6. Rosalind
ROSALIND
The door closes behind him with a whisper of living wood, and I slide down the wall until I'm sitting on the floor, my legs too weak to support me any longer.
Everything I believed about myself is crumbling.
My intelligence. My training. My careful preparation and absolute certainty that I was different from other women.
None of it matters. None of it protects me from what's happening to my body—the racing heart, the flushed skin, the growing ache between my thighs that intensifies every moment he's near.
I press my palms against my burning cheeks, trying to process what he's told me. Destined mate. Omega awakening. My own government offering me like some kind of medieval bride-price.
It can't be true. It can't.
But my body doesn't care what I believe. Even now, with him gone, I can still smell his scent lingering in the air—roses and something darker, more masculine. My skin feels hypersensitive where his gaze touched me, and there's a hollow ache in my chest that feels disturbingly like longing.
"No," I whisper to the empty chamber. "I'm not like this. I'm not weak."
The living wood around me pulses with what might be sympathy or amusement. I can't tell which is worse.
Hours pass, and Lady Ferra returns with another meal, which I pick at carefully, my stomach rumbling.
I've been warned to avoid eating Fae food and drinking Fae wine, but surely the smoked ham and salted eggs provided to me can't be as dangerous as the pomegranates and apples I've been told are full of their magic.
When my stomach quiets down, I drag myself to the bed and reluctantly lay down, hoping that some resting might restore my clouded thoughts and hazy mind.
Somehow, what feels like a whole night passes.
The glowing branches that form a canopy above me darken, and a kind of pseudo night falls.
Despite myself, I fall asleep, curled around one of the soft pillows, my mind full of confusing thoughts and strange dreams. When I wake in the "morning," as the canopy glows again, I feel it like a premonition: the ache between my thighs, and the only explanation for it.
But no. It can't be.
I force myself to my feet and begin pacing, trying to think through this logically.
There has to be an explanation that doesn't involve me being some kind of prophesied omega bride.
I'm a trained diplomat, educated at the finest institutions, fluent in four languages.
I've spent years preparing for exactly this kind of international crisis.
None of that should be meaningless in the face of biology I've been tested for and cleared of.
The tests. I stop pacing as the memory hits me. Standard omega screening for all diplomatic personnel, designed to identify women who might be susceptible to Fae influence. I passed them easily, scored well within normal human parameters.
So either the tests were wrong, or...
Or Prince Kaelen is lying.
The possibility floods me with relief so intense it leaves me dizzy.
Of course he's lying. This is psychological warfare, designed to break down my resistance through confusion and self-doubt.
Make me question everything I know about myself until I'm vulnerable to whatever manipulation he has planned.
It's actually quite clever, and I'm embarrassed I fell for it. But there's no other explanation. It's already been several hours—surely if I were an omega, I would know by now.
I'm still congratulating myself on seeing through his deception when the footsteps return. Measured, confident steps that make my pulse spike before I can control the response.
The door opens again, and Prince Kaelen fills the doorway like he belongs there. Like he belongs everywhere and I'm the intruder in his world.
"Feeling better after some food and sleep?" he asks, green eyes studying my face with unnerving intensity.
"Much," I say, lifting my chin. "I've had time to think about what you told me, and I'm afraid I don't believe a word of it."
His smile is patient, indulgent, the way one might look at a child insisting the sky is green. "And what don't you believe, exactly?"
"Any of it. All of it." I cross my arms, trying to project confidence despite the way my body responds to his presence. "You're trying to manipulate me with claims about omega biology and destined mates and prophecies. But I know what I am, and I know what I'm not."
"Do you?" He steps into the room, and the door closes behind him. "Tell me, Lady Rosalind, how many other 'strong' women do you think have stood in this exact spot, insisting they were different?"
The question hits me so hard that I feel dizzy. "What?"
"Since the barriers between our worlds began weakening fifty years ago, this chamber has hosted quite a few guests," he continues conversationally, moving to examine one of the flowering vines with casual interest. "Diplomatic attachés.
Cultural liaisons. Trade negotiators. All of them intelligent, well-educated women who were absolutely certain they were immune to Fae influence. "
My stomach clenches with sudden nausea. "That's not... you're lying."
"Ambassador Catherine Morrison from the Northern Territories.
Brilliant linguist, fluent in seven languages.
She stood right where you're standing now three years ago, telling me how her education and training made her different from 'ordinary' women.
" He glances at me with those terrible golden-green eyes.
"She's living quite happily now in the Mountain Courts as a beloved mate, expecting her second child and absolutely glowing with contentment every time I see her at inter-court gatherings. "
The room tilts around me. "You're lying."
"Dr. Leanne McKinley. Research specialist in Fae cultural anthropology.
PhD from the most prestigious university in the human realm.
" He moves to another vine, his attention seemingly focused on the flowers.
"Stood in this room two years ago, explaining to me in great detail why her scientific understanding of Fae psychology made her immune to it. "
"Stop." The word comes out strangled.
"She's in the Eastern Courts now. Her alpha speaks of her quite fondly at diplomatic functions. Remarkable what proper claiming can do for a woman's happiness, especially when she stops fighting what her biology has been trying to tell her."
I back away from him until I hit the wall, the living wood warm against my spine. "I don't believe you."
"Lady Margaret Rosenfield, just last year.
Captain Sarah Cortello, eighteen months ago.
Professor Julia Gaylor, six months past." Each name is delivered with casual precision that makes it impossible to dismiss as fabrication.
"Shall I continue? Because since omega awakenings resumed, I have quite a few examples of 'exceptional' women who discovered that intelligence and training mean very little when nature finally expresses what it's always been. "
"They were different. They were?—"
"Exactly like you," he says gently, turning those predatory eyes back to me. "Certain of their own specialness. Convinced that their minds could overcome their bodies. Absolutely sure they were the exception to every rule that's governed omega biology since the dawn of time."
The words hit me like hammer blows, shattering whatever confidence I've managed to rebuild. If all those women—brilliant, educated, trained women—fell to whatever process he's describing, then what makes me think I'm any different?
"I'm not an omega," I whisper, but even I can hear how weak it sounds.
"Your scent says otherwise," he replies, taking a step closer. "As does your body's response to my presence. Your pupils are dilated, your breathing is shallow, and I can see your pulse racing in your throat."
I press my hand to my neck instinctively, trying to hide the betraying rhythm he's describing. "That's fear, not arousal."
"Is it?" Another step. "Fear doesn't make women press their thighs together the way you're doing. Fear doesn't cause the kind of flush spreading across your skin right now."
Heat floods my cheeks as I realize he's right. I am pressing my thighs together, have been since he entered the room, trying to relieve an ache that has nothing to do with terror and everything to do with his proximity.
"My body might be reacting," I say desperately, "but my mind?—"
"Your mind will follow," he interrupts with calm certainty. "It always does, eventually. The body leads, the heart follows, and the mind rationalizes what's already inevitable."
"You're wrong." But I sound like I'm trying to convince myself more than him.
"Am I? Then tell me, Lady Rosalind—why are you fighting the urge to move closer instead of farther away? Why does part of you want to know what it would feel like if I touched you?"
The questions stab through me because they're true. God help me, they're true. Even as my rational mind screams at me to run, to fight, to maintain distance, there's a treacherous part of me that wants to step into his space and discover what those elegant hands would feel like on my skin.
"I hate you," I whisper.
"No," he says with that same maddening patience. "You hate that you want me. Very different things."
I want to deny it, but the words stick in my throat.
How can I argue with something I can feel happening in real time?
The way my body leans toward him despite my conscious efforts to maintain distance.
The way my breathing changes when he speaks.
The way something deep in my chest uncurls with satisfaction when those green eyes focus on me with approval.
"This is impossible," I say instead. "I was tested. I was cleared for diplomatic missions specifically because?—"