Chapter 7

The iron gates of the Kingsley Enforcer Estate hissed shut behind us, a jagged line of black steel separating Veda from the world that had just flayed her alive.

Most omegas expected a dungeon when they heard my name. They expected chains, the smell of old blood, and a man who took pleasure in the sound of breaking bones. As I led Veda through the foyer of my private residence, the silence was what seemed to unnerve her the most.

My home didn't have the gilded, performative warmth of the Palace. It was a fortress of grey stone, polished concrete, and floor-to-ceiling glass that looked out over the dark, churning forest at the city’s edge. It was disciplined. It was quiet. It was exactly like me.

Veda stood in the center of the vaulted living area, her ruined ivory dress a stark, pathetic contrast to the brutalist architecture. She looked small. Fragile. Like a bird that had flown into a window and was waiting for the cat to finish the job.

"You’ll stay here tonight," I said, my voice echoing off the cold walls. "The High-Rise penthouse isn't secure enough yet. My personal detail is stationed at every perimeter. You’re safe."

"Safe?" She echoed the word like it was a foreign language. Her eyes darted around the room, landing on the sharp edges of the furniture, the lack of soft things. "This feels like a prison with better lighting, Rowan."

"Safety and prison often look the same to the unprotected," I countered.

I signaled to one of the house staff, betas trained for silence. "Take her to the East Suite. Get her out of that rag and find her something that doesn't smell like a Kingsley funeral."

Veda didn't move. She just stood there, her shoulders hunched, her gaze fixed on her own hands. She was vibrating like a fine, high-frequency tremor that spoke of a shock so deep she hadn't even begun to process the pain yet.

I turned away, heading toward my study. I needed a drink. I needed to look at the casualty reports from the border. I needed to forget the way her hazel eyes had looked when Julian severed the bond.

"Rowan."

Marcus was waiting for me by the heavy oak doors of the study. He didn't follow me in at first; he just stood in the threshold, his arms crossed over his chest, his face a mask of tactical concern.

"What?" I poured a glass of bourbon, the liquid amber glowing under the dim recessed lighting.

"Why her?" Marcus asked. He didn't whisper. He didn't have to. The house was a tomb. "I’ve watched you execute Alphas for less than the disrespect Julian showed you tonight. You don't take leftovers. You don't play 'save the omega.' So tell me, because the Enforcers are asking… why Veda Bennett?"

I swallowed the bourbon, the burn in my throat a welcome distraction from the heavy, floral scent of her that was already beginning to permeate my air vents.

"The Bennett line has a blood debt," I said, my voice flat. "I collected."

"Bullshit," Marcus snapped. "You could have taken their shipping docks. You could have taken the West District territory. You took a girl who was publicly humiliated and rejected. She’s a liability. She’s a distraction."

I set the glass down with a controlled click. "She is a Kingsley consort. That is all you need to know, Beta. If you or any of the men treat her as anything less, I’ll remind you why my callsign is what it is."

Marcus stared at me for a long beat, searching for a crack in the armor. He didn't find one. He gave a sharp, dissatisfied nod and disappeared into the hall.

I didn't go back to my paperwork. Instead, I walked back toward the foyer. Something was bothering me. A scent. Not just her, but the smell of copper.

Veda was still where I had left her. The staff member was standing a few feet away, looking confused. Veda hadn't moved an inch. Her hands were clenched at her sides, and as I got closer, I saw the dark droplets hitting the grey stone floor.

"Veda."

She jumped, her head snapping up. She tried to hide her right hand behind the silk of her skirt, but I was faster. I was across the room in three strides, my hand shooting out to catch her wrist.

"Don't—" she started, but the word died as I forced her hand open.

Her palm was a mess. Shards of crystal, likely from the champagne glass she’d been holding when the bond snapped, were embedded deep in the meat of her hand. She must have crushed it in her grip and never let go, the pain of her soul drowning out the screaming of her nerves.

"You’ve been bleeding this whole time," I growled, my chest tightening with a strange, unwelcome heat.

"I didn't feel it," she whispered. Her voice was hollow, eyes vacant. "I don't feel much of anything right now."

"Sit."

I didn't give her a choice. I sat her down on the edge of the low leather bench and knelt between her knees. I didn't call the medic. I didn't want anyone else touching her.

I grabbed a first-aid kit from the hidden cabinet in the wall and pulled out a pair of fine tweezers.

I took her hand in mine. It was cold. Small. Her skin was like porcelain against my calloused, scarred palms. I felt her flinch as I touched the first shard, a tiny piece of glass reflecting the dim light like a diamond.

"Hold still," I commanded, my voice dropping an octave.

"Why are you doing this?" she asked. A single tear escaped, tracking a path through the dried salt on her cheek. "You should be disgusted. I’m a rejected mate. I’m a defect. That’s what Julian said."

"Julian is an idiot who wouldn't know the value of a blade unless it was tucked into his own ribs," I said, my focus entirely on her palm. I pulled the first shard out. Clink. It hit the metal tray.

Veda let out a sharp, hitched breath. Her knees knocked against my shoulders, an accidental intimacy that sent a jolt of electricity straight to my gut.

"You're trembling," I observed, not looking up.

"I'm fine."

"Don't lie to me. It's a waste of both our time." I moved to the next shard, a larger piece wedged near her thumb. I had to be careful. I had to be precise.

As I worked, the silence of the house seemed to grow heavier. I could hear the rhythm of her heart beat fast, and frantic, like a trapped bird. But beneath the fear, there was something else. A pull.

The scent of her was changing. The salt and copper were fading, replaced by a deep, earthy sweetness. The scent of an omega beginning to respond to the proximity of a dominant Alpha. It was biological. It was involuntary.

And it was driving my wolf insane.

I pulled the last shard out and set the tweezers down. I didn't let go of her hand. I took a piece of antiseptic gauze and began to wipe away the blood, my thumb tracing the line of her life-path on her palm.

Veda leaned forward, her hair falling over her face, shielding us from the rest of the room. "You're not as cruel as they say, are you?"

I looked up then. Our faces were inches apart. I could see the hazel flecks in her eyes, the slight tremble of her lower lip. I could smell the heat rising off her skin, a scent that promised surrender and fire in equal measure.

"I am exactly as cruel as they say, Veda," I murmured, my grip on her hand tightening just enough to let her feel the strength I was holding back. "Maybe more. Don't make the mistake of thinking a bandaged hand means you’re safe from me."

I stood up, pulling her to her feet with me. I didn't release her hand until she was steady.

"Go to bed," I said, my voice rough. "The dress stays in the trash. Tomorrow, we start the transition. You have two weeks to learn how to be my wife."

She looked at me for a long moment, her eyes searching mine for a mercy I didn't possess. Then, she turned and followed the staff member down the hall, her footsteps silent on the stone.

I stayed in the foyer, my heart hammering a rhythm that had nothing to do with adrenaline and everything to do with the girl who had just vanished around the corner.

I looked down at my hand. My palm was stained with her blood.

I should have felt disgusted. I should have felt the same clinical detachment I felt for every other political move I’d ever made.

Instead, my wolf let out a low, possessive howl deep in the back of my mind. The scent of her… that intoxicating, forbidden sweetness was lingering on my skin, thick enough to taste.

Julian hadn't just thrown away a servant. He had thrown away something that was starting to wake up a part of me I had buried decades ago.

And God help anyone who tried to take it back.