The Omega King

"Your Majesty, the people are demanding an heir."

The words cut through the heavy, stifling air of the council chamber like a dull blade.

King Arthur did not move. His fingers merely tightened around the carved obsidian armrest of his throne, the stone biting into his palm. He kept his spine perfectly straight, the heavy, gold-embroidered velvet of his robes weighing down his shoulders and anchoring him to the seat.

"They are becoming restless," Lord Vance continued, leaning forward over the long mahogany table, his fingers tapping an aggravating rhythm against his parchment. "The northern borders are stable for now, but a kingdom without a secure line of succession is a kingdom inviting civil war. We need a betrothal by the winter solstice."

"The King is well aware of his duties, Vance," another councilor chimed in, though his voice lacked conviction.

Arthur heard them, but the words were beginning to distort, sounding as though they were being spoken underwater.

He kept his eyes fixed on the maps, trying to remember how to breathe.

A cold sweat broke out across the back of his neck, instantly trapped beneath his stiff collar. A sharp, rhythmic throb began right beneath his jawline—the exact location of his scent glands. It felt like liquid fire pulsing through his veins.

'Not now,' he prayed, his jaw clenching so hard his teeth ached.

'Not here.'

'I took double the dosage.'

"His Majesty's silence speaks volumes," Vance murmured, looking around the table for support. "Perhaps a match with Princess Catherine? Her lineage is impeccable, and her presentation as an alpha last spring ensures—"

"The King's lineage requires no supplementation from a lesser house," a cool, smooth voice interrupted.

The chamber went instantly still.

Arthur’s gaze flicked involuntarily toward the end of the table.

Regent Malakor sat there, draped in black and silver, his posture relaxed in a way that screamed absolute authority. He hadn't touched his wine. He hadn't touched his parchment. He had spent the last hour simply watching.

Arthur caught Malakor’s eyes—dark, calculating, and intensely focused. For a terrifying second, Arthur felt the distinct, heavy pressure of an alpha's gaze pressing against his skin, demanding submission. Arthur’s chest heaved before he tore his eyes away, forcing his gaze back down to the maps. His heart hammered against his ribs.

"Of course, Your Grace," Vance stammered, his bravado instantly evaporating. "We only mean to suggest that... well, time is of the essence."

"Fortunately," another lord muttered quickly, eager to shift the tension away from the table, "His Grace the Regent remains loyal to the Crown and handles the heavy lifting of the state while His Majesty considers these... delicate matters."

The silence that followed was suffocating.

Nobody at the table actually believed that. Nobody believed Malakor—a man who had crushed three rebellions before his thirtieth year and held the military by its throat—was content simply playing the loyal servant.

A wave of intense heat crashed through Arthur’s chest.

The room spun. The scent of old parchment, wax, and the suffocating musks of half a dozen older alphas in the room suddenly became overwhelming, gagging him. His own skin felt a size too small.

He slipped a hand beneath the table, pressing his fingers firmly against his inner wrist. His pulse was racing. A tiny drop of moisture rolled down the side of his neck.

The suppressant had failed.

The patch beneath his collar burned against his skin.

Sweetness bled into the air.

His scent.

Minutes.

That was all he had.

One careless breath.

One trace of sweetness.

And everything he'd spent twenty-three years hiding would be over.

"Your Majesty?" Vance’s voice sounded miles away. "Are you listening?"

Arthur didn't answer. He couldn't. If he opened his mouth, he was afraid a gasp would escape.

Across the table, Malakor tilted his head. His nostrils flared, just a fraction. A dangerous, sharp gleam entered the Regent’s eyes as he locked his gaze onto the slight tremor in Arthur's hands.

Arthur stood.

The chair scraped loudly against the stone floor, the sharp sound cutting through the murmurs. Several councilors blinked in shock, half-rising from their seats. The King never dismissed the council without a formal closing. He never left a meeting unfinished.

"This council is dismissed," Arthur said.

His voice was lower than usual, strained, a forced baritone scraping his throat.

"But, your majesty, the western treaties—"

"Dismissed," Arthur repeated, not looking at any of them.

He turned and walked toward the heavy oak doors. He did not run. He forced his strides to be long, even, and deliberate. Because kings do not run. Even when their blood is burning, their vision is darkening at the edges, and they can feel the apex predator of the court staring directly at their back.

The moment the heavy doors of his private chambers clicked shut behind him, the illusion broke.

Arthur stumbled forward, throwing the heavy, gold-lined cloak off his shoulders. It pooled on the floor like a dead thing. He reached the iron bolt of the door and slammed it home, breathing heavily, his forehead resting against the cool wood.

"Damn it," he gasped, his voice cracking.

He staggered toward his washbasin, his hands shaking so violently he knocked over a silver goblet. It clattered across the stone floor, wine spilling out like blood. He didn't care. He tore at his high collar, ripping the silk open.

With trembling fingers, he peeled back the flesh-colored patch hidden beneath his jaw. It was blackened, now rendered useless. The scent of sweet, ripe peaches and honey—pure, unadulterated omega—began to bleed into the room.

"No, no, no," he whispered, lunging for his desk.

He tore open the secret drawer, his nails clawing at the wood until he found the small velvet-lined box.

Inside lay a single dark-blue vial.

The last resort.

Arthur had sworn never to use it unless the suppressants failed completely.

Three slow, heavy knocks echoed through the door.

Arthur froze.

The vial hovered inches from his lips.

The royal guards had strict orders never to disturb him when the door was bolted. No one dared.

"Your Majesty," a voice called through the thick wood.

Smooth. Deep. Completely unbothered.

Malakor.

Arthur’s breath hitched. He frantically shoved the blue vial into his pocket, his entire body trembling as he backed away from the door, his boots dragging against the rug.

"I am... indisposed, Regent. Leave me."

"I'm afraid I cannot do that," Malakor replied.

Silence stretched between them, heavy and suffocating. Arthur could smell his own scent filling the room, turning thick and desperate. Was the door sealed tightly enough? Could Malakor smell it through the cracks?

"Open the door, Your Majesty," Malakor said, his voice dropping an octave, carrying the faint rumble of an alpha's command. It sent an involuntary shiver down Arthur’s spine, making his knees weak.

"I said, leave me!" Arthur yelled, his voice strained with panic. "That is a royal command!"

"You left something behind."

Arthur stopped breathing.

"A small glass vial," Malakor’s voice came through the wood, dangerously calm. "Dropped beneath your chair in the council chamber. I believe it is a distillation of high-grade alpha pheromones. Quite rare. Quite illegal for anyone but a beta physician to possess."

Arthur’s hand flew to his chest. The empty space in his inner doublet pocket confirmed it. The backup vial had slipped out when he stood.

"It would be a shame if the one of the dukes were to find it," Malakor continued smoothly. "They are already so deeply suspicious of your... delays in choosing a mate."

Arthur squeezed his eyes shut, a tear of sheer frustration slipping down his flushed cheek. He was trapped. If he opened the door, Malakor would smell the truth instantly. If he kept it locked, Malakor would ruin him before the sun rose tomorrow.

"Open the door," Malakor repeated, the politeness entirely gone from his tone. "Or shall I call the guards to break it down? Shall I tell the council exactly why their king fled the room like a frightened creature?"

Arthur swallowed hard, the heat in his throat thick and suffocating. He gripped the edge of his washbasin, his knuckles turning white.

"Malakor... please."

It was a plea. A weak, pathetic omega plea, and he hated himself the moment it left his mouth.

A long, agonizing silence stretched through the keyhole. Arthur held his breath, his heart hammering so loudly he thought it might burst through his ribs.

Then Malakor's voice came through the wood, dropping into a terrifyingly quiet, intimate whisper that seemed to vibrate against the iron bolts.

"I know what you are."​