Prologue #11
He holds me there for a moment longer—long enough for me to feel the heat of his body, to smell the intoxicating depth of his scent, to understand exactly how thoroughly my own flesh has betrayed me.
Then he releases me and steps back, leaving me trembling with my skin burning everywhere he touched.
“Get some sleep,” he says, moving toward the door. “Tomorrow, your training begins.”
“Training for what?”
He pauses at the threshold, looking back at me over his shoulder. The firelight catches the silver veins in his bronze skin, makes his golden eyes gleam with ancient, patient hunger.
“For everything you’re going to become.”
The door closes behind him with a soft click that sounds louder than a thunderclap.
I stand there in the wreckage of my rage, surrounded by his scent and the echo of his touch, and I hate myself for the truth I can’t escape.
Some part of me—some treacherous, desperate part I don’t recognize—wanted him to stay. Chapter 6: Karax
I hear her breaking things from the corridor outside.
The crash of ceramic against stone. The shatter of crystal. The raw, furious sounds of a woman destroying everything within reach because she can’t destroy the one thing she truly wants to annihilate.
Me.
I lean against the wall and listen, letting the sounds wash over me like music.
Each crash tells me something about who she is—the fierce warrior who won’t go quietly, who’d rather rage against her cage than weep inside it.
Most omegas cry when they realize they’re trapped.
They beg, or bargain, or collapse into despair so complete it takes weeks to coax them back to functionality.
Hannah Mitchell rages.
Something heavy hits the wall hard enough that I feel the vibration through the stone.
A string of curses follows—creative enough to make even my most battle-hardened warriors raise an eyebrow.
I find myself smiling in the empty corridor, genuinely pleased by her fury in a way I haven’t been pleased by anything in longer than I care to remember.
This is why I chose her. Not for meek compliance or easy surrender, but for this—the fire that refuses to die even when dying would be easier. Breaking her in will take time. It will take patience and persistence and the kind of careful attention I haven’t bothered to give anything in centuries.
I’m looking forward to every moment of it.
I wait until the sounds of destruction fade before I enter.
She’s sitting in the corner of my study when I push open the door—as far from the bedroom as she can get, surrounded by the wreckage of her rage.
Broken glass glitters across the floor. Shattered ceramics crunch under my boots.
The vase of mountain flowers has been reduced to scattered petals and pooling water, white blooms trampled in her fury.
Her eyes are red-rimmed but dry.
She didn’t cry. The observation sends a pulse of satisfaction through me. I expected tears eventually—all omegas break down sooner or later—but the fact that she’s holding them back through sheer stubborn will only confirms what I already knew.
She’s strong. Strong enough to be worth the effort of breaking.
Our conversation goes exactly as I planned.
Her defiance, sharp and desperate. My explanations, calm and clinical.
The careful application of truth designed to show her exactly how futile her resistance will be.
I tell her about the transformation, about the heat that will eventually force her surrender, about what happens to omegas who fight too long against their own biology.
I don’t tell her how much I enjoy watching her fight anyway.
Every time her breath catches when I move closer.
Every flush of heat that spreads across her skin despite her fury.
Every involuntary response her body makes to my presence, betraying her even as she struggles to maintain control.
She’s already reacting to my scent, already responding to me on a level she can’t consciously override.
The awakening has begun. Nothing she does will stop it now.
When I touch her face—cupping that stubborn jaw in my palm, feeling her tremble beneath my fingers—it takes considerable restraint not to claim her right there. Not to push her down onto the bed and show her exactly what her body is already craving, whether her mind admits it or not.
But that would be too easy. Too quick.
I want her to come to me. Want to watch her pride crumble piece by piece until she’s begging for the very thing she’s fighting against. The surrender will be sweeter if she thinks it’s her choice—if she crawls to my bed believing she’s giving in rather than being broken.
By the time the heat takes her fully, she won’t be able to tell the difference between what her body demands and what she actually wants.
I release her and leave, closing the door on her flushed face and racing pulse.
My cock is painfully hard against my breeches, demanding attention I’ve been denying it since she walked into my arena. But I don’t stop at my temporary quarters down the corridor.
I go to the scrying room instead.
The crystal shows me everything.
Hannah paces my chambers like a caged wolf, her movements jerky with frustrated energy.
She’s already explored every inch of her prison—I watched her test the windows, try the doors, catalog the weapons in the training room with the methodical attention of someone looking for any advantage she can find.
She won’t find one. I’ve had seven centuries to perfect my security, and she’s not the first prisoner to look for weaknesses in these walls.
But watching her try is exquisite.
She stops in front of the bed, staring at the silk sheets with an expression I can’t quite read. Her hands clench at her sides. Her jaw tightens with the effort of fighting something internal.
And then—slowly, like she’s at war with herself over every inch of movement—she leans down and presses her face into the pillows.
Yes.
I watch her breathe deep, inhaling my scent from the fabric. Watch her shoulders shudder with something that might be pleasure or might be despair or might be both tangled together beyond separation. Watch her jerk back like she’s been burned, her face flushing dark with shame at her own actions.
She can’t help it. Her body is already beginning to crave me, seeking out my scent the way a starving creature seeks food. Every breath she takes in my chambers will rewire her a little more, until being surrounded by me feels like comfort instead of captivity.
And she knows it.
That’s what makes her reaction so satisfying. She understands what’s happening to her, understands the slow erosion of her resistance, and she’s horrified by it. But she can’t stop herself from wanting more.
I unfasten my breeches and free my aching cock, wrapping my hand around the thick shaft as I watch her through the crystal. She’s moved to the chair in the corner now—the spot furthest from the bed, where my scent is weakest. Trying to distance herself from the source of her torment.
But her legs are pressed together, and even through the crystal I can see the flush spreading down her neck, the rapid rise and fall of her chest.
She’s aroused. Fighting it with everything she has, but aroused nonetheless.
I imagine her lying awake tonight, wet and aching and furious with her own body for wanting a monster.
Imagine her pressing her hand between her thighs before she can stop herself, then jerking it away in horror when she realizes what she’s doing.
Imagine the war she’ll fight against herself in the dark, alone with her need and her shame.
My hand moves faster.
I imagine her finally breaking. Coming to my door in the middle of the night, desperate and furious and unable to stand it anymore.
“I hate you,” she’d say, even as she begged. “I hate you, but I need—please—”
“Please what, little warrior?”
“Touch me. I can’t stand it anymore. Please, Alpha—”
The word sends me over the edge. I come with a growl that echoes off the stone walls, my release spilling over my fist while I watch her shiver in her chair through the crystal.
Maybe she felt it. The bond between alpha and awakening omega can manifest in strange ways, echoes of pleasure and need passing between them even before the claiming is complete.
When the tremors subside, I clean myself with a thought and refasten my breeches. The release took the edge off, but it’s not enough. Nothing will be enough until I have her beneath me, around me, surrendering everything she is.
But I can wait.
I’ve been waiting for seven centuries. A few more weeks won’t matter.
I spend the rest of the night planning how to break her in.
The physical training will be straightforward enough.
She’s already a skilled fighter, and I intend to make her better—Stone Court respects strength, and if she’s going to be my omega, she needs to be able to hold her own against anyone who might challenge her position.
I’ll train her the way I’d train any promising warrior, pushing her limits, building her endurance, teaching her techniques that will make her deadlier than she’s ever been.
She’ll like that part. The warrior in her will respond to the challenge, to the chance to become stronger. And every session will put her body in contact with mine, her skin against my skin, my scent soaking into her until she can’t wash it off no matter how hard she tries.
But the real work will be subtler.
I’ll use her exhaustion against her—the bone-deep weariness she’s been carrying for eight years.
I watched her through the crystals long enough to see how tired she is, how much she’s been shouldering alone, how desperately she needs someone to share the weight.
I’ll give her that. I’ll offer her rest and comfort and the relief of finally having someone strong enough to lean on.
I’ll make sure that obeying me feels like safety. That fighting me feels like suffering.