Chapter 15
ELISE POV
The first thing I test is how far my leash extends.
Day thirty-six, I wake up with his preservation magic burning every moment of my claiming into my mind like fresh brands.
The memories assault me the moment consciousness returns—how I begged for his cocks with tears streaming down my face, how perfect I felt when he knotted me the first time, how grateful I was when he marked me as his with that final bite.
Six separate claimings. Six times I surrendered completely, thanked him for using me, cried out in pleasure as he filled me with his seed. Each memory is crystal clear, preserved in agonizing detail by magic designed to ensure I never forget what I became in his arms.
The shame makes me want to crawl under the bed and hide from the world.
But underneath it is something worse: the bone-deep knowledge that despite my conscious horror, my body still thrums with satisfaction from our bonding.
The omega in me is content, sated, perfectly happy to have been claimed so thoroughly.
And the most terrifying part is that some traitorous part of me knows I'd do it all again if he commanded it. Not because I have to—but because the alternative would feel like dying slowly.
So I test my prison.
I dress carefully in the clothes he's provided—silk and velvet that mark me as a treasured possession rather than a prisoner. The frost patterns on my skin catch the morning light, beautiful and damning. In the mirror, I look like a creature made of winter itself, barely human anymore.
The palace responds to my presence differently now. Where once the halls seemed neutral, now they hum with welcome. Ice sculptures turn to follow my movements with approval. The very walls pulse with warmth when I pass, recognizing me as the claimed omega of their master.
Even the building knows what I've become.
The palace doors open easily when I approach them.
No locks, no barriers, nothing to prevent me from walking out into the snow-covered courtyard.
For a moment, hope flickers in my chest like a candle in winter wind.
Maybe the claiming wasn't as complete as I thought.
Maybe I can still escape this frozen hell.
But I've only taken three steps outside when I feel it—a strange tugging sensation in my chest, like an invisible cord attached to my heart.
Five steps, and the tugging becomes uncomfortable pressure.
Ten steps from the entrance, and pain starts in my chest. Dull but insistent, like something vital is being stretched too far. The bond recognizes that I'm moving away from my alpha and begins to protest.
Fifteen steps, and it becomes sharp agony, stealing my breath and making my vision blur. My transformed body wasn't designed to exist apart from him—the claiming has tied us together in ways that go deeper than physical.
Twenty steps, and I'm on my knees in the snow, gasping as the bond tears through me like someone's ripping my heart out through my ribs. The pain is excruciating, a constant reminder that I belong to someone else now. That my very existence depends on his proximity.
I crawl back to the palace doors on hands and knees, sobbing with more than just physical pain. The agony fades the moment I cross the threshold, replaced by the warm contentment that comes from being where I belong.
"Satisfied?" Aratus asks from the shadows of the great hall, and I hate how his voice makes the ache in my chest ease slightly.
I don't answer. Can't answer around the rage and despair clawing at my throat. The knowledge that I'll never be free, never be able to choose where I go or what I do.
"The bond needs proximity until it settles completely," he continues calmly, as if discussing the weather rather than my enslavement. "Eventually, you'll be able to travel further."
"How much further?" My voice comes out raw from screaming.
"A few miles. Maybe ten, if you're very strong that day."
Ten miles. In a world that spans continents, I get ten miles of freedom. Less space than I could walk in a single afternoon as a human.
The casual way he delivers this information makes me want to scream again. He's stolen my entire world and reduced it to the size of a small town, and he sounds bored discussing it.
Day thirty-seven, I test other boundaries.
If I can't leave, maybe I can still resist in other ways. Maybe there are limits to what the bond can force me to accept.
Can I destroy his things? I try to smash a crystal goblet he's left on the dining table, raising it high above my head. But my hand freezes inches from releasing it, unable to complete the motion. Some invisible force holds my fingers tight around the delicate stem.
I strain against the compulsion, muscles shaking with effort, but it's useless. The bond won't let me damage anything that belongs to him. Won't let me lash out in even the smallest ways.
Can I refuse his direct commands? When he tells me to make tea during his afternoon reading, I find I can say no.
My mouth forms the word, my body remains still.
But the moment I refuse, an aching emptiness opens in my chest—not pain, but longing.
The desperate need for his approval, his pleased voice, his satisfied expression.
I stand there for ten minutes, fighting the urge to comply, but the emptiness grows unbearable. Finally I give in and make the tea, and the warm glow of his "thank you" fills the hollow space inside me like sunlight.
I could refuse. But I don't want to suffer the consequences.
Can I hurt myself? I manage to dig my nails into my arms hard enough to leave marks, but the satisfaction I expect doesn't come.
Instead, I feel hollow and wrong, like I've damaged something precious that belongs to him.
The bond doesn't stop me, but it makes me regret every scratch until I'm applying healing salve with shaking hands.
Can I walk away from him when he's speaking? Yes, but every step makes me feel more isolated, more incomplete. I make it to the other side of the palace before the emptiness becomes unbearable and I find myself returning to seek his presence.
Each test reveals the same cruel truth: I can resist, but resistance brings suffering while compliance brings peace. The bond doesn't force me—it just makes the choice obvious.
"You're testing the wrong things," he says that evening, finding me curled in the library with tears of frustration streaking down my cheeks.
I've been sitting here for hours, staring at the walls lined with books I can't concentrate on reading. Every attempt to focus my mind away from him fails—my thoughts drift back like a compass needle finding true north.
"What should I be testing?" I ask without looking up.
"Whether you want to break free badly enough to hurt yourself trying."
The suggestion sends ice through my veins. I stare at him, searching his expression for any hint of what he's thinking. "Do you want me to want to escape?"
"I want you to understand the scope of what you've become. To make peace with reality instead of exhausting yourself fighting the impossible."
"What if I don't want to make peace?"
"Then you'll spend however long you have left being miserable." He settles into the chair across from me, those pale eyes studying my face with clinical interest. "Your choice."
But it's not really a choice, is it? He's designed the perfect prison—one where the only escape from suffering is acceptance. Where resistance brings pain and submission brings relief.
That night, I find the genealogy section.
Unable to sleep, tormented by memories of our claiming that the preservation magic won't let fade, I wander the library until I discover an entire wing dedicated to bloodline records.
Hidden behind newer volumes are older tomes—bloodline traces, family trees, detailed documentation going back centuries.
The books are organized by region and potential, marked with symbols I'm beginning to recognize. Omega bloodlines, alpha territories, successful bondings and failed attempts. An entire library devoted to the systematic cataloging of human breeding stock.
And there, in a volume titled "Potential Omega Bloodlines: North American Territories," I find my family.
The Montgomery line, traced back five generations in meticulous detail. Birth dates, death dates, notes on omega potential and transformation attempts. But the records go back further than that—to before the Sundering, when the worlds were still connected.
Pre-Sundering entries show a different pattern entirely. Montgomery women listed as "natural omegas" with successful bondings, long lives, many children. The bloodline was strong then, when magic flowed freely between worlds.
Then comes the gap—five hundred years of silence during the Sundering, when the worlds were severed and magic nearly died.
The few records that exist from that time show women born with omega nature who never awakened, never knew what they were.
They lived and died as ordinary humans, their potential locked away.
When the worlds reconnected fifty years ago, everything changed. The records resume with desperate attempts to awaken dormant bloodlines:
Eleanor Montgomery (b. 1756, died during Sundering). Potential omega, never awakened. Lived as human.
Catherine Montgomery (b. 1802, claimed 1855). First post-Sundering attempt. Partial awakening during magical intervention, lost in childbirth attempting transformation.
Margaret Montgomery (b. 1843, observed 1865). Omega nature detected but dormant. Died before awakening could be attempted.
Elizabeth Montgomery (b. 1851, died 1866). Strong potential, promising fire, fever took her during failed awakening ritual.
Anna Montgomery (b. 1864, claimed 1884). Successfully awakened, claimed by Stone Court alpha, but faded within the year—insufficient bond strength.
And then, at the bottom, in Aratus's distinctive handwriting: