6. Rosalind #2
"Because the tests are inadequate," he interrupts.
"They measure surface-level biology, not the deeper blood markers that determine true omega potential.
Many of the most powerful omega bloodlines have remained dormant since the Sundering five hundred years ago, only beginning to awaken now that magic flows freely between our worlds again. "
"What do you mean, awaken?"
"The barriers that separated our realms didn't just stop travel—they suppressed omega biology in the human population. Your people forgot what they truly were, unable to understand their own biology without the fae around to guide them.” His predatory eyes gleam with something that might be satisfaction.
"But as the barriers weakened, the old bloodlines began to remember.
Women started awakening to their true nature when exposed to the right catalyst."
"What catalyst?"
"Me." The simple word carries absolute confidence. "Alpha pheromones at the concentration I can produce. Magical saturation at the strength my court generates. The conditions that allow suppressed biology to finally express what it's always been."
I shake my head violently. "My companions. Brum and the others. Where are they really? What have you done with them?"
Something flickers across his features—too quick to interpret, but it makes my stomach clench with sudden dread.
"I told you," he says smoothly. "They're being cared for as honored guests."
"I want to see them."
"That's not possible at the moment."
"Why not?" The question comes out sharper than I intend. "If they're really safe, if they're really being treated well, then there's no reason I can't verify that for myself."
"The awakening process requires careful preparation," he explains with the same patient tone one might use with a child. "Interruptions could be... problematic for everyone involved."
"Awakening process." The words taste like ash in my mouth. "So you admit this is about changing me into something I'm not."
"I admit this is about accepting what you've always been," he corrects. "What your bloodline has carried for generations, waiting for the right moment to surface. The bond that exists whether you acknowledge it or not."
"There is no bond." But even as I say it, I can feel something tugging at my chest when he's near, some invisible thread that wants to pull me closer.
"Isn't there?" He takes another step, close enough now that I can see the golden flecks in his green eyes, can smell the intoxicating scent that clings to his skin. "Tell me you don't feel it. The recognition. The certainty that we've been moving toward this moment since the day you were born."
I do feel it. That's the terrifying part. There's something about him that feels familiar in a way that should be impossible, like coming home to a place I've never been.
"You're manipulating me," I say weakly.
"I'm telling you the truth," he replies. "Perhaps for the first time in your life, someone is being completely honest about what you are and what you're capable of becoming."
"I don't want to become anything. I want to go home."
The words hang in the air between us, and for a moment something that might be sympathy crosses his features.
"I understand," he says gently. "Change is frightening, especially when it involves surrendering control you've spent your entire life cultivating. But fighting this will only cause you unnecessary pain."
"Maybe I prefer pain to surrender."
"Do you?" The question is delivered with genuine curiosity. "Because in my experience, most people who claim to prefer pain have never actually experienced the alternative."
Before I can ask what he means, he's moving again, circling me with predatory grace that makes my heart race. "Brum," I say suddenly, desperately. "Is he really all right? I need to know he's safe."
Prince Kaelen pauses in his circling, green eyes studying my face with renewed interest. "Your concern for him is... touching."
"He's my colleague. My friend." The words feel inadequate for the complex emotions Brum's attention stirred in me, but I can't explain the rest to this creature who's holding me captive.
"Friend," Prince Kaelen repeats thoughtfully. "Is that what you call men who make you feel special? Who give you the attention you've craved since your mother walked away?"
The observation steals my breath. "How do you—what do you know about my mother?"
"I know everything about you, Lady Rosalind," he says with casual certainty that makes my skin crawl. "Your abandonment at age eight. Your father's emotional withdrawal. Your desperate need for devoted attention that no amount of academic achievement has ever satisfied."
Tears burn behind my eyes as he exposes truths I've never spoken aloud. "Stop."
"I know you volunteered for this mission partly to prove your worth to a father who's never learned how to show the affection you need. I know you latched onto young Mr. Ashford's attention because it felt like coming home."
"Stop it." My voice breaks on the words.
"And I know," he continues relentlessly, "that part of you is already responding to my attention in exactly the same way. Already craving my approval. Already wondering what you'd have to do to earn my praise."
The accusation cuts through me because it's true. Even as I hate him, even as I fear him, there's a treacherous part of me that preens when those green eyes focus on me with interest. That wants to be worthy of whatever attention he's willing to give.
It's exactly like the desperate need for Father's approval that's driven every major decision of my adult life.
"You're wrong," I whisper, but we both know it's a lie.
"Am I? Then why does your scent spike with arousal every time I show approval? Why do you lean toward me when I speak gently and pull away when my voice hardens?"
Because he's right. Because despite everything my rational mind is telling me, my body and heart are responding to him exactly like they've responded to every figure of male authority who's ever shown me a scrap of positive attention.
And because, God help me, I can't stop looking at him.
The way his silk doublet molds to his broad chest. The elegant line of his throat above the collar.
The graceful strength in his hands as he moves them while speaking.
Even the antlers crowning his head are magnificent—velvety branches that seem to pulse with their own inner light, beautiful and alien and utterly masculine.
I've read the diplomatic briefings about Fae anatomy. I know what lies beneath those perfectly tailored clothes, what marks him as alpha in ways that go far beyond pheromones and dominance. The knowledge makes my mouth go dry and my pulse race in ways I refuse to acknowledge.
"Enjoying the view?" His voice carries amusement that makes heat flood my cheeks.
"I don't know what you mean," I lie, forcing my eyes back to his face.
"Don't you?" He takes another step closer, close enough that I can see the golden flecks in his green eyes. "Your gaze has been... thorough in its examination. Tell me, Lady Rosalind, what did those diplomatic briefings teach you about Thorn Court anatomy?"
The direct question makes my breath catch.
I know exactly what they taught me—clinical descriptions that had made my fellow diplomats blush and stammer during the preparatory sessions.
The unique characteristics that mark Thorn Court alphas as different from humans, designed for omega bonding in ways that should terrify me.
Instead, the knowledge makes something low in my belly clench with heat I refuse to name.
"I'm sure I have no idea what you're referring to," I say, proud of how steady my voice sounds despite the lie.
"No?" His smile turns predatory. "No curiosity about what makes claiming so... intense for omega partners? No wonder about the thorns that give my court its name?"
My thighs press together involuntarily as unwanted images flash through my mind—everything the briefings described in careful, clinical detail. The way Thorn Court alphas are built. The unique anatomy that allows them to bond with omegas in ways that create both pleasure and dependence.
"I'm not interested in such... crude details," I manage, though my voice has gone breathless.
"Crude?" He laughs, the sound rich and warm. "There's nothing crude about the beauty of perfect compatibility. About bodies designed to fit together in ways that create transcendent pleasure."
"Stop." The word comes out strangled as heat pools between my thighs.
"You can feel it, can't you?" His voice drops to a intimate register that makes my skin prickle with awareness. "Your body preparing itself. Awakening to possibilities you've never allowed yourself to consider."
"What do you want from me?" The question comes out broken, defeated.
"Everything," he says simply. "Your submission. Your devotion. Your complete surrender to what you were born to be."
"I don't know how to be those things."
"You'll learn." His voice carries promise and threat in equal measure. "I'm a very patient teacher, and you're going to be a fascinating student."
He moves toward the door, pausing with his hand on the living wood. "Mr. Ashford is recovering quite comfortably, by the way. Minor injuries from the altercation, nothing our healers couldn't easily mend. You needn't worry about his wellbeing."
Relief floods through me so suddenly it leaves me dizzy. "Thank you."
"You see?" He turns back with a smile that doesn't reach his eyes. "You're already learning to be grateful for my generosity. That's the first step toward accepting what you are."
The door closes behind him, leaving me alone with the devastating realization that he's right.
I am grateful. Despite everything—the captivity, the manipulation, the destruction of my self-image—I'm grateful that he reassured me about Brum's safety. Grateful for his attention, even when it comes wrapped in threats and psychological torture.
I slide down the wall again, burying my face in my hands as the truth settles over me like a shroud.
I'm not different from those other women. I'm not special or strong or immune to the forces that broke them. I'm just another abandoned daughter, desperate for male approval and doomed to mistake possession for love.
The omega awakening he's describing might be real or fabricated, but it doesn't matter. The part of me that craves his attention, that responds to his dominance, that wants to earn his praise—that's been there all along.
That's the wound my mother left when she chose freedom over staying for me.
And Prince Kaelen knows exactly how to use it against me.
I sit in my beautiful prison, surrounded by roses that bloom at his command, and finally understand how thoroughly trapped I really am.
Not by walls or locks or magical barriers.
But by the desperate need for someone to choose me, want me, stay for me.
Even if that someone is a predator who sees my need as weakness to exploit.
Even if staying means surrendering everything I thought I was.
The truly terrifying part is that as I sit here contemplating giving up my independence, part of me whispers that maybe surrender wouldn't be so terrible after all.
Maybe being chosen, being wanted, being the center of someone's devoted attention would be worth any price.
Even my freedom.
Especially my freedom, if freedom just means being alone with the ache of never being enough to make anyone stay.