whispers to me as I pour wine—ancient magic that's watched countless generations of Fae lords claim their omegas.
It tells me things: how her heartbeat spikes when she realizes the true scope of her situation, how her breathing quickens as panic sets in, how her scent shifts from defiance to something approaching despair.
But underneath it all, I can feel something else. The omega nature stirring. Not awakened yet—that won't happen until I claim her properly—but present. Like a seed waiting for the right conditions to bloom.
The first crash comes within an hour.
I don't need to investigate. The palace tells me everything through the network of ice that runs through every wall, every floor, every stone.
She's destroying the bed in a fit of rage.
Smashing the delicate frame with something heavy—probably the poker from the fireplace.
Tearing at furs and linens like they personally offended her spoiled sensibilities.
The destruction is thorough. Methodical. She doesn't just break things—she obliterates them. Twenty years of suppressed fury channeled into destroying the one piece of comfort I've provided.
Perfect. Exactly what I expected from Edgar Montgomery's pampered daughter.
The palace responds with perfect indifference. Ice spreads across the broken frame, preserving it exactly as she left it. Every splinter, every tear, every piece of her rage frozen in crystal clarity. A crystalline record of her tantrum that will last forever.
I pour myself more wine and smile. Let her rage. Let her break things. She'll learn soon enough that tantrums don't fix anything here. That the only person who suffers when she destroys beautiful things is her.
The magic flows around me as I settle deeper into my chair, feeding me information about my new omega's emotional state.
Fear, now. The adrenaline of her fury burning off and leaving her to face the reality of what she's done.
She's testing doors—finding them locked.
Looking for blankets to replace the ones she destroyed—finding nothing.
Because I won't replace anything. Won't give her a second chance at comfort until she learns to value what she has.
By evening, I can feel her through the palace's magical network more clearly than before.
Still awake, pacing her ruined rooms like a caged animal.
The bond between us is strengthening whether she wants it or not—proximity and shared magic weaving threads of connection that will only grow stronger with time.
She's cold. Hungrier than she's ever been in her pampered life. Exhausted from the journey but too proud to ask for help. Too stubborn to admit defeat.
Good. Pride will make her eventual submission all the sweeter.
I can feel her confusion as she searches the rooms for answers that aren't there.
The bathing chamber with its ice-carved tub that could provide warm water if she knew how to ask for it.
The sitting room with its hidden compartments full of blankets and pillows.
The bedroom wardrobe with its store of practical clothing.
Everything she needs, hidden in plain sight. All she has to do is explore, experiment, learn to work with the magic instead of fighting it.
But that would require humility. And Elise Montgomery has never been humble a day in her life.
I spend the evening reading reports from other courts, but my attention keeps drifting to the awareness of her moving through the rooms below. She's magnificent in her fury—all fire and defiance and desperate, clawing need. Exactly what I've been searching for across centuries.
Most omega candidates bore me. They're too eager to please, too quick to surrender, too grateful for any scrap of attention. I've turned down dozens of potential mates because they lacked the spirit to make conquest worthwhile.
But Elise... Elise burns bright enough to warm even someone like me. Her rage has substance, weight, reality. When I finally break her—and I will break her—it will mean something. The submission will be earned rather than given freely.
The bond pulses between us as the night wears on, carrying fragments of her emotional state. Despair giving way to determination. The Montgomery pride asserting itself. She's planning something—probably another escape attempt or some elaborate scheme to bargain her way out of this.
Let her plan. Let her hope. The eventual realization that all her clever schemes are worthless will be educational.
Around midnight, exhaustion finally claims her.
I feel the moment her consciousness slips away, her mental guards dropping enough for me to sense her dreams. They're chaotic—fragments of memory mixed with fear and longing she doesn't understand.
Images of ice and winter that should terrify her but instead feel like coming home.
Her omega nature recognizing its alpha, even in sleep.
Dawn comes too soon and not soon enough. I rise early, as I have for six centuries, and dress with deliberate care. Not in formal robes—I want to appear approachable rather than intimidating. A simple shirt and trousers that won't frighten her more than necessary.
The palace whispers that she's awake but hasn't moved from her corner. Still wrapped in her traveling cloak, still stubborn, still proud. Perfect.
I make my way down to her chambers, ice forming in my footsteps out of sheer anticipation. This is the critical moment—when she has to choose between pride and comfort, between stubbornness and survival.
She's curled in the corner when I enter, wrapped in what's left of her traveling cloak like a particularly elegant refugee.
Auburn hair tangled from sleep and stress.
Dark circles under her eyes that speak of a night spent shivering on stone floors.
She looks cold, exhausted, and absolutely furious.
Exactly how I want her.
But underneath the fury, I can sense something else now. The first hairline cracks in her armor. The beginning of understanding that this isn't a game she can win through manipulation or tantrum.
I walk to the destroyed bed and run my hand along the ice-covered frame, letting my magic flow through the crystalline preservation. The palace has catalogued every crack, every splinter, every piece of her rage frozen in perfect detail.
"I won't replace anything," I tell her calmly, letting winter seep into my voice. "The palace remembers destruction. This bed stays exactly as you left it."
She glares but doesn't speak. Smart girl. She's learning that arguments are pointless when you have no leverage.
"Sleep well?" I ask, knowing she didn't. The bond tells me she spent most of the night shivering and cursing my name in equal measure.
"Fuck you."
Such language. Edgar clearly failed to teach his daughter proper etiquette. Though I have to admit, the fire in her voice makes something predatory stir in my chest.
"That's not an answer." I crouch to her level, bringing myself closer to her eye level but maintaining the position of power. "Did. You. Sleep. Well?"
She looks away, unable to meet my gaze. The first sign of actual submission I've seen from her. "Where are the extra blankets?"
Progress. An actual question instead of a demand or insult.
"In the wardrobe." I gesture to the tall cabinet that dominates one wall. "Along with pillows, linens, everything else you might need to make yourself comfortable. But you were too busy having a tantrum to look, weren't you?"
Her jaw clenches as understanding hits. Everything she needed was right there. Available if she'd bothered to explore instead of destroying things in a fit of pique.
I watch pride war with exhaustion across her features. She's cold enough that her lips have a bluish tinge, tired enough that her hands shake slightly. But admitting need means admitting weakness, and Elise Montgomery has never been weak.
Exhaustion wins.
"I'm cold," she admits quietly, the words emerging like they're being pulled from her by force.
There it is. The first crack in her defenses. The beginning of understanding that survival requires cooperation.
"Then light a fire." I stand, looking down at her huddled form. "Wood's already stacked. Flint and striker are on the mantle. Stop acting like a spoiled brat and actually do something useful for once."
"I don't know how." The admission comes out barely above a whisper.
"Then learn." I move toward the door, then pause. "Or freeze. Your choice, princess."
I leave her there—cold, hungry, surrounded by the mess she made and the consequences of her actions. It's a simple lesson: she controls her own comfort here. I won't coddle her. Won't fix what she breaks. Won't clean up her messes.
But I also won't let her die. The palace will ensure her survival even if she's too proud to ensure her comfort.
As I climb the stairs back to my chambers, I can feel her through the bond. Confusion. Anger. But underneath it all, the first stirrings of something that might become wisdom.
She'll figure out the fire eventually. Will discover the blankets and pillows hidden in the wardrobe. Will learn to navigate the strange magic of this place that responds to respect rather than demands.
But more importantly, she'll learn that everything she receives from now on must be earned. That comfort comes through cooperation, not coercion. That I'm not interested in owning a broken doll—I want something with enough spirit to choose submission freely.
The palace whispers to me as I settle back into my chair. She's moving now, exploring the wardrobe with careful fingers. Finding the blankets she needs, the pillows that will make sleeping on the floor more bearable. Learning her first lesson about working with the magic instead of fighting it.
Good. Let her discover what cooperation can accomplish. Let her understand that I'm not her enemy—I'm her teacher.
And the lesson has only just begun.