17. Rosalind
ROSALIND
The papers in my hands feel like they weigh a thousand pounds.
I'm kneeling among the scattered evidence of Kaelen's deception, still naked from our claiming hours ago, my body glowing with magical markings that pulse with each rapid heartbeat.
The bond between us thrums with complex emotions—his satisfaction from handling whatever crisis called him away, and now his sharp alarm as he sees what I've discovered.
"You lied to me," I say, my voice steadier than I feel. "About everything."
His green eyes survey the chaos I've made of his private study—drawers pulled open, documents strewn across the Persian rug, the hidden compartment behind his desk now exposed. When his gaze returns to me, I see no guilt in his expression. Only calculation.
"What exactly do you think you've found?" he asks, moving into the room with that fluid grace that marks his kind. Despite everything, my body responds to his presence, heat beginning to stir again despite my emotional turmoil.
I hold up the correspondence that damns him completely.
"Plans for manufacturing the border crisis.
Strategic discussions about timing it with my diplomatic mission.
Documents that prove you orchestrated everything—the emergency, the urgent need for a cultural liaison, even the specific request for someone with my qualifications. "
He doesn't deny it. Doesn't even look surprised that I've uncovered his deception. "And?"
"And?" I stare at him in disbelief. "And you trapped me! Everything was a lie—the crisis, my mission, the idea that my government sent me here willingly. You stole me through elaborate manipulation!"
"I claimed what was mine," he corrects with casual arrogance that makes my breath catch. "By whatever means necessary."
The calm admission should horrify me. Instead, it sends a complex thrill through my system that I don't want to examine too closely. "I wasn't yours to claim."
"Weren't you?" He moves closer, and I can smell his scent changing—becoming richer, more aggressive, carrying undertones that make my omega biology sing with recognition. "Tell me, dear one, if I had simply appeared at your father's house and demanded you as my mate, what would have happened?"
"That's not?—"
"You would have refused," he continues relentlessly. "Your family would have protected you. Your government would have intervened. You would have lived your entire life without ever discovering what you truly are."
The words hit like physical blows because they're true. If he'd approached me directly, I would have fought him with every weapon at my disposal.
"So instead you lied to me. Manipulated me. Made me think I was here by choice when really?—"
"When really I moved heaven and earth to bring you here," he interrupts, his voice carrying an edge that makes my skin prickle. "Do you understand what these documents prove, Rosalind? Do you comprehend what they represent?"
I shake my head, though I'm beginning to suspect I know exactly what he's going to say.
"They prove how much I wanted you." His words carry absolute certainty. "I orchestrated an international crisis. I manipulated governments. I planned for months, devoted resources, risked diplomatic relationships—all to bring you to me. That should tell you exactly how precious you are."
The declaration hits me like lightning. Not just wanted—precious. Precious enough that someone would destabilize nations to possess me. Precious enough that someone would risk everything for the chance to claim me.
"That doesn't make it right," I whisper, but my voice lacks conviction.
"Right?" He laughs, and the sound carries dangerous edges. "By whose standards? Human morality? I'm over six centuries old, dear one. I've watched your entire civilization rise from barbarism. Your concepts of right and wrong are fleeting opinions that change with each generation."
Another step closer, and now I can feel the heat radiating from his skin. "But this—what you've discovered—this is proof of something that transcends morality. This is proof of obsession. Of need so deep that I was willing to move mountains to satisfy it."
"You kidnapped me," I protest, but even as I say it, I can feel my body responding to his proximity. My heat, temporarily sated by our earlier claiming, begins to stir again in response to the aggressive pheromones rolling off him in waves.
"I rescued you," he corrects with firm authority. "From a life of hollow achievements and desperate hunger for attention that was never enough. Tell me honestly—when was the last time someone made you feel this wanted? This treasured? This completely the center of their universe?"
The question cuts straight to my abandonment wound. Never. The answer is never. Not from my father, who loved me but couldn't show it. Not from the colleagues who saw me as General Whitmore's daughter rather than a person in my own right.
"I can see the answer in your eyes," he murmurs, moving closer until I'm surrounded by his scent. "No one has ever wanted you the way I do. No one has ever been willing to sacrifice everything for the chance to possess you."
"That's not—this isn't about wanting," I stammer, but the words sound hollow even to me.
"Isn't it?" His green eyes blaze with something that might be madness. "Look at these documents again, Rosalind. Really look at them. See what they represent."
I glance down at the papers scattered around me—months of planning, detailed strategies, resources devoted entirely to bringing me within his reach. The scope of it is overwhelming, intoxicating in ways I don't want to acknowledge.
"I could have claimed any omega," he continues relentlessly. "Thousands of human women would have satisfied my biological needs. But I didn't want just any omega. I wanted you. Specifically, uniquely, obsessively you."
His words send heat pooling between my thighs as my body prepares itself for what it recognizes as inevitable. "I don't want this," I lie.
"Your scent says otherwise," he observes with dark satisfaction, his nostrils flaring as he breathes in my arousal. "Your body is preparing itself for claiming despite everything your mind is telling you. Because deep down, you understand the truth."
"What truth?"
"That you'd rather be obsessively wanted by someone willing to destroy everything for you than safely ignored by people who see you as replaceable."
The words hit like physical blows because they're absolutely, devastatingly accurate. I would rather be here—claimed and possessed and treasured beyond reason—than back in my old life being overlooked and taken for granted.
The realization breaks something fundamental inside me.
"I hate that you're right," I sob, the admission torn from my throat.
"I know," he says, but there's no gentleness in his voice now. Something fundamental is changing in his demeanor—the sophisticated prince giving way to something more primitive, more purely alpha. "But hating the truth doesn't make it less true."
His scent explodes with aggressive pheromones that make my head spin with sudden arousal. I can see his control fracturing as primal instincts respond to my emotional surrender, my admission that he's given me exactly what I've always craved.
"You understand now," he growls, his voice roughening with each word. "You understand why I did everything I did."
"Yes," I whisper, unable to deny the truth any longer.
"Say it," he commands, moving closer until I can feel the heat radiating from his skin. "Say you're grateful that someone finally wanted you enough to move heaven and earth to have you."
The question cuts straight to the core of my abandonment wound. Am I grateful? The answer should be no—I should be horrified, appalled, ready to fight him with everything I possess.
Instead, I find myself nodding. "Yes."
The admission seems to shatter his remaining control completely.
His scent becomes overwhelming, carrying such aggressive alpha pheromones that my vision blurs with sudden need.
When he looks at me now, I see nothing of the diplomatic prince—only pure, predatory alpha responding to his omega's surrender.
"Mine," he snarls, and suddenly he's not the sophisticated lord anymore but something far more dangerous. "My omega, claimed through patience and planning and absolute determination."
Before I can react, he's hauling me to my feet with bruising force, his hands positioning me exactly where he wants me. Not gently, not with the careful control he's shown before, but with the rough dominance of an alpha whose rut has been triggered by his omega's submission.
"Do you know what you've done?" he growls against my ear, his body pinning me against the edge of his massive desk.
"Admitting that you're grateful, that you understand—you've triggered something in me that won't be satisfied until I've claimed you so thoroughly that you forget you were ever anything but mine. "
His hands sweep the remaining documents off his desk with violent efficiency, sending papers cascading to the floor. The obsidian surface is cold against my back when he lifts me onto it, spreading my legs to stand between them with predatory intent.
"I can smell your heat building," he observes with dark satisfaction, his hands gripping my thighs hard enough to leave marks. "Growing stronger every moment. Your body knows what's coming."
"Alpha," I gasp, the word torn from my throat as his scent overwhelms my senses. "Please?—"
"Please what?" he demands, his voice gone completely feral. "Please claim you like the desperate little omega you've become? Please mark you so thoroughly that no one could ever mistake who you belong to?"
"Yes," I sob, beyond shame or dignity. "Yes, alpha, please?—"