He was drawing the cage lines publicly, ensuring everyone understood my status. Not mate, because he had already severed that bond. Not even a pack member; I had no standing in the hierarchy. Just a womb with legs, contained until I’d served my purpose.
“Are we clear on the arrangements?” His gaze swept the table, alpha dominance ensuring compliance.
“Crystal clear,” came the chorus of affirmatives, some more enthusiastic than others.
“And if I refuse these ‘arrangements’?” The words escaped before wisdom could stop them, my voice cutting through the murmured agreements like a blade.
Silence fell like a hammer. Every eye turned to me, then to Damon, waiting to see how he’d handle this defiance. His jaw tightened, but his voice remained level when he spoke.
“Then you’ll find your accommodations become significantly less comfortable. The child you carry needs proper nutrition, medical care, safety. I’m providing all of that. Your cooperation is expected in return.”
The threat was velvet-wrapped but unmistakable. Comply or face consequences. Submit or suffer. The same choice he’d given me the night he rejected me, bend to his will or be broken by it.
Everyone now knew that I was his captive breeder, I thought, bile rising in my throat. The humiliation was complete, witnessed and sanctioned by pack leadership.
“Understood,” I managed, the word tasting like defeat.
“Excellent.” Damon sat back down as if he hadn’t just publicly declared me a prisoner. “Now, who wants dessert?”
The meal continued with forced normalcy, but I barely tasted the elaborate chocolate soufflé someone placed before me. I endured another thirty minutes before Damon finally signaled the meal’s end. Nathan appeared at my elbow immediately, ready to escort me back to my cell. As I stood, Damon’s hand caught my wrist, not hard, but firm enough to stop me.
“This is for your safety,” he said quietly, pitched for my ears alone. “You have to understand that.”
“I understand perfectly,” I replied, meeting his gaze with all the fury I couldn’t voice at dinner. “You’ve made your position crystal clear. I’m an inconvenient problem to be managed until this child is born. Then what, Damon? Will you take it and banish me again? Or will you keep me locked up forever to avoid another scandal?”
Something flickered in his eyes, pain, maybe, or guilt, but he released my wrist without answering. Of course he did. Lycan Kings didn’t explain themselves to their imprisoned breeding stock.
The guards with Nathan escorted me back through halls that felt more like a gauntlet now. Every servant we passed knew my status. Every guard understood their orders. I was the omega who’d murdered a prince, now carrying royal babies, kept under lock and key for the good of the pack.
Back in my room, I stood at the window watching the compound’s lights flicker on as darkness fell. Somewhere out there, Wayne and April were probably worried sick. My parents, surviving in the outbacks, had no idea their daughter had been reclaimed by the man who’d destroyed their lives.
Tomorrow would bring new battles, new humiliations, new reminders of my status. But tonight, I allowed myself to mourn the last shreds of dignity I’d lost at that dinner table, witnessed by people who’d ensure I never forgot my place in this house of wolves.
29
— • —
Damon
Midnight found me standing outside Rhea’s door, exhausted beyond measure. The master suite felt too empty, a mausoleum of memories without her where sleep never came. My wolf paced restlessly beneath my skin, the severed mate bond screaming for proximity to her and the pup. Months of this torture, and being in the same building only made it worse.
Nathan stepped aside without comment when he saw me approach. He’d been with the family long enough to recognize when his Alpha needed something beyond protocol. His discretion was why he guarded this particular door, that and his ability to keep his thoughts to himself when his employer looked like death warmed over.
The door opened silently on well-oiled hinges. Inside, moonlight spilled through floor-to-ceiling windows, painting everything inshades of silver and shadow. The room smelled of her, lavender soap from the bath, the underlying sweetness of pregnancy hormones, and something uniquely Rhea that made my chest constrict.
I found her curled in the window seat, a throw pillow clutched against her swollen belly. She’d changed into sleep clothes, an oversized t-shirt that had seen better days and leggings that stretched over her bump. Her hair fell loose around her shoulders, catching moonbeams like spun silver. She looked like a painting, ethereal, an image so precious that it should be protected, not imprisoned.
“Come to check your investment?” Her voice carried exhaustion matching my own, though hers was laced with bitter resignation. She didn’t turn from the window, but I could see her reflection watching me in the glass.
I didn’t rise to the bait, instead moving to the sitting area and beginning to strip. My fingers fumbled with shirt buttons, when had I last slept properly? Three days? Four? The fabric felt like sandpaper against oversensitive skin, another symptom of prolonged bond rejection.
Her sharp intake of breath satisfied the primal need in me, at least I still affected her, even if she’d rather die than admit it. The shirt hit the arm of the couch with a soft whisper of expensive cotton.
“What are you doing?” The alarm in her voice almost made me smile. Almost. If I remembered how.
I folded my clothes with mechanical precision, muscle memory from years of military training taking over when higher brainfunction failed. The pants were next, belt sliding through loops with a whisper of leather, button and zipper following. Her sputtering protests grew louder with each piece of clothing removed.
“You can’t just, this is my room!” She’d turned from the window now, eyes wide with something between outrage and disbelief.
