Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Hosting a party to find a wife was not how Damen had envisioned spending his evening. Unfortunately, his father had envisioned it quite thoroughly - had insisted on it, planned every detail - so now Damen stood before his mirror in a tailored suit, polished to perfection, ready to be paraded like a prized commodity.

And, truthfully, that was exactly what he was.

Lord Damianos: heir to an ancient fortune, the family name heavy with prestige. A prime, legitimate alpha - everything society deemed desirable. He could name a dozen families who would grovel for the chance to marry off their omega sons or daughters to him. Anyone who mattered would be present tonight, all of them hoping to catch his eye.

At twenty-five, Damen was already considered well past marrying age. Engagements were meant to follow swiftly after one’s presentation to society, and his had - until it hadn’t. The arrangement unraveled the moment his father discovered Damen’s fiancée tangled in bed with Damen’s illegitimate older brother.

The betrayal was dealt with swiftly, quietly. No scandal allowed to touch the family name. The pair were banished from polite society, tucked neatly away like an inconvenient secret.

Still, servants whispered. Rumors slipped through the halls. Jokaste and Kastor had a child now, they said.

And so here Damen was - dress shoes gleaming, expression carefully schooled - preparing for an evening of hollow courtesies and tedious conversations. He would smile at dull alphas boasting of money and politics, accept obsequious introductions, and pretend that he was there to choose a bride.

His father knocked once before letting himself in. Damen caught sight of him through the mirror.

“You clean up well,” Theomedes said, stepping forward to straighten his son’s collar with practiced fingers. “Dance with plenty of omegas tonight - but don’t show favourites. If anyone truly catches your eye, tell me afterward, and I’ll arrange further meetings.”

Damen met his reflection’s smile, then offered the same to his father. The alpha was beginning to show his age, silver threading through his hair, lines deepening around his eyes. Damen knew how badly he wanted to see his son settled before time ran out - before the estate, the legacy, everything passed fully into Damen’s hands.

“Of course, Father,” Damen said.

“Good man.” Theomedes gave a single approving nod and gestured toward the door.

Together, they stepped out to face the evening.

They emerged onto the balcony overlooking the estate’s grand courtyard, and the full scale of the evening revealed itself.

Lantern light spilled across the marble room, gilded with silk banners and towering floral arrangements chosen to impress. Music drifted up from the orchestra below, a soft undercurrent to the hum of conversation.

The grounds were already crowded - too crowded - with the wealth of high society gathered shoulder to shoulder. Alphas of distinguished houses stood flanked by their impeccably dressed sons and daughters, all carefully angled towards opportunity.

Everyone had come to be seen. Not all of them came with something to offer.

Damen recognised more than a few familiar faces from the balcony. Lords whose fortunes eclipsed entire provinces, name alone enough to secure an invitation.

Among them stood Lord DeVere, resplendent in velvet and jewels, his sleek silver cane tucked at his side. He was here purely by virtue of station - no heirs to barter, no bride to present - yet just prestigious enough to warrant an invitation.

Theomedes stepped forward, placing a steadying hand at Damen’s back.

As his father began the formal introduction, Damen drew himself upright, posture flawless, expression schooled into composure. He stood every inch the heir society expected: tall, poised, an alpha born to command attention. Lantern light caught in his hair as his name carried over the assembled crowd.

“My son, Lord Damianos.”

The reaction was instantaneous - a ripple of excitement, then a swell of applause rising to meet them.

Together, father and son descended the balcony steps under the echoing ovation, slipping into the glittering sea of expectation waiting below.

Damen moved forward as the crowd instinctively parted for him.

He acknowledged the bows and curtsies with measured nods, offering brief smiles - polite, distant, effortlessly assured. This was his domain. The opulent ballroom, the glittering assembly of society’s elite, the eager evaluations being made from every direction - all of it bent around him. He stood at the center of the room because he belonged there. Not from arrogance, but certainty; the quiet authority of someone who had never doubted his place.

Faces passed in quick recognition - the sons and daughters of houses he knew by reputation if not by name - but there was only one person he sought.

Erasmus.

Damen found him standing near the edge of the dance floor, hands clasped nervously before his jeweled waistcoat. The omega looked sweeter than ever - soft curls perfectly arranged, cheeks faintly flushed beneath tasteful cosmetics.

For just a moment, memories of their short-lived affair surfaced - quiet afternoons on sunlit terraces that deepened into something more. Lingering glances became stolen kisses, shared laughter turned to whispered endearments, and eventually they found comfort in each other’s arms during the fragile weeks after Damen’s engagement had ended.

It had ended gently. When Erasmus confessed his love - not for Damen, but for Kallias, the childhood friend who had always held his heart - Damen had stepped back without resentment or pride bruised. What remained between them had become something warm and enduring: trust, fondness, friendship.

Damen crossed to him without hesitation.

He took Erasmus’s hand, lifting it with easy grace and pressing a courtly kiss to the lace-gloved knuckles. “May I have this dance?”

Erasmus blushed vivid pink, eyes widening before softening into a shy smile. He nodded.

Damen drew him into his arms just as the orchestra swelled, the movement instinctive and practiced. Around them, society watched with intent curiosity - but for the moment, Damen focused only on guiding his friend into the rhythm of the music, steady and sure as everything else he claimed as his own.

They moved together effortlessly as the music swelled, gliding across the polished floor. Around them, the other guests paired off, the room settling into the rhythm of the evening now that the main guest had chosen a partner. Damen had chosen Erasmus deliberately - not to flirt, not to pretend, but to anchor himself, to step into the dance without fear or obligation.

Erasmus met his gaze with a soft, knowing smile. He understood perfectly that Damen would never claim him for marriage. With that reassurance, they moved slowly, each step measured, each turn quiet, intimate.

“How is Kallias?” Damen whispered, just close enough that only Erasmus could hear.

The omega’s cheeks deepened in colour, though the warmth of his blush was tinged with sadness.

“He does not know my feelings… and he will not.” He exhaled a small, weary sigh. “Father thinks Lord Torveld wishes to marry me. He brought me here tonight to see if I might catch your attention again. He was furious when your visits stopped. He said if you do not choose to court me tonight, I will become Torveld’s wife.”

Damen’s eyes swept over Erasmus’s delicate features - the soft arch of his brow, the trembling curve of his lips - and he saw the quiet torment etched across his face. There was nothing he could do to untangle the web of obligations and unspoken love, but he could offer a shard of comfort.

“Torveld is a good man,” he murmured, voice low and steady.

Erasmus tilted his head, shy smile flickering through the sadness. “If he’s half as good as you, Damianos, I will be okay.”

Damen’s chest tightened, and he pressed a little closer, guiding the omega through the rhythm of the waltz. No words could mend Erasmus’s heart, but for now, in the sanctuary of the dance, they could share a fleeting, perfect understanding.

The music drew to a close, and Damen felt the weight of every gaze in the room settle on him. The question on every lip was unspoken but obvious: who would he choose next?

He leaned down, pressing a gentle kiss to Erasmus’s cheek. Faint whispers rippled through the assembled crowd, but Damen ignored them entirely, focused solely on the omega in his arms. Holding Erasmus’s hand, he guided him back toward his father, whose broad smile reflected pride and approval.

Damen’s chest tightened with a silent hope - he prayed that when no courting gift came for Erasmus tonight, the omega would not be treated with cruelty or derision.

Standing beside Erasmus’s father, Damen’s eyes met Lord Torveld’s. He offered a firm handshake, the gesture courteous but commanding. Pleasantries were exchanged, words polite and measured, yet Damen’s attention lingered on Erasmus, ever mindful.

As the conversation concluded, Damen leaned closer, his voice a low, firm whisper meant for Torveld alone.

“Please… take good care of Erasmus.”

Torveld’s eyes met his, calm and steady, and a faint, respectful smile curved his lips.

“I will,” he promised.

Damen released his hand, but the weight of that promise lingered in the space between them.

Damen moved through the dance floor with the ease of someone born to command attention. He danced with several omegas - male and female alike - each impeccably dressed, their jewels glittering in the candlelight, necks tightly laced, all presenting themselves in the way society demanded, waiting for the mark of a mate. None stirred anything in him, though; none captured the spark that mattered.

After an hour of polite, practiced dancing, Damen stepped away from the center of the room, seeking a brief reprieve. He poured himself a drink and scanned the crowd, then made his way toward his father.

Theomedes was deep in conversation with his business partner, Lord DeVere, and another man. Beside him stood an omega, deliberately positioned so that his alpha shielded him from view. Damen’s eyes narrowed slightly - though the young man’s face was hidden, there was a taut, controlled pride in his posture, a faint, defiant tilt of the chin. Every movement suggested a mind sharper than his station might admit, a confidence that refused to be cowed even by his alpha’s proximity.

Damen remained the composed, polite alpha his father had raised him to be. He extended his hand to Lord DeVere and the mystery alpha, firm and courteous.

“Ah, Damen,” his father welcomed him into the small circle. “Dance with anyone who caught your fancy? I thought Erasmus might be a contender - but apparently not?”

Damen shook his head smoothly. “I think Torveld has beaten me to Erasmus,” he lied, his tone casual. “How are you, DeVere? I hope you’re not bored this evening.”

Lord DeVere regarded him with that same calculating smile Damen had never fully trusted. Rumors of the alpha’s tastes and indiscretions had circulated more than once, yet DeVere had always maintained impeccable politeness in Damen’s presence.

“Of course not, young Damianos,” DeVere replied smoothly. “I couldn’t miss your big night.”

DeVere then turned to the alpha standing beside him. “Here, allow me to introduce you to my good friend, Lord Govart, and his wife - my nephew.”

Damen turned his attention to Govart and his wife, and at last, the omega previously hidden behind his alpha came into view. A shiver ran down Damen’s spine.

The age difference between the pair was immediately apparent. The alpha - Govart - was broad, imposing, and unmistakably older, perhaps near DeVere’s age. His features were harsh, almost coarse, and no amount of tailoring could make the ill-fitting suit suit him.

But the omega…

The omega stole Damen’s breath entirely. Younger than Damen, perhaps even closer to Erasmus’s age, he was exquisite. Golden hair fell in soft waves, tied half up with a delicate blue bow that matched the gown flowing to his feet. Every detail - from the gentle curve of his shoulders to the way he held himself with a quiet, dignified poise - spoke to Damen’s tastes, to the exact type he had always found irresistible.

Damen’s pulse quickened. He had seen beauty before, but this… this demanded more than a polite glance. It demanded attention. He felt the unmistakable pull, the magnetic draw that made his eyes linger and his mind focus. This omega, hidden until now, had captured him utterly.

“We were just joking,” DeVere continued, a faintly amused glint in his eye. “Had I not handed off my nephew to Govart’s capable hands after his presentation, I’d likely be petitioning him to you tonight.”

Damen allowed himself a moment to imagine it - dancing with this omega, trying to coax past the careful wall the omega seemed to had built around himself. It was only a fantasy; this omega was already married, firmly out of reach.

“Would you like that, Laurent?” DeVere teased, his tone light. “I bet Damen could certainly have put you in your place. Laurent was quite the wild child, you see, Damianos - only someone like Govart could have tamed him.”

Laurent. So that was his name.

The omega turned smoothly, his lips curving into a small, mischievous smile. “Maybe Damianos can tame you, Uncle,” he shot back, blunt and audacious.

Damen laughed outright, the sound startlingly free and unrestrained amidst the carefully controlled atmosphere of the ballroom. Laurent’s sharpness, his refusal to be muted or demure, was a breath of fresh air.

Govart’s hand shot out, gripping Laurent’s wrist with firm authority, his voice low and scolding. DeVere and his father continued speaking, ignoring the couple, their voices polite but insistent, discussing politics and introductions. Damen nodded along, but his attention had already wandered. He could not tear his eyes from Govart and Laurent.

The omega’s fire was unmistakable - eyes blazing with defiance, posture rigid with stubborn pride. And then, with a single word, a threat from Govart, Laurent’s resistance melted. He went still, pliant, obedient in an instant. Damen’s chest tightened as he watched, the helpless compliance of someone so fierce pulling at something dark and possessive in him.

He wanted to steal him away.

Before he could stop himself, the words escaped: “Would Laurent care to dance?”

Govart’s gaze flicked toward him, amused, while Laurent’s sharp eyes narrowed suspiciously. Damen’s pulse quickened at the omega’s wary expression, the mix of pride and caution that made him irresistible.

The alpha grinned, a crude, knowing curl of his lips. “Sure. Take Laurie for a dance. Stretch his legs a bit. He gets bored at these things just standing around.”

Damen’s lips curved into a small, controlled smile as he extended his hand toward Laurent, whose blue eyes darted between him and Govart, hesitant, defiant, and utterly captivating.

Damen took Laurent’s hand and whisked him onto the dance floor. As they reached the center, he slid a hand to the omega’s waist, guiding him into a smooth, swaying rhythm.

“Okay?” he asked, his voice low, measured.

Laurent’s piercing blue eyes met his with suspicion, and Damen felt a thrill at the scowl aimed squarely at him.

“Did you think I needed saving or something?” Laurent’s voice was ice, sharp and deliberate.

Damen’s lips curved into a slow, indulgent smile. “No,” he said softly, letting his gaze linger. “But I’ve danced with so many beautiful omegas tonight… and none compare to you.”

Laurent’s scowl deepened, lips pressing into a tight line. “Unlucky you, then. I’m already married.”

Damen tilted his head, unbothered, his hand firm on Laurent’s back. “I know that. Doesn’t mean we can’t dance together.”

He caught a glimpse over Laurent’s shoulder - Govart and DeVere watching them, expressions carefully neutral, but alert. Damen raised an eyebrow, amused. “How old is that man, anyway?”

“Forty-something,” Laurent replied smoothly, eyes still on Damen. “Almost old enough for his cock to stop working.”

Damen blinked, caught off guard by the bluntness. So frank, so unguarded - so unlike any other omega in the room. He couldn’t help but feel a rush of admiration. Laurent was fire and ice, and Damen was entirely captivated.

“And how old are you?” Damen asked tentatively, his voice quieter now, almost reluctant.

“Twenty,” Laurent replied, and Damen took it in, really seeing him for the first time.

So young. His face still held a hint of baby fat, softening the sharpness of his features. Long lashes framed those piercing blue eyes, giving them a deceptively innocent cast. Two small moles dotted his skin - one near his temple, another just below his lip - and Damen traced them carefully with his gaze, memorising each detail.

“Have you been married for long?” The words slipped out before he could stop himself, and even as he asked, he realised he didn’t want the answer. Perhaps it was the jealousy coiling inside him, that that ugly alpha had claimed Laurent as his own.

Laurent tsked, a faint, disbelieving smile tugging at his lips. “So many questions. Shouldn’t you be dancing with your prospects? We wouldn’t want them thinking Lord Damianos has eyes for a married omega.”

Damen’s lips curved into a half-smile, captivated by the omega’s audacity. Every word, every glance, drew him deeper into this impossible fascination.

“You’re right,” Damen said, his voice low, measured. “I should be. But I’m dancing with you. I’ve waltzed with so many potential brides tonight… just let me have this one reprieve a little longer.”

For the first time, something seemed to shift in Laurent. A flicker crossed his face, subtle but unmistakable, and Damen felt it, too - an acknowledgment, a recognition. Their movements began to fall into perfect alignment, the sway of their bodies syncing as if they had always belonged together on the floor.

“Govart doesn’t like to share,” Laurent murmured, his voice a soft blend of defiance and amusement. “He thinks I don’t like to dance… he’s doing this to punish me. So… let’s dance.”

And so they did. Step by step, turn by turn, they moved together, each motion fluid, each glance charged with something unspoken. The world around them - the polite conversation, the curious eyes, the glittering masks of high society - fell away, leaving only the rhythm of the music and the quiet fire between them.

Eventually, the song drew to its end. Damen’s hand lingered for a heartbeat longer before he reluctantly guided Laurent back toward his alpha, the weight of possession pressing around the omega even as Damen’s own pulse refused to settle.

Damen’s lips lingered on Laurent’s hand when he pressed a courteous kiss, savouring the warmth, the fleeting softness. But the moment was fleeting. He saw the wall snap back into place - Laurent’s defenses rising again, solid and unyielding. He belonged to his alpha once more.

Govart claimed him with a possessive ease, hand sliding around Laurent’s waist as if marking territory, and Damen felt the sharp pull of his own alpha instincts. He repressed it, forcing himself to step back, to maintain the calm, controlled composure expected of him.

Soon after, DeVere, Govart, and Laurent left together, their departure tidy and deliberate. Damen’s eyes followed them, noting the tension with which the omega moved at his alpha’s side, the way Laurent’s fire was subdued yet present, even now.

“That Govart is new money,” Theomedes said, drawing Damen’s attention back to the ongoing party. “I’d like you to befriend him. Invite him on hunts, get to know him. It might be useful to have him on our side.”

Damen nodded, outwardly polite, inwardly calculating. Where Govart went, Laurent would follow. And Damen intended to see that omega again.

-

The carriage curtains had barely been drawn when Govart’s patience finally snapped.

The jostle of the wheels had no chance to settle before his hand caught Laurent, yanking him down against the cushioned seat. The confined space amplified everything - the alpha’s breath hot with fury, the oppressive weight of his presence closing in.

“You liked dancing with Damianos,” Govart sneered. “Didn’t you?”

Laurent stared past him, jaw clenched. He said nothing.

Govart’s grip tightened, fingers biting into his arm as he leaned closer, voice lowering into something cruel. “You’d let him fuck you, wouldn’t you you slut? You always do enjoy the attention.” His hand slid up Laurent’s cheek, a mockery of tenderness that made Laurent’s stomach twist.

Every instinct screamed to bite back, to fight - but he didn’t. He couldn’t. He knew this pattern too well. Four years of marriage had taught him that resistance only made things worse.

Govart laughed softly at his silence. “Doesn’t matter what you want,” he said. “He can’t touch you.” He pressed close enough to make the words a threat. “You’re mine.”

Laurent forced himself still as the carriage rolled on, heart hammering beneath his ribs, eyes fixed on the dark pane of the window - anywhere but at the man above him.

DeVere tsked from his seat, rolling his eyes. Govart snapped his head toward him, irritation flickering across his features “What?”

“You couldn’t wait until you got home?” DeVere waved a hand toward the married couple, voice dry, amused.

Govart laughed, low and sharp, and turned Laurent’s face toward his uncle, fingers gripping the omega’s jaw with possessive force. “I know he’s too old for you now, DeVere,” he said, voice dripping mockery, “but come on - he has such a pretty face. Are you sure you wouldn’t like to watch?”

Laurent’s jaw stiffened under Govart’s hand, eyes flicking away from both alphas. DeVere shook his head, amused, but made no move to intervene. Govart’s pride in his possession was evident, and even under the unrelenting control, Laurent remained impossibly composed - his beauty and wit intact, despite the alpha’s crude display.

Laurent felt the hem of his skirt lift as Govart’s hand slid slowly up his thigh. “Anyway,” Govart drawled, “I’ve been trying to put another baby in him for a while now, but it just doesn’t seem to take. Isn’t that right, Laurie?”

DeVere leaned forward, fixing Laurent with a cool, cutting stare. “He’s never really been much of an omega.”

Govart chuckled, fingers tightening possessively. “So I need to fuck him right now - and then I’ll fuck him again when we get home. Just enjoy the show, DeVere. I’m sure you miss how sweet he used to be for you. Now watch how sweet he is for me.”

Laurent didn’t break eye contact with his Uncle as Govart entered him. He didn’t cry out or gasp as he was rocked against the carriage wall; he endured, as he always had. Every muscle in his body was taut and controlled. But his mind… it slipped.

He found himself thinking of brown curls, of dimples that made his chest tighten in a way entirely unrelated to his husband. His heart hammered in his chest, quick and erratic, and the realisation sent a fresh surge of frustration through him.

He hated that this - this thought, this longing - had the power to unbalance him. And yet, try as he might, he could not stop it.

Chapter Text

It had been a week since the ball.

No courting gifts had been sent. No calls had been made to the homes of eager omegas awaiting the traditional announcement of favour. Damen had taken not a single step toward choosing a bride.

His father’s disappointment had been unmistakable - thinly veiled beneath patience and polite concern - but Damen simply couldn’t bring himself to move forward. Not when his thoughts had circled one impossible figure all week long.

A claimed omega.

Blue eyes sharp as ice. Golden hair bound by silk ribbon. A fleeting wit that had pierced through the polished monotony of the ballroom and lodged itself squarely in Damen’s mind.

He had rerun their dance a hundred times in quiet moments: the brief alignment of their steps, Laurent’s cool voice paired with sharp humour, the fire behind the composure that refused to be subdued.

It was absurd. Dangerous. And entirely consuming.

Damen had spent the week doing everything he could to learn more about Laurent. The results had been… underwhelming.

For someone so striking - and so carefully controlled - Laurent left remarkably little trace behind him. No society features, no whispering scandals, no invitations pinned with his name. He seemed to exist almost entirely in the shadows cast by other people’s reputations.

He sat with Nikandros in the gardens, cigarette smoke curling lazily through the cool afternoon air.

“The omega son of the DeVere family?” Nikandros mused, tapping ash from the end of his cigarette. “You don’t mean Auguste, do you? He was an alpha. Not an omega.”

“Was?” Damen echoed, head lifting.

Nikandros nodded. “Yeah. Died - what - six, seven years ago now? Something like that. I vaguely remember hearing he had a younger brother, but after DeVere inherited everything, no one ever mentioned the boy again.” He shrugged. “If he turned out to be an omega, though, that would explain it. Omegas don’t tend to be put forward like heirs.”

Damen’s fingers tightened around his own cigarette.

Hidden. Sheltered. Or… deliberately erased. The thought unsettled him more than he liked to admit.

Damen’s mind kept circling back to Laurent and Govart - the stark contrast between them impossible to ignore. The alpha had been so much older, so ill-suited to stand beside someone as luminous as Laurent. He was, without question, the most beautiful omega Damen had ever seen.

Had Laurent been presented to society as custom dictated - unclaimed and free - Damen was certain he would’ve had to fight tooth and nail against a dozen ambitious alphas for the bare chance to court him.

Instead, Laurent had arrived already owned.

DeVere’s words echoed in his mind: Had I not handed off my nephew to Govart’s capable hands after his presentation…

Handed off. The phrasing made something cold twist in Damen’s gut.

With everything he had learned - or rather, failed to learn - Damen realised the truth was likely ugly and simple. Laurent had never been afforded a choice. He hadn’t been a celebrated debut or valued prospect; he had been an asset, quietly traded away to secure alliances and financial advantage for his uncle.

A pawn. The thought made Damen’s jaw tighten.

“What’s got you so interested in the DeVeres all of a sudden?” Nikandros asked, eyes narrowing with curiosity.

Damen swallowed. Scandal would follow if anyone suspected the truth - that his thoughts had become thoroughly tangled around a married omega. “Father wants me to cultivate a connection with one of DeVere’s associates,” he said carefully. “A new-money alpha named Govart. DeVere’s nephew is married to him.”

Nikandros studied him for a beat, then shrugged. “Invite Govart tomorrow,” he suggested. “And this… Laurent.”

It was a good idea - too good. They were scheduled to attend the opera the following evening, a social outing already primed for exactly that sort of invitation.

Damen found himself picturing it without effort: Laurent in the soft glow of the theater, adorned for the night, lashes shadowing sharp blue eyes as the music swelled around them. He could almost see the omega leaning into the sound, appreciating the artistry with that bright, restless attention of his.

Govart, on the other hand, would no doubt endure the performance with thinly veiled boredom.

The contrast drew an unwanted, faint smile to Damen’s lips.

After Nikandros departed, Damen had the invitation sent immediately.

He couldn’t help the flutter of anticipation that followed - the faint, almost giddy feeling of knowing he might see Laurent again. It had been a long time since anyone had unsettled him this way. Not since Jokaste.

The thought of his former fiancée dimmed the brightness at once.

Betrayal still lingered there, a dull ache beneath the surface, reminding him how easily hope soured. It seemed to Damen that love - true love - was something he was perpetually fated to brush close to, never quite touch.

Unlucky in love, he thought with a quiet, rueful smile.

-

Govart arrived at the opera alone.

There was no slender omega at his side, no pale hand looped through his arm, no beautiful, stoic face scanning the crowd with cool blue eyes.

Damen felt the immediate, sharp drop of disappointment in his chest - but his expression remained impeccably neutral.

“Govart, it’s lovely to see you again,” he greeted, shaking the alpha’s hand. “This is my good friend, Nikandros.”

“Nik is just fine,” Nikandros said easily, returning the handshake. His gaze flicked toward Govart’s empty side. “I noticed you came alone. I was hoping to meet your wife - I’ve heard quite a bit about him.”

Govart’s eyes slid to Damen for a beat too long before he answered.

“Have you now?” he said, faint amusement curling his lips. “Unfortunately, I don’t bring Laurent out very often. That night at the ball was a rare indulgence for him. He’s been… fragile since his brother died. Too much excitement isn’t good for him.”

The words were mild, practiced - but something about the way Govart spoke them set unease curling through Damen’s chest.

They took their seats as the house lights dimmed and the orchestra swelled to life, but Damen couldn’t bring himself to focus on the performance. The dancers moved across the stage, the music soared, yet his attention lingered stubbornly elsewhere.

Fragile.

Govart’s word echoed in his mind - and Damen rejected it instinctively. Fragile was the last word he would ever use to describe Laurent. Fire lived in that omega’s eyes, sharp wit on his tongue, defiance in the way he carried himself - even when he was made to submit. There was nothing delicate about him at all.

If Nikandros was right, Laurent would have been only thirteen when his brother died. Thirteen, and suddenly without the shield of an older sibling. There had been no mention of parents, either - and Damen already knew that DeVere had inherited everything.

Which meant Laurent hadn’t merely lost a brother.

He had likely lost everything.

The realisation settled heavy in Damen’s chest as the applause swelled - art and tragedy unfolding before him while another, quieter tragedy weighed on his thoughts.

By the time the opera ended - Govart having slept soundly through the entirety of the second act - Damen’s resolve had crystallised.

He would see Laurent again.

And if that meant enduring Govart’s company, then so be it. The alpha would have to be indulged - flattered, entertained, kept close enough that Damen could maintain access to the one thing that truly mattered.

“Shall we head back to mine?” Damen suggested smoothly as they rose from their seats. “Father recently acquired a rather impressive scotch. I find the best way to test new spirits is with good company.”

Nikandros laughed and clapped him on the back. “Excellent idea! Govart?”

At the word scotch, the older alpha visibly brightened. Damen hid a grim sense of satisfaction.

“Lead the way, Damianos,” Govart said readily.

Damen signaled for his carriage, and the three alphas settled inside for the ride back to the estate. Conversation flowed easily - mostly Nikandros and Damen steering Govart into talking about himself. It didn’t take long to peel back the story.

Govart had worked in DeVere’s factories for years, a loyal and ambitious foreman. Five years ago, he’d been promoted to assistant head - and with that promotion, had begun accruing his fortune.

And four years ago, he had been given Laurent.

“DeVere is very protective of his nephew,” Govart said with a grin, glancing toward Damen as he spoke of Laurent. “I think he was just relieved to find someone responsible enough to take the boy off his hands. He wanted Laurent settled - secure.”

Govart’s smile widened. “And I received quite a generous sum for accepting the responsibility. A win-win, really - for everyone.”

Damen’s jaw tightened at the phrasing.

That meant Laurent had been sixteen when Govart married him - likely shipped off the moment he presented. Young brides weren’t unheard of, but eighteen was the customary age. Sixteen was still… a child.

Damen studied Govart as the alpha continued boasting about his fortune and rising position, quietly mapping the deepened lines of age across his face, the scars that spoke of years beyond Laurent’s lifetime. Govart was old enough to be Laurent’s father.

And Laurent still looked heartbreakingly young.

He was pulled from his silent spiraling when Govart finally turned the conversation on him.

“So,” Govart said, leaning back against the carriage seat, lips curling into something amused. “How was your big night?”

Damen forced his shoulders to relax and released a measured sigh. “A failure - according to my father.”

“Oh?” Govart leaned forward, eyes bright with curiosity edged with provocation. “No one catch your eye?”

Damen recognised the bait immediately - but he didn’t take it. He needed Govart comfortable, friendly, unsuspecting.

“There were many beautiful omegas,” Damen answered evenly. “But I’ve been engaged once already. I don’t want to choose simply for beauty this time. I want something real.”

Govart barked out a laugh. “Don’t be so naive, Damianos. You really think most people marry for love?” He shook his head. “Money is what you want. Find the richest man in the room and marry his prettiest child - that’s how you secure your future.”

His grin widened with self-satisfaction. “Worked out perfectly for me.” He winked.

Damen said nothing.

-

Damen continued to cultivate Govart’s company in the weeks that followed.

He invited the alpha to the country club, arranged horseback outings along the estate’s private trails, and hosted leisurely afternoons of cards and gambling. Step by careful step, he integrated Govart into the inner circle of high society, offering him entry into rooms he’d never quite belonged in before.

Govart devoured the attention.

There was nothing humble about the man - he basked in status, in praise, in every echoed affirmation that he was someone worth noticing. Damen gave him all of it. He played the part of the younger, deferential alpha with practiced ease - admiring where needed, flattering often. He let Govart win games Damen clearly excelled at, refilled his glass with the finest liquor, and laughed readily at his bluster.

As time went on, both Damen and Nikandros grew to loathe him more with each encounter.

Govart was crude, obscene, and vulgar; Damen worried for his own reputation merely by association.

The alpha’s temper was explosive when drunk - Damen had more than once been forced to intervene, pulling him away from fights that could have ended in serious injury, or worse, scandal. After the second incident at the country club, the drinking was confined strictly to Damen’s house, where it could be monitored and contained.

More than that, Damen feared for Laurent. Govart often went home drunker than a sailor, and the reality of violence in relationships in their society was an unspoken but universally known truth. No one intervened but everyone knew it was happening.

Damen remembered the night of the party - how Govart had grabbed Laurent, claiming him like a prized object. How he seemed to view him as nothing more than a beautiful possession.

Govart was a violent drunk, and Damen wished he could keep him at his own house until he sobered. Especially when Govart’s foul mouth ran wild, boasting outright about getting home so his wife could “warm him up,” dripping every word with the kind of smug, filthy detail nobody asked for.

It made Damen sick, a hot twist of nausea punching up his throat every time Govart spewed his filth.

Still, none of it broke Damen’s resolve. There was a goal in all of this, a single, precise purpose driving every smile, every indulgence, every flattering word he offered Govart. Damen was determined - and he would not allow disgust or discomfort to get in the way of what he wanted.

A month slipped by like this.

By then, Damen was certain the lingering animosity had dissolved. Govart no longer carried suspicion in his gaze; instead, he sought Damen out eagerly, appearing on the estate doorsteps with bottles already in hand. He drank with Damen and Nikandros late into the night and even brought DeVere along once, the evening turning into a sprawling affair that drew Theomedes in for a round of poker.

To the outside world, they appeared inseparable - the picture of effortless friendship among powerful alphas.

But Damen had always known it was careful theatre, staged for a single purpose.

And then the invitation arrived: a formal summons to Govart’s townhouse.

This was what he had been waiting for.

-

The address on the invitation was familiar.

It lay in the same district of the capital where DeVere resided, a neighbourhood favoured by newly enriched industrial lords and ambitious businessmen - grand townhouses stacked shoulder to shoulder like monuments to excess. It was nothing like Damen’s own home, with its rolling fields and open skies near the sea. This quarter of the city felt dense, closed-in, heavy with commerce and secrets kept behind stone walls.

By the time Damen arrived, he had already steeled his nerves.

Govart’s house rose two stories tall, its brick facade dark and unwelcoming. There were remarkably few windows, and those that existed were narrow and set high, offering no glimpse of what lay within. The structure felt less like a home and more like a sealed box - something designed to keep the outside world out while trapping everything else inside.

He didn’t like it.

Nikandros had not been invited - only him. The omission unsettled Damen far more than he wanted to admit.

He rang the bell and waited, the stillness humming in his ears.

After a few moments, the door creaked open.

A young omega stood there, auburn curls tumbling down his shoulders in loose disarray. He looked short of breath, chest rising too quickly beneath rumpled clothes, as though he had been abruptly interrupted. His wide eyes flicked over Damen, then widened further at the sight of a well-dressed lord standing on the doorstep.

“And you are?” the omega asked, cocking one brow with uncertain defiance.

Before Damen could answer, a familiar voice bellowed from deeper within the house, “Let him in, Aimeric.”

Aimeric turned without another word and walked back into the house. Damen followed.

The door shut behind them with a dull, final thud.

Inside, the townhouse felt hollow - less a home and more a den carved from dark stone. The corridor swallowed the light that slipped in from the street, leaving everything dim and echoing.

There were fine furnishings - polished tables, heavy rugs, gilt-framed paintings - but no warmth in them, no signs of real living. No flowers. No scattered books or discarded gloves. Nothing personal at all. It had the curated emptiness of a place meant to impress, not to comfort - a showroom for power rather than a shared domestic space for a married couple.

The air was thick. The sharp, heady scent of alpha arousal clung to the walls, stale and cloying enough that Damen’s jaw tightened instinctively. Understanding struck the moment they reached the sitting room.

Govart lounged in a chair near the fire, one boot propped against the hearth. His shirt hung open, exposing the broad sprawl of his chest, and a cigarette smoldered between two thick fingers. He looked flushed and heavy-lidded, already well past sobriety.

“Aimeric was just leaving,” Govart drawled.

He gestured for Damen to sit in the chair opposite and reached lazily for a decanter, pouring out a glass before sliding it across the table.

Damen took the seat, noting how Govart’s words already slurred at the edges. Whatever this evening might bring, it was likely going to be easier than Damen had anticipated.

Aimeric remained standing near the wall, as if uncertain what to do with himself - or as if waiting to be told. Damen studied him more carefully now.

The omega was undeniably beautiful, dressed in a lavish deep-green shirt beneath a fitted waistcoat, perfectly tailored to highlight his slim build. The fabric caught the firelight softly, expensive and immaculate.

But his eyes were empty. Not vacant in the dull sense of stupidity, but emptied out, as though something vibrant had once lived behind them and been carefully stripped away.

All elegance, all ornament.

“Aimeric. Leave.” Govart ordered, not even glancing in the omega’s direction.

Damen watched as Aimeric’s mouth tightened - just for a breath, a flash of something like resentment or humiliation - and then he turned on his heel and disappeared down the corridor without a word.

Damen had already pieced together what the scene likely meant, but he let his expression settle into easy curiosity instead. The look of a friend indulging in gossip.

Govart caught it and barked a laugh.

“He’s a feisty one, that Aimeric,” he said. “But get him in bed and he’s all submission. Knows exactly how to behave.”

The words scraped. Damen swallowed down his reaction and kept his tone neutral. “In bed? What about Laurent? You’re married, Govart.”

That only made the older alpha laugh harder.

“Ah yes - Laurent. My wife. My dear, devoted wife.” Govart shook his head, amusement curling cruelly at the corners of his mouth as he pressed the liquor glass toward Damen. “Useless, really. Does his duty, of course, but he just lies there. Doesn’t move. Doesn’t say anything. No fire in him at all.”

Damen’s fingers tightened around the glass.

“I’m an alpha, Damianos,” Govart went on, voice thick with drink and entitlement. “I have needs. You understand. Aimeric’s just here to take care of them. Nothing more.”

The fire snapped in the hearth, loud in the brief silence that followed.

Damen lifted the drink to his lips to hide the sudden tension in his jaw, schooling his expression into something pleasant and unreadable.

“DeVere actually introduced us,” Govart continued, lowering his voice as if sharing some delicious secret. “After I told him how dull Laurent was. Said he knew of a distraction.”

Damen said nothing, only inclined his head.

Govart lifted his glass, gesturing with it as he spoke, liquor sloshing dangerously close to the rim. “You know the rumours about DeVere, don’t you? Turns out they’re not all smoke. He told me he’d had Aimeric himself - years ago now. When he hadn’t even had his first heat, at least.”

The words sat oily in the air.

“If anyone’s reputation would be ruined by this, it wouldn’t be mine,” Govart added with a shrug. “That boy’s been ‘ruined’ for ages. Fourth son of one of DeVere’s friends - no prospects, no value. No one cares what he does or who he does it with.”

He laughed again, a coarse sound that scraped raw against the back of Damen’s teeth.

“Sometimes I almost feel bad for the poor thing,” Govart went on indulgently. “If he weren’t so damn needy.”

Damen steered the conversation away from Aimeric with practiced ease. He wanted only to endure the evening, to play the part he had carefully built for himself and do what he came to do.

They kept drinking. And smoking.

Mostly, Damen listened while Govart talked - to himself more than to anyone else. The older alpha grew louder with each glass, his stories slurring into rants about business rivals and imagined slights, his laughter sharpening into something edged and volatile. The more intoxicated he became, the more aggression seeped into every word, every careless movement of his hands.

Damen stayed attentive, nodding where expected, offering the occasional noncommittal hum.

But his eyes kept straying to the room around them.

There were no servants anywhere - no discreet shadows lingering near doorways, no soft tread of feet passing in halls. No clink of glassware in distant kitchens or murmured exchanges behind closed doors. Just the two of them, the crackle of the fire, and Govart’s increasingly crude voice echoing too loudly against bare walls.

The house was oppressively still. The absence gnawed at Damen.

His father’s estate was never quiet - not truly. There were always sounds drifting through its wide halls: servants bustling about their duties, stable hands shouting from the yards, birds calling from the terraces, wind rushing off the sea. Even in the dead of night the place breathed with life.

Here, the silence felt deliberate.

As though Govart lived not in a home at all, but in a cave carved solely for himself - everything else scraped away until only hollow space remained.

At some point, when the silence between Govart’s rambling became unbearable, Damen asked, “Where are your staff?”

Govart squinted at him as if needing a moment to translate the words through alcohol. When he finally answered, it came out thick and slurred.

“I don’t keep them. Don’t like them hovering about. Dull Laurent handles the house well enough.”

Damen nodded as though that were perfectly ordinary.

But it wasn’t.

Wives oversaw households - they gave orders, directed servants, managed estates. They did not scrub floors or cook meals themselves. Certainly not omegas born to old, wealthy families. Laurent was DeVere’s nephew, bred into privilege. If his family had still been alive to see how he lived now, they would have been outraged.

But they were gone. And as the cold truth settled, Damen realised with a hollow ache that no one cared what happened to Laurent.

No one - except him.

“And will Laurent be joining us?” Damen asked lightly, as though merely making courteous conversation. “I wouldn’t want him to feel lonely.”

Govart’s body slumped deeper into the chair. He waved a dismissive hand, nearly sloshing his drink.

“Ah, no. He’ll be busy. Quiet as a mouse when he chooses to be.” His mouth twitched with ill humor. “Probably upstairs.”

The sun had long since set by the time Govart finally lost what little coherence he had left.

His words dissolved into half-formed mutters, then into nothing at all. A heavy slump overtook him, his chin dipping to his chest before a deep, rasping snore tore free.

Damen did not move at once. He waited. Listened.

Counted the breaths until he was certain the great alpha was fully submerged in sleep, unreachable through drink and exhaustion alike.

Only then did he set his untouched glass on the side table and rise to his feet.

The house lay dim around him - lamplight reduced to weak pools of yellow that barely reached the edges of each room. Darkness filled the spaces between, thick and swallowing. At his father’s estate, by this hour, servants would have made the rounds, lighting every sconce until the halls glowed warm and welcoming, chased away the shadows before they could gather teeth.

Here, the dark remained unchecked.

Damen stepped into the hallway, his movements measured and soundless, ears straining for any hint of life beyond Govart’s thunderous breathing.

He searched methodically.

The kitchen - cold and unused.

The dining room - its long table untouched, chairs empty and perfectly aligned.

Even the small garden beyond the back door, moonlit and silent.

No Laurent. A steady tension began to coil tighter around Damen’s ribs.

The stairs creaked beneath Damen’s careful steps as he ascended, each dull groan of old wood sounding far too loud in the hush of the house.

With every step, doubt crept in.

Was this madness? Was seeking Laurent out like this a mistake? Govart lay only a floor below, alcohol-slain but still dangerous should he wake. And Laurent - Laurent might not even wish to see him. The omega might barely remember their single dance, a fleeting interruption in a life already overtaken by silence and survival.

But Laurent had lived in Damen’s mind for a month.

A living, breathing presence behind closed eyes - piercing blue gaze, sharp tongue, defiant spark flickering against the weight of ownership. Damen could not leave without knowing the truth. Without proving to himself that Laurent was real - that the moment they shared had been more than fancy stitched from longing.

He reached the landing and crossed it softly.

One door stood open. The master bedchamber. Damen paused at the threshold.

The room looked untouched: the wide bed neatly made, heavy curtains drawn back just enough to admit thin slashes of moonlight. No body disturbed the covers. No sign of recent rest.

No Laurent. His pulse ticked higher.

Moving on, he followed the corridor deeper into the upper floor until he noticed a thin blade of light slicing beneath a closed door at the far end of the hall.

Damen stopped. Damen pressed his ear to the door. Nothing.

Not a breath, not the rustle of movement - just the suffocating quiet that had permeated the entire house.

He lifted his hand and let his fingers rest lightly against the wood. And then - certainty struck.

It wasn’t logic. It wasn’t scent or sound. It was instinct. A deep, undeniable knowledge settling in his bones.

Laurent was on the other side of that door. Damen’s pulse leapt into his throat.

Slowly, carefully, he eased the door open, ensuring not a single hinge betrayed him, and slipped inside the room.

On a narrow canopy bed lay Laurent, asleep.

He was not tucked beneath the covers but draped atop them, dressed in a long ivory nightgown that skimmed his frame. Gold hair spilled loosely across the pillow, lashes dark against pale cheeks, mouth parted in soft, exhausted rest.

For one aching heartbeat, Damen simply stared.

Then he saw the bruises.

Dark splotches marred Laurent’s beautiful skin - finger-shaped marks blooming along his jaw, his throat, his cheekbones. The unmistakable evidence of fists and restraint stood out stark against his fragile-looking softness.

Rage detonated in Damen’s chest.

For a moment, he wanted nothing more than to bolt back downstairs and tear the sleeping alpha apart with his bare hands.

But his gaze snagged on something else. Around Laurent’s throat, nestled amid the bruise-darkened skin, lay a slender collar of pale lace, secured at the back with a neat black bow.

A mate-collar. The kind worn only until a bite replaced it.

Its presence meant what his senses were already screaming: Govart had never bitten Laurent.

The world tilted, then cracked wide open.

Laurent was married in name alone - claimed legally, kept physically, bruised and bound - but not marked. Not bonded. Not taken as a mate.

Hope surged, sharp and breath-stealing, cutting through Damen’s fury like a blade of light. For the first time since entering this house, something brighter than dread took hold of him.

Damen took a step closer. Then another.

Every instinct urged him forward - to wake Laurent, to whisper that he was not alone anymore, that someone had seen him and would not look away. Damen’s chest ached with the need to offer comfort, to become something solid in this silent room of pain.

But he stopped short. Because Laurent was not alone in the bed.

At first, the shape beneath the blankets looked like nothing more than tangled bedding. Then Damen’s eyes adjusted.

Laurent’s arms were wrapped tightly around a smaller figure, his body curved protectively around it. The bundle was half-hidden beneath the covers, a mess of blonde hair visible where a small head was pressed against Laurent’s chest.

Damen let his gaze drift around the room, taking in the details he had missed in the dim light. Tiny shoes lay neatly by the side of the bed. A wooden rocking horse, chipped and scuffed from love and use, stood in one corner. Soft, worn toys - a doll with a crooked smile, a stuffed rabbit missing an ear - were scattered near the foot of the bed, as though someone had been playing and simply fallen asleep mid-game.

Against the far wall, a row of miniature clothes hung from a low rail: small shirts, trousers, and tiny jackets, carefully folded or draped over hangers. Each piece spoke of routine and care, of a life maintained under impossible circumstances.

Damen’s breath caught. For a long moment, Damen simply watched, rooted to the spot, unable to move, unable to speak.

Wrapped securely in Laurent’s arms, was a child.

Chapter Text

The child was no older than three or four by the looks of him - small and unmistakably young - sleeping with the total abandon of exhaustion. One tiny hand had fisted in Laurent’s nightgown. The other rested over his own chest.

Laurent held the child as if he were the only shield between innocence and the cruelty of the world. The sight hollowed something deep inside Damen.

Understanding struck in layers: Laurent wasn’t simply enduring. He was protecting someone else, too.

As if sensing the presence of something intruding upon that fragile bubble of safety, Laurent stirred.

His eyes opened and he immediately shifted, body tightening around the smaller shape in his arms, lifting his head protectively. The child woke with the movement too, pressing closer as a small whimper escaped into Laurent’s chest.

Laurent’s face hardened in an instant. Territorial.

Every line of him screamed warning as he drew the child nearer, one hand instinctively cupping the back of the small head while his eyes snapped toward the door.

Sharp. Defensive. Ready.

Then he saw who stood there. Blue eyes widened, fear flickering into shock. Recognition struck a heartbeat later.

And finally - confusion folded into practiced indifference. “You get bored of Govart or something?”

The words were flippant, edged with mockery, but Damen heard what hid beneath them: a shield raised automatically to avoid vulnerability.

The reality of the moment hit him all at once.

He was standing uninvited in Laurent’s son’s bedroom, looming over a terrified omega and his half-awake child. Whatever noble intentions had carried him upstairs evaporated beneath the weight of what he was actually doing - intruding. Frightening them. Becoming just another alpha in the dark. Damen’s chest hollowed with sudden shame.

“I-” he started, then stopped, swallowing hard. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly, stepping back a half pace. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

The child remained pressed against Laurent, small fingers clenched in the fabric of the nightgown. Laurent did not relax, not even slightly.

Instead, his mouth curved into something sharp.

“Oh, don’t apologise,” Laurent said lightly. “You alphas never mean to frighten anyone - you just do it anyway.”

Damen stiffened and Laurent’s eyes flicked pointedly to the doorway behind him.

“Though it’s rather bold of you,” Laurent went on, voice smooth as polished steel, “sneaking up on another alpha’s wife and his child. If Govart catches you, I’ll be obligated to let him do what ever he wants to you.”

The child whimpered softly; Laurent tightened his hold at once without breaking eye contact with Damen.

“Best not test how much he enjoys sharing,” Laurent added coolly. “I wouldn’t want you harmed on my account.”

The dismissal was elegant. Absolute. A blade wrapped in silk.

Damen saw it then - how deeply learned the tension was, how quick Laurent had become to shield and brace and bite back before the world could wound first.

And standing there, under that sharp stare and the dim halo of lamplight, Damen felt the full wrongness of what he’d done settle into his bones.

Before Laurent could say another word, Damen turned and fled.

The door closed softly behind him, the latch clicking far too loud in the quiet hall.

He staggered a step away and braced a hand against the wall, pressing his fingers to his temple as the weight of the moment crashed down on him. His pulse thundered in his ears. He felt sick - like he had crossed a line he could not uncross, stepping into the single place that had still been safe for them.

Yet he hadn’t gone far enough not to hear. From behind the closed door came soft sounds. A small, frightened whimper first - thin and reedy.

Then Laurent’s voice, lowered instantly into something tender, soothing. “Hush… it’s alright, sweetheart…”

Another tiny sound - a hiccupped breath, a restless shuffle against fabric.

“He’s gone now. It’s okay. That was scary, huh?”

Rustle of blankets. Soft kisses pressed to a child’s hair.

“But don’t worry… Mama doesn’t think you need to be scared of him,” Laurent continued gently. “He seems kind. I danced with him once, you know. He was very courteous to me.”

A faint, unformed noise from the child - confusion, fear lingering.

“…Though he has started spending a lot of time with your sire,” Laurent went on, voice drifting into quiet uncertainty, “so maybe it was all an act.”

Another muffled sound, Laurent murmuring something wordless in response.

“Mama just didn’t want him in here,” he said softly. “I thought it was your sire at the door, that’s all.”

The child whimpered again.

“Oh - baby,” Laurent whispered. “I’m sorry. Mama didn’t mean to scare you.”

Silence followed - save for slow breaths evening out under whispered reassurance, the gentle rhythm of a mother calming his child against his heartbeat.

Damen slid down the wall until he was crouched on the floor outside the door, throat tight and eyes burning.

He had terrified them.

Whatever he intended to do next, he knew one thing with sudden clarity: he had to be better than this. Far better.

It was sitting there in the dim corridor - hearing Laurent’s soft reassurances through the door, knowing there was a frightened child pressed to his chest - that Damen understood what he could no longer ignore: Laurent was fighting alone.

Yes, the omega was fierce, clever, sharp-tongued and unbowed in spirit, hiding his vulnerability behind blades of wit and pride. But no amount of strength could erase the bruises staining his skin. No cleverness could protect a small child from violence in the dark. And no sharp tongue could conjure the safety of allies where none existed.

There were no servants in the house. No friends. No visitors who lingered past dinner.

And there was his uncle who had sold him off like property and looked away afterward, content to profit and forget.

Laurent was invisible.

Unknown in polite society. Never presented. Never mentioned. No invitations bearing his name. No whispered praise of his beauty like the other omegas who were held up as prizes for worthy alphas. He might as well not exist at all.

Meanwhile, Govart’s name was beginning to circulate.

Older money tolerated him now. Younger alphas drank with him. His presence at clubs and hunts became expected. He was being folded neatly into society’s fabric, one handshake at a time.

No one suspected what he kept behind closed doors. No one knew he already had an heir at home.

Damen’s steps slowed as the truth settled. The child had never once been mentioned.

Not during weeks of gambling and drinking. Not during endless boasts about Govart’s wealth, his business, his rising influence. Never - not once - had he bragged that Laurent had given him a son.

And Damen knew Govart loved to boast.

Yet he had stayed silent on the one claim that should have mattered more than any other: lineage.

The boy was clearly a child of the house - blonde like Laurent, unmistakably male by scent. In their world, an alpha with a son always bragged. He would parade the knowledge of his heir at every table, secure in the legacy he’d produced.

Governments prized heirs. Society celebrated them. Alphas preened over them. But Govart had hidden his.

Why? The question lodged in Damen’s chest, heavy and burning.

Damen stopped at the foot of the stairs. In that moment, something inside him hardened into resolve. Laurent did not need rescuing from himself - he had strength in abundance.

What Laurent needed was rescue from isolation. From silence. From a world that had decided he was too inconvenient to notice.

And Damen, now burdened with knowledge no one else possessed, understood the truth as sharp as a blade: if he walked away now, Laurent would remain alone. And Damen would never be able to forgive himself. He would not leave him to fight this battle without an ally any longer.

With that decision burning steady in his chest, Damen turned and headed back downstairs.

His movements were calm now - measured. The chaos of his emotions had narrowed into something sharp and focused: a plan.

The living room still held to the same stale quiet. Govart remained slumped in his chair, head tipped back, mouth open as he snored beneath the low crackle of the fire.

Damen returned to the seat opposite him.

The untouched glass of brandy waited on the side table where he had left it. He picked it up and drained it in one long swallow, letting the harsh burn bite into his throat, ensuring the scent of alcohol would be undeniable.

Then he sank back into the chair.

He loosened his collar, tipped his head back as Govart’s was, and let his expression go slack. A slow breath in. A slow breath out. He stilled himself, adopting the careless stillness of drunken sleep.

All just another foolish alpha, collapsed by drink.

Waiting.

Because in the morning - when the house stirred from silent captivity - someone would have to come down.

There were no servants to lay a table. No aides to set a kettle boiling. There would be only Laurent.

Laurent would come quietly down the stairs, surely already weary, the child likely still tucked safely away upstairs while he prepared something for breakfast.

And Damen would be here.

Present when Laurent least expected him. Alert beneath the guise of sleep.

Ready to catch whatever look might pass across that sharp face when he realised Lord Damianos had not gone home.

Somehow - some way - Damen would make him understand.

Not with grand speeches or reckless promises. But with something steadier. Something real.

When Laurent came downstairs that morning, Damen intended to let him know the truth: he was no longer alone.

-

It took a while for Laurent to calm Hugo after the alpha had gone.

The little one didn’t understand what had happened - only that something had frightened Mama, that Laurent’s heart had thundered too fast when another presence filled the room, that familiar tension had soaked into the air.

Even though he was three years old, Hugo couldn’t put language to those feelings, only small unhappy sounds and trembling fingers fisted in Laurent’s nightgown told the story.

Laurent held him in his lap, rocking slowly and kissing the soft crown of Hugo’s head.

A gentle hand slipped through fine blonde curls, smoothing them soothe by soothe until the child’s shaking eased. Laurent kept humming under his breath - an old melody he didn’t quite remember learning, only that it had always worked.

Gradually, the tiny body relaxed against his chest. Hugo’s breathing slowed.

Sleep reclaimed him in careful stages: first the loosened fingers, then the steady rise and fall of his ribcage, and finally the heavy slide of true rest.

Laurent didn’t let go.

He stayed curled around Hugo, one protective arm still draped over his back while he listened for any sound from the corridor beyond the door. Even after he was sure the house had returned to its suffocating silence, Laurent couldn’t shake the aftershock of that brief intrusion.

Damen’s apology lingered with him longer than the fear had. It had been the first time an alpha had ever apologised to him.

Since Auguste’s death, no alpha had spoken to Laurent as if he were worth courtesy. Not Govart. Not his uncle. They treated him like something already spent.

But Damianos had looked at him with shame and had taken responsibility for the harm he’d caused.

The memory unsettled Laurent more than it comforted him.

Auguste’s face drifted into his thoughts: warm blue eyes, an easy confidence, the steady presence of an older brother who had once stood between Laurent and the world without hesitation.

Laurent wondered whether Damen might have known him. They were the same age bracket. The same circles. The kind of men whose lives would have crossed naturally if fate hadn’t intervened.

Would Auguste have approved of him?

Laurent could picture it too easily - his brother standing with a fond, appraising smile, measuring Damianos with that quiet but keen judgment.

He’s strong, Auguste might have said. Honest. He’d protect you.

Would Auguste have accepted him as a possible husband for Laurent?

The possibilities unspooled endlessly, imagined futures built on the simple facts of an unbroken world: Laurent presented properly. Laurent courted. Laurent choosing.

Laurent happy.

But Auguste was gone. And with him, every alternate path.

Reality remained.

Laurent lay here in the dimness of his son’s room, a bruised omega holding his sleeping child, bound to a husband who did not love him, did not cherish him, did not even acknowledge him beyond possession.

Govart’s wife. Govart’s breeding mare. A pretty thing kept for use and silence.

Nothing more.

Laurent closed his eyes tightly against the sting of the truth and drew Hugo closer to his chest, as if proximity alone could fill the hollow his brother’s absence had carved into his soul.

Dreaming was too dangerous. Because waking always meant remembering where he truly was.

Laurent pressed a soft kiss to Hugo’s hair and carefully slid out of the bed.

The child stirred but did not wake, breathing slow and even, still tucked safely into the warmth Laurent had built around him. With one last lingering touch to Hugo’s small hand, Laurent straightened and moved into the hallway.

The upper floor was silent.

The lamps burned low, leaving the corridor washed in dim amber shadows. His bare feet made no sound against the carpet as he paused, listening.

He wondered, briefly, if Aimeric was still here.

Earlier in the day, he had heard Govart’s moans echo through the walls - had heard the other omega too, breathless and bright with that practiced eagerness to please. But now there was nothing. No voices. No footsteps. The house had returned to its grave-like stillness.

Maybe Damianos fucked him too.

The thought took him by surprise.

Maybe he and Aimeric were together downstairs even now - the red-haired omega always so openly pliant, so quick to welcome attention. The image struck with a sharp, unexpected itch somewhere deep in Laurent’s chest.

Laurent crushed the feeling down ruthlessly.

What did it matter what Damianos did, or with whom? He didn’t belong to Laurent. No one did. Laurent didn't even have rights over his own son.

Reaching the top of the stairwell, Laurent paused, one hand resting against the banister. He strained his ears for any sound from below.

Nothing. Relief softened through him.

Govart would not come upstairs tonight. Whether passed out by drink or distracted elsewhere, it didn’t matter.

Laurent turned quietly back toward Hugo’s room. Tonight, at least, he could sleep beside his son without any more interruption.

Laurent slipped back into bed, this time drawing the covers up around them both.

He nestled close to Hugo, careful not to wake him, and brushed his knuckles softly over the small curve of his son’s cheek. The skin was warm. Real. Alive.

Laurent traced the gentle slope of his nose, the flutter of lashes resting on rounded cheeks, committing every detail to memory as if sheer devotion could preserve the moment forever.

He told himself he needed to memorise it - all of it - so that when sleep dragged him under, he might have something beautiful to cling to instead of the familiar cruelty of recollection.

If he held onto this - this quiet warmth, this fragile peace - maybe his dreams would finally soften.

Maybe they wouldn’t take him back to broken voices and clattering doors and fists he could never move fast enough to stop.

He shut his eyes and pulled Hugo closer, pressing a kiss to his hair, whispering a promise he had no guarantee he could keep. “I’ve got you.”

But night did what it always did.

No matter how carefully Laurent anchored himself to the present - no matter how fiercely he tried to think only of his son - sleep betrayed him.

And he dreamt what was real. Not peace. Not escape.

Reality - again and again, relentless as waking was.

Chapter Text

The dream comes the way it always does - already in motion.

Laurent is standing somewhere out of himself, watching the past unfold as if it belongs to someone else. He does not feel the rain. He only sees it, blurring the edges of memory like ink running down a page.

The boy in the center of it all is thirteen.

Small. Gaunt with grief. Dressed in black mourning garments that hang too loosely from narrow shoulders.

Auguste’s funeral stretches out beneath a grey, weeping sky. Umbrellas crowd the graveside like dark, folded wings. Mourners stand in solemn rows, murmuring into handkerchiefs, lowering their gazes as if looking too closely would somehow violate the dead.

Thirteen year old Laurent does not cry.

Not at the priest’s reading. Not when the casket is carried forward. Not through the empty condolences murmured by strangers who knew his brother’s title better than his heart.

He stands perfectly still, hands caught in the tight grip of his sleeves, mouth locked behind a thin line of obedience.

He does not cry until the ropes begin to descend.

Until the coffin is lowered into the waiting earth. Until the sound of wood scraping against stone reaches his ears and makes the reality of it crash through the careful numbness he has built.

And then the boy breaks.

The wail tears from him raw and unrestrained, ripped out from somewhere deeper than his chest. He stumbles forward, nearly falling into the open grave, sobbing Auguste’s name in a voice gone hoarse from shock.

"Auguste - Auguste, don’t go-"

Strong hands catch him before he can fall.

His uncle’s arms close around his shaking frame, pulling him back from the edge. His large palm strokes through his rain-plastered hair in slow, steady motions that should be comforting.

“Shhh,” his uncle murmurs against the crown of Laurent’s head. “I’ve got you now.”

The words sound kind. Safe. But twenty year old Laurent - watching from outside the memory - feels the lie within them.

And the rain keeps falling, washing the grave into mud as the thirteen year old boy clings to the only adult left in his world, unaware that the arms he trusts are leading him somewhere far more dangerous than abandonment ever could.

The dream shifts.

It never transitions gently. There is no fade, no warning - just sudden displacement, like the world snapping into a new, uglier shape.

The rain is gone. Now they are inside. In Uncle’s home.

The bedroom is too large, opulent to the point of sterility - polished floors, towering windows, velvet furniture placed more for display than use. Afternoon light spills in sharp lines across the walls.

Thirteen year old Laurent lies in the center of the bed.

And Uncle is with him, on top of him, gripping Laurent’s wrists. The boy smiles, laughing breathlessly, trying to keep up. But the laugh is thin. Forced.

The grip doesn’t ease. The movements escalate - too quick, too forceful, panic bleeds into the young boy’s expression.

From outside himself, Laurent watches. Helpless.

He tries to step forward - but dream logic will not allow it. He is bound to spectatorhood, trapped behind the glass wall of memory, unable to interfere.

What can he do? The past cannot be changed. So he watches.

Watches the boy’s eyes fill with tears. Watches the trembling begin.

“Uncle, please-” thirteen year old Laurent gasps, barely managing to keep his voice straight. “Not so hard. Please, just - be gentle.”

Uncle stills, just for a moment. Then he smiles. A smile full of practiced softness, the kind perfected to mask cruelty.

“My sweet pet,” his uncle says warmly, one heavy hand settling on Laurent’s wet face - not steadying him, not kind. “You know I wouldn’t hurt you.” He leans down, pressing a kiss to the boy’s temple. “I love you.”

And that is what breaks him.

The boy blinks at the words - at the familiar lie wrapped in tenderness - and his face folds into fragile hope.

A small, grateful smile spreads across thirteen year old Laurent’s mouth.

“I love you too,” the boy whispers.

Twenty year old Laurent watches it happen all over again.

Watches the trust. Watches the surrender. Watches the moment his younger self believes affection must feel like pain.

And there is nothing he can do to stop it.

The dream changes again.

Laurent finds himself in a narrow corridor, candlelight stretching into warped lines along the walls. The air is thick. Sickeningly sweet with the scent of heat.

It is so vivid he can almost smell himself - omega scent layered with sweat, desperation, the cloying sharpness of pheromones that had once made him feel like prey inside his own body. The echo of it wraps around him like fog, and his stomach twists.

A door stands directly ahead.

Closed.

Laurent does not need to open it. He already knows what has been happening behind it for the past few days. Knows the sounds that soaked through the walls. Knows the promises spoken and broken in the dark.

So strong is the memory that it stains the air.

He takes one step back just as the door opens. Fourteen year old Laurent slips out into the corridor.

His hair is longer now than in the last memory - fallen loose down to the middle of his back, tangled and damp with sweat. His face is pale, eyes glassy and unfocused. A thin nightgown clings to his body, hastily thrown on with shaking hands when he’d gathered enough awareness to realise he could not stay in his bed anymore.

The fabric is darkened where it sticks to his skin.

He looks wrecked. Small. Exposed.

Laurent watches as the boy stumbles forward, unsteady on his feet, one hand braced against the wall to keep from falling.

“Uncle?” the child calls, voice thin and cracking.

Laurent already knows the truth of what his younger self doesn’t yet.

He knows the boy is hurting - more than physically. He knows each step down the hall is fueled by the desperate hope that Uncle will make things right in the aftermath of that first heat.

That the alpha who said he loved him will keep at least that one promise. That he will bite Laurent and make him his.

But older Laurent also knows exactly what waits behind the next door.

Not comfort. Not tenderness.

He follows his younger self anyway, helpless to do anything but witness it all again.

Fourteen year old Laurent reaches the far door. He knocks once. Silence. He opens it.

Twenty year old Laurent does not have to step inside to know what the boy finds.

Inside the room, there is a boy sitting on Uncle’s bed.

He is small, swallowed by one of Uncle’s shirts, the fabric hanging from narrow shoulders and brushing thin thighs. The collar droops low against his collarbone, smelling of alpha - of sex and something sharp that makes Laurent’s chest tighten even in the dream.

Despite the tumble of auburn curls on the boy’s head, Laurent feels as if he is looking into a mirror.

He, too, had sat there once, wrapped in Uncle’s shirts after their “games,” the cloth warm and heavy with borrowed scent. He remembers the strange pride he’d felt then, wearing something that belonged to an alpha, that belonged to someone powerful. He remembers thinking it meant affection.

Now he knows better.

He already knows the boy’s name. Aimeric.

Just another child caught in the same quiet gravity. Just another thing Uncle had broken and discarded.

But younger Laurent does not know this yet.

The trembling child stands in the doorway with sweat still clinging to his lashes, nightgown damp and wrinkled from his heat, confusion and hurt coursing through him.

“Who are you?!” he demands, voice cracking too high with emotion.

The red haired boy looks up, unabashed, curious rather than ashamed. He smiles easily - too easily. “You must be Laurent!”

“Yes?” young Laurent says, glancing around the bedroom, suddenly uneasy. “Where is Uncle? What are you doing here?”

Even at fourteen he is territorial, fiercely so - protective of the only alpha he believes belongs to him, the only safety he thinks he has left.

Aimeric answers without hesitation. “Master says you went into heat!”

The words are tossed out easily, with careless certainty. Laurent stiffens.

“He says you’re too old now.” Aimeric’s smile shifts - soft, sly, almost apologetic. “He doesn’t want you anymore. He wants me now.”

The sentence lands like a blade.

The dream slows as tears flood young Laurent’s eyes, shock stuttering through him before grief overwhelms everything. He turns on his heel and runs blindly from the room, calling for his Uncle as he goes, voice breaking with every step.

Twenty year old Laurent does not follow.

He remains rooted beside Aimeric, who has slid back onto the edge of the bed. Laurent doesn’t know if this part of the dream is true - if in reality Aimeric stayed there and watched him flee - but in the dream, the boy’s too bright smile fades.

Confusion cracks it. Then something quieter. Pain.

Only in this dream does Laurent see what his younger self never did.

Bruises mar Aimeric’s skin - fading finger marks along his wrists, the dull blossom of old handprints shadowing his ribs and hip. Aimeric’s small fingers drift across them absently, almost curiously, as if tracing proof of something he doesn’t fully have words for yet.

As if he doesn’t understand that none of this is normal. None of it ever was.

Laurent’s chest tightens with regret.

He had resented Aimeric for years - resented what he represented. The replacement. The evidence that Uncle’s affection was conditional, temporary. He had swallowed his jealousy until it soured into distance, even as Uncle had forced them into each other’s presence, insisting they should be friends during the two years Aimeric lived under their roof.

Then Aimeric had presented as an omega. And just like Laurent before him, he had been discarded and shipped off back home.

Though letters continued afterwards, pages of syrupy affection and false tenderness, filled with my sweet boy, I miss you, no one will ever understand you like I do. Little strings of devotion designed to keep the younger omega tethered even from a distance, to remind him he was still owned.

Laurent had seen one once, years later by accident - ink looping lovingly around poison.

Something irrevocable had broken then. When Aimeric appeared years later as Govart’s kept pleasure, he would not look Laurent in the eye.

Not even once.

In the dream, Laurent understands why. He should have seen a mirror, not a rival.

Two boys hurt by the same hands. Two boys used and thrown aside.

Both trapped in different cages, both bearing the quiet evidence of men who called what they did love.

Laurent’s regret swells into something aching, raw. He should have been kinder. He should have protected Aimeric the way he now protects Hugo.

But the past offers no mercy.

Laurent can only watch the lonely boy on the bed - the enemy of his childish grief.

The dream shifts again.

Laurent is sixteen now.

He stands outside the closed doors of Uncle’s office, spine straight despite the tremor running through him. Servants have dressed him for this summons - layered fabrics in soft blues and ivory, a gown far finer than anything he has reason to wear. His hair has been braided carefully down his back, the plait pulled tight enough to sting his scalp. At his throat rests a new collar, pristine and laced with ceremonial care - the same one twenty year old Laurent sleeps in still, the black ribbon biting memory into skin.

The preparation feels wrong. Funereal.

Uncle has barely looked at him for years.

They share silent breakfasts - Laurent seated at the long table, carefully poised while Uncle reads correspondence and drinks his tea, then rises and leaves for work without a word.

Days stretch into aimless quiet after that. Laurent rides his horse, reads until his eyes ache, stares at walls that feel closer each week. He is not permitted to leave the estate. Not to visit his parents’ graves. Not to see Auguste’s resting place.

He becomes a kept thing. Polished. Unused.

The resentment has bloomed into something ugly and hot inside him.

Auguste had always told him never to hate.

But Laurent hates now - hates the silence, the distance, the way Uncle’s affection vanished without explanation and left only control behind.

And yet being called to Uncle’s office - summoned - is rare enough that it makes Laurent’s pulse stutter.

The doors loom tall and heavy before him.

Anxiety coils in his chest, tightening his breath, but he smooths it down with practiced ease. Shoulders back. Chin up.

Pride is the only armour he has left.

When a servant finally opens the doors and gestures him forward, sixteen year old Laurent steps inside with measured grace, hiding the fear in his eyes beneath a mask of cultivated confidence.

It is all he can do.

Twenty year old Laurent stands in the doorway, silent, watching the memory unfold.

These moments had never happened behind closed doors. Uncle did not bother hiding how he treated Laurent - or the other boys. Servants were only servants; they risked their positions if they spoke, so Uncle cared little if they saw. Everything was on display: control, dominance, ownership.

Today, there is no young boy accompanying Uncle. Only sixteen year old Laurent, summoned, perfectly dressed and braided, his new collar glinting faintly in the morning light.

Uncle beckons him forward, hand resting lightly on his hip as if it were entirely natural. Laurent steps forward, confident in posture, though his chest tightens with every step. He knows the game. He has learned the masks.

And then Uncle runs a hand over Laurent’s face, tracing the line of his jaw, brushing over his chest, inspecting as though he were evaluating a prize.

“You’ve always been so beautiful, my dear one,” Uncle says, his voice rich with false warmth. He holds Laurent’s small, gloved hand between his own and pats it, almost tenderly. “Do you remember what I used to tell you? How one day I’d claim you, and we’d be happy?”

Sixteen year old Laurent swallows, forcing a calm that feels brittle. He lifts his chin, steels his eyes, and answers steadily, every word measured.

“Yes,” he says, voice even. “And you lied.”

“I did,” Uncle says softly, “and I’m sorry for that.”

He draws Laurent into his lap.

The boy goes without resistance - habit more than trust guiding the movement - but his body stays rigid. He does not soften the way he once did as a child. His spine is straight, breath shallow, eyes fixed somewhere distant.

“I hope you have forgiven me,” Uncle murmurs. “I love you very much, my dear. I see how unhappy you’ve been. It pains me to know you’re so sad.”

From the doorway, Laurent watches his younger self be stroked and coddled, Uncle’s touch falsely gentle as his fingers toy with the new collar at Laurent’s neck, idly tracing its laces as though testing the restraint.

He knows exactly what the boy in Uncle’s lap is thinking.

For just a fleeting moment, teenage Laurent still wants to believe him - to hope Uncle might choose him again, might ease the crushing loneliness that eats at his chest. Hope blooms, fragile and foolish, threatening to pull him back into the comfort of being wanted.

But the older Laurent already knows better. He knows who else is in the room. He sees the man seated by the fireplace, waiting patiently for his introduction.

“I want to make you happy again, Laurent,” Uncle says, voice warm with practiced sincerity. “I want you to be claimed - just like you wish.”

Then Uncle’s hand slides up to Laurent’s chin. With a gentle but unmistakable pressure, he turns the boy’s face away from himself and towards the man by the fire.

Twenty year old Laurent already knows who waits in the armchair.

He knows the shape of Govart’s body as the alpha rises to his feet - big, broad, looming. He remembers the look his younger self wears in that moment: the reflexive recoil he cannot hide, the faint wrinkle of disgust that tightens his nose before he schools his expression away.

Too young to mask it properly. Younger Laurent turns back to Uncle, bewildered.

Uncle smiles as if presenting a gift.

“This is Govart,” he says lightly. “He works for me.”

He takes Laurent by the shoulders and lifts him from his lap, hands firm as he steers the boy a few steps forward - offering him up.

“He is to be your husband,” Uncle continues. “He will claim you, my dear, and make you very happy.”

Govart steps closer, eyes stripping Laurent down to appraisal.

Uncle presses a guiding hand to Laurent’s back. “Why don’t we get you acquainted?”

Sixteen year old Laurent’s face is a storm.

Since then, he has learnt to wield his anger, to sharpen his mind into a weapon - but here, in this moment, he is still a child. Vulnerable. Fierce, but unarmed against the weight of the world pressing in.

He tries to step back, to run, but Govart’s hands are suddenly on him, unyielding.

The alpha reeks of sweat and unwashed flesh, and it takes every ounce of Laurent’s self-control not to gag.

“Let go of me!” Laurent bellows, voice cracking. “I will not marry you!”

Govart holds him steady, pressing closer, smiling with an unsettling delight as he licks his lips.

“You were right, DeVere,” he murmurs, eyes drinking in the boy before him. “He is stunning.”

Laurent struggles against him, every muscle taut, every instinct screaming to fight or flee. But he is alone. He has always been alone.

And Govart knows it.

Laurent is hauled back toward the desk, his heels skidding uselessly against the polished floor. Uncle waits there, serene, smiling - like this is all nothing more than an inevitable formality.

His voice is sweet as honey. “Laurie,” he croons, the old nickname making Laurent feel sick, “you will marry him, because I say so.”

Laurent thrashes, breath ragged, but Uncle’s expression never changes.

“Without me, you are as good as dead,” he continues calmly. “You have no money. You own nothing. Everything you are - everything you’ve ever had - is because of me.” He leans forward slightly, eyes sharpening. “You think anyone else would want you?”

The words strike harder than any blow. “You’re already ruined, my dear,” Uncle says softly. “Ruined from the day you crawled into my bed like the whore you are.”

Govart’s grip tightens as Uncle gestures toward him.

“But Govart,” Uncle goes on smoothly, “is willing to overlook all of that. He’ll marry you. Give you a comfortable life. You'll spread your legs for him like you used to for me, and give him some beautiful alpha children. You will marry him.”

Laurent watches his sixteen year old self break.

The storm drains from the boy’s face, leaving only tears - tearful, shaking, begging as his voice dissolves under the weight of Uncle’s words. He knows Uncle is right. Or, worse - he believes he is.

Damaged goods. Unfit for society. Unworthy of a good family, a good match, a good life.

Twisted. Dirty. Ruined. All the things Uncle taught him to be.

The begging fades into resignation. Laurent sees his younger self fold inward, the fight leaking out of him until there’s nothing left to do but let himself be gathered up.

Uncle takes the boy into his arms and rocks gently, as though this is comfort rather than surrender.

“Shhh,” he murmurs. “It’s alright, my dear one. I know this is hard.”

His voice stays soothing, soft, coaxing.

“But Govart is going to take care of you. I trust him to do that. He knows what you are, Laurent, and he’s going to help you get better. Okay?”

Uncle lifts Laurent’s chin, thumb beneath his jaw, forcing him to look up. “You’ll be a good wife for him, yes?”

And Laurent feels thirteen again. Small. Eager. Willing to do anything - anything - to be loved, to be chosen, to be good.

So he nods. A tiny, broken gesture of obedience.

Uncle smiles. “Good boy.”

The dream shifts again.

Laurent is alone.

It is meant to be his wedding night, but it feels nothing like one. There had been no celebration, no music, no friends or family gathered to witness anything worth calling joy. No procession. No feast. No laughter.

Only a private room. A priest. And his uncle.

And a contract sealed quietly, efficiently - like a transaction best kept out of sight.

Sixteen year old Laurent sits on the edge of the bed, hands folded in his lap. A veil drapes over his head, thin and white, falling around his face in a mockery of sanctity - like something stolen from a saint’s painting and repurposed into humiliation. He hates it. He hates how small it makes him feel.

This room smells unfamiliar. Wrong. Not his. Nothing here belongs to him - not even his own body anymore.

He belongs to Govart now. In name. In soul. In law.

Twenty year old Laurent watches from the shadows, chest tight, knowing exactly what comes next.

The boy on the bed stares at the floor, jaw clenched so tightly it aches. Anger coils in him - hot, furious, helpless. He has been sold, packaged neatly and handed over like property.

He knows what will be demanded of him. Knows what is expected.

Something he swore he would never do again after Uncle discarded him like something broken. After he learned what devotion costs.

Nausea churns in his stomach.

But he will not cry. No. He will not give them his tears.

Sixteen year old Laurent presses his lips together, breathing shallow, every muscle rigid as he waits for the door to open - waiting for the moment that will mark the end of whatever childhood he had left.

The child bride tears the veil from his head.

It slips from his fingers and pools uselessly on the floor as he crosses the room in quick, uneven steps and stops before the tall mirror. He stares at his reflection as though daring it to look back.

The dress is wrong.

It clings too tightly, cut and tailored to suggest a maturity his body hasn’t yet grown into. He is only two years into his presentation - still all sharp angles and narrow shoulders, limbs not quite settled into themselves. The fabric presses him into a shape he does not recognise, a version of himself meant to convince others he is older than he is.

He is ready to bare children. A doctor had said so. Omegas only present when they’re ready.

Laurent remembers the way Uncle shook the man’s hand afterward, smiling. Remembers laying still while he was examined, spoken over, discussed like a fact rather than a person. The doctor never asked questions that mattered. Never mentioned that Laurent was not intact inside, that he was no longer the pure or chaste bride he was supposed to be. Never mentioned anything that might complicate the transaction.

Laurent studies his own face now, jaw tight, eyes burning with a hatred he doesn’t yet know how to control. He looks so young. He looks furious. He looks trapped.

He does not notice the second figure appear behind him in the glass.

Older Laurent stands behind him quietly.

He is taller. Softer in places pregnancy has rounded. Not as sharp, not as brittle - but unmistakably the same. The same eyes. The same mouth drawn too tight with restraint. The same hurt, carried longer.

He wishes - desperately - that he could reach through the reflection and still that fury before it turns inward. Wishes he could tell the boy that none of this is his fault. That survival is not weakness. That hatred does not mean corruption.

He steps closer and wraps his arms around his younger self, holding him as carefully as if he might shatter.

Sixteen year old Laurent does not react. The mirror does not change. Because this is only a dream

Yet Laurent does not let go.

He stays wrapped around his younger self as Govart finally enters the room. Neither of them turns. They keep their eyes fixed on the mirror, as if refusing to acknowledge the man behind them begins to slowly undress.

Behind them, the room feels suffocating.

The bed - large, ornate, dressed in finery - no longer looks like furniture meant for rest, but something staged. Waiting. The dresses already hung in the wardrobe, imported and pristine, feel less like gifts than uniforms. The house itself feels hollow, stripped of warmth before Laurent has even lived in it.

This place has no soul.

Govart speaks at last, his voice thick and impatient, calling his bride to him.

Laurent tightens his hold, panic flooding him as if strength alone might rewrite time. As if arms and will could anchor the past in place.

But this is memory. And memory is merciless.

Govart’s hand closes around sixteen year old Laurent’s arm, yanking him away. The older Laurent’s grip breaks - not because he lets go, but because he was never truly there. His hands close on nothing.

The child stumbles away, dragged out of the circle of imagined safety, and Laurent turns away. He cannot watch.

He opens the wardrobe and climbs inside, curling between the hanging dresses he will come to wear in the years ahead. Fabric brushes his face. Silk and lace press in on all sides. He buries himself there, knees drawn tight to his chest, fingers clenched in the cloth as if it might drown out the world.

He squeezes his eyes shut. He wishes the dream would move on.

Wishes it would skip ahead - to the happier memory he knows exists.

But it doesn’t.

The memory lingers, cruel and exacting, forcing him to hear the echoes of his own pain, his own helplessness, until at last - mercifully - it ends.

When Laurent crawls out of the wardrobe, the room hasn't changed but time has passed.

Govart is gone.

The bed is occupied now - not by the frightened boy from before, but by a seventeen year old omega stretched thin with exhaustion. He lies on his side, knees drawn up as far as he can manage, one hand gripping the sheets as though they are the only thing anchoring him to the world.

Laurent’s body is unmistakably altered.

His stomach is round and taut beneath the thin fabric of his nightclothes, breath hitching as another wave of pain ripples through him. Sweat slicks his skin, darkening his hair, curls plastered to his temples and neck.

Twenty year old Laurent knows this moment.

He remembers how frightened he was. How lonely.

He remembers the year leading up to this moment. He had been confined to the bedroom, forbidden to leave, waiting for night when Govart to come and fuck him to sleep. The days had stretched endlessly. Govart grew impatient, irritable, angry that Laurent wasn't pregnant. Six months of failed attempts - six months of so much fucking that Laurent finally came to one conclusion: Govart had to be infertile.

But then, finally, it had taken.And now here he is. On the edge of becoming a mother.

Govart is not here. He is out drinking, laughing, unaware - or uncaring - that Laurent’s body has begun to turn against itself, that the slow, grinding pain has already started.

Twenty year old Laurent sits on the edge of the bed beside his younger self.

He does not touch him. He knows better. He only watches.

Watches the way seventeen year old Laurent breathes through clenched teeth, counting silently. Watches his fingers tremble as he braces himself for each tightening wave. Watches the fear flicker through his eyes when the pain sharpens, when it does not stop.

Laurent is shaking. But he is still here. Still enduring.

And the older Laurent stays with him, bearing witness - because no one else ever did.

He remains beside his younger self through the long stretch of time that follows - through the muffled cries bitten back into pillows, through the shaking breaths and the moments where it feels as though the pain will never crest, never break. He stays until the room is filled with a new sound.

A cry. Thin, furious, alive.

He did it. And he did it alone.

It is Laurent’s favourite memory.

Seventeen year old Laurent lies stunned for a heartbeat, chest heaving, eyes wide as if he cannot quite believe the sound is real. Then - hesitant, trembling - he reaches out.

It takes courage. More than he ever knew he had.

But he lifts the small, squirming weight into his arms and draws him close, pressing the newborn to his chest as though the world itself might try to steal him away.

His angel. His saviour. His Hugo.

The baby’s cries soften, tiny fingers curling into the fabric of Laurent’s nightclothes. Seventeen year old Laurent collapses back against the pillows, exhaustion finally overtaking fear, holding his child as if this is the only thing anchoring him to life.

And for the first time in a year, Laurent cries.

Not from pain. Not from terror. But from something dangerously close to relief.

Twenty year old Laurent watches them, heart aching and full all at once. He knows what comes later. Knows Govart will return, drunk and entitled and cruel. Knows how little time this peace will last.

But he also knows something unshakable.

For this moment, Hugo is his.

And more than that - Hugo will always be his.

No matter what they take. No matter what they try to claim.

That child belongs to Laurent.

But the dream will not settle.

It fractures instead. It shifts.

Laurent sits in the dark, cradling Hugo through sleepless nights, murmuring nonsense and soft promises as he feeds him by candlelight, body aching, eyes burning, but unwilling to put him down.

Shifts.

Govart snaps awake at the sound of crying, irritated, furious. Laurent moves quickly - too quickly - pressing Hugo close, whispering apologies that aren’t his to give, soothing both child and alpha, making himself small.

Shifts.

Laurent rocks Hugo to sleep, humming a soft tune Auguste used to sing to him, forehead pressed to his child’s hair, breathing him in like oxygen.

Shifts.

Hands grip him hard. Laurent is hauled back into the bedroom, pulled away while Hugo cries, left alone in the cradle. The door closes. Laurent does not fight back.

Shifts.

Hugo totters on unsteady legs, arms outstretched. Laurent crouches, smiling too wide, heart in his throat as Hugo takes a step - then another - and collapses into his embrace. Laurent laughs, breathless, triumphant.

Shifts.

Govart watches Hugo as the boy eats his breakfast.

Eyes narrow. Calculating. Wary.

Laurent sits very still, every muscle locked, waiting to see if approval or anger will come. Neither does. Only silence.

Shifts.

Laurent starts performing more during sex in exchange for small gifts for Hugo - wooden animals, scraps of ribbon, a soft blanket he had to beg for. Hugo lights up, claps, presses everything to his mouth. Laurent treasures every smile like contraband.

Shifts.

Hugo is now two. And he still does not speak.

Laurent cries in the quiet places - in the washrooms, into his pillow with his hand stuffed in his mouth so no one hears. He presses kisses into Hugo’s hair, whispering encouragements that sound more like prayers.

Shifts.

Govart’s voice fills the room, loud and sharp and cruel.

He points. He sneers.

Calls their son wrong. Calls him stupid. Calls him an imbecile.

Laurent stands there with his face carved into something smooth and empty, taking the words like blows meant for Hugo instead.

Twenty year old Laurent watches it all.

At last, the memory stops running.

It settles.

On the day everything fractures beyond repair.

Govart cannot stand it anymore. He summons a doctor, pacing the room while Laurent sits rigid, Hugo tucked close against his chest like a shield.

The verdict is delivered plainly.

Mute. Some type of learning difficulty that the doctors still don't fully understand.

The doctor speaks with empathy. Hugo will likely never speak. There are schools, hospitals that might help him - but the words blur together.

Laurent feels his heart break. But not his love. Never that.

Hugo is still his baby. Still his angel. Still perfect in every way that matters. Being different does not make him lesser - it only makes him his. Laurent presses his lips to Hugo’s hair, whispering promises meant only for the two of them.

Govart does not hear any of it. Something in him snaps.

The argument comes fast and vicious, words sharpening into weapons. Govart shouts, rages, strikes - Laurent absorbs it in silence, instinctively turning his body to shield Hugo even when the blows are meant for him.

Govart screams that the child will be sent away. That he will never be his heir. That he is unworthy. Broken. Stupid.

“Just like his mother.”

The words land deeper than any strike ever has.

They are spoken with disgust, final and irrevocable, and Laurent feels them echo through the room long after Govart has turned away.

That is the day Hugo ceases to exist in Govart’s eyes.

From that moment on, the child is not acknowledged. The title of heir is stripped away as though it were a mistake - an embarrassment quietly erased. Hugo becomes nothing to his sire, a failure unworthy of anger or attention.

Laurent is nineteen then.

Still young. Still trapped. Still with only one child clutched to his chest like a shield.

Govart’s intentions are made clear with brutal simplicity.

Laurent will give him another heir. One that meets his standards. One that is worthy.

Twenty year old Laurent watches from the edges of the room, already knowing how this ends. Already remembering how it feels to be split cleanly in two - between rage and terror, between love and survival.

He watches his younger self fall to his knees.

Watches him clutch at Govart’s clothes, Hugo crying softly in his arms, sensing the violence in the air even if he cannot understand it.

Younger Laurent tilts his chin stubbornly, refusing to let his voice crack - until it does, just a little, sharp and brittle. “Don’t - you can’t… take him. I’ll do whatever you want. Just… don’t touch him.”

Govart pauses, a predator enjoying the hesitation.

Laurent keeps his jaw set, forehead pressed to the floor, tasting humiliation like iron. He swallows hard, forcing control over the trembling in his hands.

“I’ll… I’ll obey,” he says finally, every word taut with defiance and calculation. “I’ll give you… whatever you want. Another child. Ten if it pleases you. Just - leave him with me.”

Twenty year old Laurent feels the echo of those words settle into his bones.

I’ll do anything.

Govart looks down at him with detached curiosity, like a man inspecting an object he has not yet decided to break or keep.

“Then you will,” Govart says at last. “And you will remember this.”

He does not touch the child. He does not look at Hugo again. He simply turns away, and that is somehow worse than anything else.

Twenty year old Laurent watches his younger self collapse inward, relief and despair tangling together until they are indistinguishable. Watches him cradle Hugo tighter, rocking back and forth, whispering promises into his hair - promises he has no right to make, promises the world will punish him for keeping.

I won’t let them take you. I won’t let them hurt you. I’ll be whatever he wants me to be.

And the cruelest truth of it all - he does.

Twenty year old Laurent stands there, hollow-eyed, knowing that this is not a vow broken by time or weakness. It is one he is still honouring.

Every bruise endured. Every silence swallowed. Every humiliation accepted.

All of it traced back to this moment. This was the day love became defiance.

This was the day Laurent learned that protecting Hugo would mean erasing himself piece by piece.

And even now - older, weary, scarred - he is still keeping that promise…

…Laurent wakes and there is his son in his arms.

Not the newborn from the dream, not the fragile infant slick with memory and pain - but his three year old boy, curled against him in sleep, small fingers knotted in the fabric of Laurent’s nightshirt. Hugo breathes deeply and evenly, cheek pressed to Laurent’s heart as if he knows exactly where he belongs.

Laurent exhales, slow and trembling, and tightens his hold.

He knows this child better than anyone ever could. He knows every sound Hugo makes, every shift of his body, every way his hands move when he wants comfort or reassurance. Hugo does not need words to be understood - not by Laurent.

Laurent remembers the first time Uncle saw him.

He's your twin, Laurent, Uncle had said lightly, dismissively, as though Hugo were nothing more than proof of Laurent’s role in his creation.

Laurent had disagreed.

Hugo does not look like him. He looks like Auguste.

The same soft curls. The same shape of mouth. The same quiet gravity in his gaze. Laurent sees his brother every time Hugo smiles, every time he presses his forehead to Laurent’s chest and hums in that low, contented way that means safe.

It doesn’t matter that Hugo cannot speak.

He loves Laurent.

In ways that are constant and unconditional. In ways that do not bruise or demand or take. Hugo’s love is simple and fierce and whole.

It is the purest thing Laurent has ever known.

Laurent presses a kiss into his son’s hair and holds him closer, anchoring himself in the present - in this room, in this moment, with this child.

Whatever the world has done to him. Whatever it still threatens to do. This - this - is enough.

Because Hugo is his. And Hugo loves him.

And for Laurent, that has always been everything.