UNWANTED

A prince, heir to the throne, brought to his knees not by war or political intrigue, but by his own body. A cruel jest played by fate, a twisted metaphor for the gilded cage he inhabited. He was a prisoner of his own body, a gilded cage now rattling with the force of his internal storm.

Alaric was experiencing rut and it was more than just mere discomfort; it was molten agony searing through his veins. It was a familiar fire, one he’d weathered before, but this… this was different. This was a raging inferno threatening to consume him entirely. His wolf, usually a controlled, dignified presence in the back of his mind, was clawing, snarling, a primal beast demanding release, demanding… mate.

The word echoed in Alaric’s head, a guttural roar that threatened to shatter his sanity. Mate. Mate. Mate. Each repetition hammered against his skull, a relentless drumbeat urging him towards the adjacent room, towards the source of the intoxicating omega scent that was driving him mad.

Kael.

He slammed his fist against the ornate mahogany desk, the impact sending a vase crashing to the floor. The scent of lilies, once pleasant, now felt like a suffocating mockery. He lurched to his feet, pacing the room like a caged animal. His muscles coiled and strained, aching for dominance, for release.

“No,” he growled, the sound a strangled whisper that quickly escalated into a roar. “No”

His wolf, enraged by his resistance, surged forward, its influence flooding his senses. He saw Kael in his mind's eye: his soft androgynous features, his vulnerable eyes, the faint tremor in his lower lip when he was afraid. The image fueled the fire within him, making the need, the urge, almost unbearable.

He gripped his head, knuckles white. "Control yourself," he snarled at the beast within. "I can't, I can't do that to him. You can't."

But his wolf was beyond reason, driven by instinct, by the primal law of the pack, by the raw instinct to mark, to knot, to breed his mate… It clawed at his control, tearing down the carefully constructed barriers of his civilized self. He stumbled, knocking over a chair, the clatter echoing in the vast chamber.

A hesitant knock at the door. "Your Highness? Is everything alright?" A young servant, his face pale with fear, peeked into the room.

Alaric turned, his eyes blazing with an untamed fire. The servant recoiled, taking a hasty step back. "Get out!" Alaric roared, the sound laced with a primal ferocity that sent the servant scrambling.

The door slammed shut, leaving Alaric alone once more with his torment. He sank to his knees, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He was losing the battle. His control was slipping, the beast within gaining ground with every passing second.

He braced himself against the wall, trying to ride out the storm. But the scent of Kael, faint yet persistent, drifted under the door, a siren's call leading him towards destruction.

A wave of nausea washed over him, followed by a sharp, stabbing pain in his abdomen. He doubled over, groaning, the sound animalistic, guttural. He heard himself, but did not recognize himself. This was not the man he wanted to be or thought he was, but he could not control it.

The door burst open.

Alaric's mother, the Queen stood in the doorway, her face etched with worry. She took in the scene in a single glance: the overturned furniture, the shattered vase, the wild look in her son’s eyes. She recognized the signs immediately. Rut. And a particularly violent one at that.

"Alaric!" she exclaimed, rushing to his side. "What's happening?"

He couldn't speak, only grunt and pointed a shaky finger towards the adjacent room. He was losing control, and he no longer cared.

The queen didn't quite understand. But she could sense his rut is driving him to the brink. She knew what needed to be done. It was a solution she particularly loves, anything to make the crowned Prince less perfect.

"Summon a consort," she commanded a nearby guard, her voice sharp and decisive. "Immediately."

The guard hesitated, glancing at Alaric. "But Your Majesty…"

"Now!" She snapped, her regal authority bringing no argument.

The guard bowed and hurried away.

Alaric watched his mother, confusion warring with the primal urges coursing through his veins. Consorts. He hadn't needed one in years. It felt wrong, a betrayal of… of what? He didn't even know.

Within moments, a young woman, her eyes wide with a mixture of fear and anticipation, was ushered into the room. She was an omega, chosen for her beauty and her… availability. Consorts. Royal escorts, designed to cater to the needs of unmated Alphas, to quell the storm of rut and maintain the delicate balance of the court. It was a tradition as old as the kingdom itself, a necessary evil in a society governed by primal instincts and rigid social structures.

The consort curtsied, her voice trembling. "Your Highness."

Alaric growled, a low warning rumble that vibrated in the air. "Get out," he snarled. "Leave me."

The consort didn't move. She couldn't. The Queen had given her an order, and defying the Queen was tantamount to treason. She stood her ground, her fear battling with her ingrained obedience.

Alaric lunged, grabbing her arm and dragging her towards the door. She gasped, stumbling, but held on tight. He slammed her against the wall, his eyes burning with a possessive rage that had nothing to do with desire.

"I said, leave!" he roared, his voice cracking with the effort to control himself.

But his control was gone. The beast within had broken free, fueled by the primal urges of rut and the proximity of his unclaimed mate. He ripped at her dress, the fabric tearing with a satisfying sound that sent a shiver of fear down the consort's spine.

She whimpered, pleading with him, but her words were lost in the storm of his passion. He pushed her onto the bed, his body heavy and demanding. She closed her eyes, bracing herself for the inevitable.

Alaric, lost in the throes of rut, saw only release, only the fleeting satisfaction of dominance. He plunged into her, his movements rough and desperate. The consort cried out, the sound muffled by the pillow.

The sounds of their violent coupling echoed through the palace walls, a stark reminder of the primal forces that governed their world.

In the adjacent room, Kael lay curled in a fetal position, his body wracked with pain. The unpresented heat was a torment, a burning inferno that threatened to consume him from the inside out. But the physical agony was nothing compared to the emotional devastation that washed over him with every moan, every gasp, every thrust that reverberated through the thin walls.

He heard Alaric's voice, a guttural roar that spoke of raw power and unrestrained desire. He heard the consort's cries, a mixture of pain and pleasure that twisted the knife in his heart.

He understood what was happening. He knew about the consorts, about the role they played in the lives of unmated Alphas. But knowing didn't make it any easier to bear.

Each sound was a fresh wound, a searing brand that marked him as unwanted, unworthy, a bastard as everyone called him. He was an abomination, a mistake, a cruel twist of fate that had brought him into a world where he didn't belong.

Tears streamed down his face, hot and bitter. He whimpered, a pathetic sound that was swallowed by the cacophony of the rut. He was alone, utterly and completely alone, trapped in his own personal hell.

He clutched at the bedsheets, his knuckles white. "Alpha…" he whispered under his breath. The word was a plea, a desperate cry for comfort, for acceptance, for love. But it was lost in the darkness, unanswered, unheeded.

He was an omega in heat, an omega rejected, an omega utterly and irrevocably broken. He started to cough, the pain of the unpresented heat in his body worsening by the second. Each cough was a stab in his chest, and he was too weak to fight it. He was alone in his pain, unseen, unheard and unloved.