One Alpha faced off against another, Maryanne rising from her seat to her full height—her final stand. Words had never worked with this male, the male who had set her free from the Undercroft after unspeakable things had been done to her. Who had set her free to wreak havoc in Thólos after she begged at his feet for protection. The savior she had abandoned at the first opportunity, because he was fucking psychotic. The man who had destroyed her enemies and haunted her dreams.

  Claire’s mate.

  The ugliest, most ruthless motherfucker born to a dead world. A beast she had watched murder millions, Maryanne laughing until it wasn’t funny anymore.

  A male who did not flinch when her forearm swept her workstation, sending instruments flying before she might button down real rage. “What more do you want from me, Shepherd?”

  Never one for subtlety, a massive hand fit over the top of Maryanne’s skull, turning her gaze to a new illumined screen.

  The new world of… nothing. A boring screen that already led her eyes to blur.

  Because demeaning her seemed to be one of his favorite sports, Shepherd spoke to her in a tone that let her know precisely how much of a simpleton she was. “You are worthless as you are. So grasp this. Jules requested that I spare your life. Therefore, I keep you.”

  Well, leave it to the ol’ creepy, blue-eyed Beta. “Jules, huh?”

  “Any allegiance you might have in those hollow bones belongs to him.” Shepherd flipped on another monitor, in such a way that it was utterly embarrassing to realize she could have turned them on herself at any time. “So, I suggest that you pay attention to these screens and see what you have failed to notice in the last two days.”

  No way! No way was Jules in a cell in some eerie, foreign Dome!

  There was something, something almost human, in Shepherd’s statement. “Should he die, Maryanne, so shall you.”

  Jules, the cryptic, nasty piece of shit that he was, sat unmoving on the newly illuminated eleventh screen. Solitary in a cell that lacked even a toilet. A cell nowhere near as nice as hers.

  Her Jules, her only tie to civilization.

  “I don’t… I don’t understand.” Why in the heck was he even on foreign soil?

  “You will report on the hour, every hour.”

  “What about sleep?”

  “Every hour until you can give me something worth keeping you alive. Apply your talents⁠—”

  But Shepherd had already lost her attention, the screen full of strangeness that had to be commented on. “My Gods! Is that porn projected on his cell wall? What the…? Why are they showing him…? Wow… that Alpha could use some pointers. Did you see how⁠—”

  Interjecting, Shepherd continued as if she had not started raving stupidly, “It is a live feed, which you will find on Screen 72. Meet Jacques Bernard, the regent of Bernard Dome, and his Omega, Brenya Perin. I would like to know why Jules’s tenure in their prison involves watching the Omega suffer.”

  “Gross. Look at her face. She’s mangled.” Maryanne was already totally sucked in, speaking to herself when she muttered, “Someone get that girl a sandwich. Oh, and some backbone. Did you see that? She’s not even fighting anymore. Who treats their mate that way?”

  Beside her, the male replied, “Yes, I see it.”

  “It’s just wrong.” So wrong, and so unclean. “She’s crying.”

  “Every hour, Maryanne. On the hour. Or all the screens go dark, your food dries up, and all you will have left as you starve is the painting to remind you of how terrible you truly are.” And with that, he was gone.

  Every hour, on the hour, she sent a report, unsure what Shepherd was looking for but scandalized by what she found as she switched on more screens.

  Bernard Dome was more fucked up than she was.

  And that was saying a lot.

  6

  BERNARD DOME

  Access to Annette had been bought with an act, unnatural and uncomfortable. Painful. Degrading.

  But worth every moment.

  Two China teacups, their golden rims catching afternoon sunlight, sat on saucers so intricately detailed that Brenya stole a longing glance in their direction. How she would have loved an opportunity to admire the mathematical precision of hand-painted patterns. Right there on a silver tray sat true engineering, crafted many centuries before the Red Consumption ravaged the world. Art sculpted, painted, and lacquered by persons—not a fabrication machine. A simple brush held by a master. A precious treasure.

  Right there.

  So fragile it was uncanny.

  Yet, more fragile was the woman rising to greet her.

  High ceilings, and frescos of playful cherubs painted onto the opposite wall. Gold finishings, damask curtains, polished wood, the scent of fresh flowers. It seemed the perfect place, positioned, adorned, landscaped—if you will—to showcase the slumbering baby in an elegantly carved cradle just so.

  The entirety of the room had been fashioned to draw the eye to chubby cheeks and long eyelashes. To the gentle snores of a tiny human.

  Yet the spectacle was marred by a sharp, unwelcome interruption on the domestic scene—two Beta attendants trying but failing to become part of the architecture. Brenya blinked at their unwelcome presence more than she stared at the child, pausing in her rush forward to drink down every detail concerning the uninvited pair.

  Just as the room was beautiful, just as the waiting table was beautiful, the servants—both female—were beautiful. Each with their matching, crisp white aprons and dedicated expressions of disinterest.

  And though they did not look at her, she knew they were watching closely.

  This was not what Brenya had paid so dearly for. This was not why she had submitted and suffered. And with their presence, a feeling sparked in Brenya’s chest. Mistrust toward the Commodore, another reminder that Jacques twisted his promises and took as he pleased.

  That he had used her for his gain, again.

  The Beta attendants had no place in her special moment with Annette.

  They didn’t belong in the room of a mother and her child.

  No matter how they were dressed up, or how silent and still they might be, the pair were nothing but sentinels… spies.

  And Brenya would have to tolerate them, because she could not imagine what Jacques might ask for next time there was something she truly wanted.

  Fingertips reaching for the uncomfortable lace at her throat, Brenya gave the constrictive garment a nervous tug. Wincing when fabric cut into the concealed bite made by a rabid dog.

  By a man who was with her even then. The endless, silent vastness of him permitting her to seek solace from the wolf pacing outside the door.

  An imprisoned Beta who seemed to feel nothing.

  Perfect mechanical emptiness she could stretch in, almost as comforting as Beta rations.

  “Dear Brenya, you’re bleeding on your dress.”

  Attention back on Annette, Brenya found her friend pulling a handkerchief from her sleeve as if to offer it.

  Her neck, yes. Brenya could feel the ragged bite mark oozing under its bandage. Other things were trickling out of her from other places, dripping right down her legs and probably leaving little splatters on the carpet that would linger.

  That was what she had been reduced to.

  But there were teacups to consider. Intruding Betas to analyze. There was a sense of unbelievable longing and extravagant relief at seeing Annette unharmed.

  And there was the true, hideous honesty of the situation.

  Jacques was right outside the door, already itching to steal her away.

  The Alpha who had dressed her in the restrictive gown, suiting his tastes and careless of hers. Meticulous, his fingers had been careful with each button down her spine. He’d drawn a brush through her hair as if the lightest tangle might leave her in tears.

  Yet he had confined her in misery and inconvenience.

  And then he had deemed it was time jewelry should be considered. Asking in a way that meant it wasn’t a question at all, he enquired if Brenya would be willing to pierce her ears.

  “Just a quick prick,” he’d said, fleeting pain that could be soothed as quickly as it came.

  Her resounding “no” after so many hours of silence inspired the Alpha to cock a brow.

  Which meant she would be punished.

  The Commodore’s promises, interpretations, and manipulations—his way of asking by taking.

  He may have been wallowing in his conquest, their pair-bond, and the joy it brought to his being. His feelings may have overshadowed all she was, but for a moment, her distrust and resentment were greater. She hated it when he asked her opinion, as if it might matter or alter his course.

  She hated it.

  Sour feelings poured right out of her and into him, a choking miasma of uncontrolled anger. The homunculus of her rage grew as if a physical thing. As he rose to stand over her, the look of shock upon his face had been followed by a sneer.

  He reached out as if he was going to touch her… again… and Brenya fell into full retreat.

  Eyes narrowing, the Alpha’s purr ceased—a vulnerable moment between surprise and defensiveness, which gave him away. He would not tolerate Brenya being anything but his concept of perfect. Jacques Bernard, Commodore of Bernard Dome, would ultimately unmake her.

  All the sooner if she could not rein in her disgust.

  Tension high between them, it was up to her to appease him or suffer. She’d drawn in a deep breath, composed herself, and relaxed her jaw. As did the monster facing her.

  “I’ll ask again, Brenya. May I pierce your ears?” Reaching forward, as if nothing untoward had passed between them, he tucked her hair behind her ear. Offering what some might consider a wondrous gift, Jacques smiled. “I have jewels more ancient than old Paris rotting to the north. They would shine like your eyes.”

  Much calmer, Brenya repeated her refusal. “No.”

  Male fingers toyed with her earlobe, massaging the flesh as the Alpha considered. “Queens wear their king’s jewels, mon chou.”

  “You are not a king. You are a Commodore.” And a male whose attention had the strangest effect on her person. One whose purr was already working to undo her rage.

  “Why, today, must everything be negotiated or bought?” The forceful wave of Jacques’s frustration battered against the fragile wall between his presence and where she tried to hide. “I am your Alpha; you are my Omega. Trust in your design to follow where I lead. Your ears should be pierced so I can give you gifts.”

  She had let him dress her, tend her wounds, press his kisses to her skin, paint her face, style her hair. She’d eaten from his hand, submitted to his perversions. She had followed, because she was utterly trapped in the prison of him. But this? This hill, she was willing to die on.

  They were her ears, and he’d already put enough things in her. “No, thank you.”

  “Brenya, I swear to you that loving me will come easily and naturally if only you would trust I know best.” Fingers trailed down her arms until Jacques swept her hand into his. Holding them to his heart, he smiled beautifully. An inner radiance burned where the link forcefully pulled between them, searing through her profuse abhorrence.

  As if set aflame, her sad barricade burned to ash under his influence. She was forcibly drawn away from the emptiness in which she preferred to hide. Expression crumpling into anguish, she shook under the Alpha’s touch and fell open to him in the most vulnerably intimate of ways.

  She was naked in that link, stripped of protective layers of repulsion when in his power.

  “There you are, mon chou.” Kissing her fingertips, Jacques smiled. “Like a frightened bird in my hand, wings fluttering, as it learns to be tame and trust.”

  He wasn’t wrong. Whatever part of her he touched through the link was flailing, grasping desperately for armor or apathy that was slipping out of reach. Perhaps the universe punishing her for using Jules’s bond for sanctuary. For forcing him to feel her when he might hate her even more than she hated Jacques.

  The Alpha demanded so much. And so soon.

  A bit more pressure in just the right place and her newly bonded, captive spirit was going to split right down the middle between them. Already, she was barely holding on by a thread. It was either concede or lose herself in the storm of Jacques Bernard.

  So that comforting darkness was stolen away when self-preservation trumped desire. Her battered psyche gave up its sad, clawing attempts at succor before it was broken completely like an over-loved toy.

  Better the body than the mind.

  And this Alpha had done ghastly things to her body. He would do them again. Already Jacques had swept her into an embrace. Purring with renewed vigor—a loud rattle that shook off the greater part of her desperation and helped her catch her breath.

  And all she could offer, as he kissed every part of her he might reach, was a mournful, pathetic croon. “Leave one part of me the way I was before. I am begging you.”

  The weight of his long sigh was nothing to the weight of his internal annoyance. “We will discuss the topic at another time. More importantly, dear mate, perhaps this isn’t a good day for you to meet with Annette.”

  “You promised.”

  Warning laced his voice. “Brenya….”

  Her façade cracked, the desperate bird he described fluttering against its cage as she hid her face in his shirt. “I let you do what you did to me because you promised I could see Annette. What worth is your word? You hurt me on purpose.”

  How strange it was. Insulting him verbally, he ignored. The Alpha was only focused on the incongruous link. Going so far as to wave off her statement, he went back to fluffing up her hair. “She won’t be the Annette you remember; the Beta rations have been extremely effective. Allow me to choose a new, perfect companion for you.”

  Even with his power over her through the link, a massive wave of rage crested. It crashed hard against his grip on her. It broke and left wreckage in the link that distorted his control, that forced him to acknowledge how truly betrayed she felt.

  Lip curled and with a deeply satisfying snarl, Brenya pulled away to voice her accusation. “You lied to me.”

  Pure male, the Alpha narrowed his gaze. He even dared sniff her and run a finger down her jaw before saying, “A short visit then. Tea. One hour as our room is cleaned.” Kneeling at her feet so he might help her into uncomfortable, glittering shoes, he caught her heel and composed his expression into a dangerous, devious, dishonest smile. “And while you are there, I shall devise other entertainments for you. Lady Annette is not a suitable companion now⁠—”

  “—now that you are poisoning your childhood friend with Beta rations?”

  An impatient flutter of Jacques’s fingers over her ankle, a jump of muscle in his cheek, three heartbeats of silence, and an irritated breath. He took his time arranging her skirts to cover her toes, took time collecting his patience, formulating his reply, before he stood. Facing Brenya fully, Jacques made a decree. “You must spend time with the other mated Omegas. That includes Ancil’s pregnant mate, Lucia. As complications have arisen since her arrival, she lacks your freedoms and is lonely for company. I understand the circumstances of her appearance upset you, but you are a compassionate woman. It is not her fault Ancil recognized his mate. Nor is it her fault that she enthusiastically embraced him, as an Omega should. As for Annette, she is at fault here. The spousal contracts she agreed to were very clear. Annette knew better than to make the mistake of loving her husband.”

  Centrist society made no sense, served no purpose Brenya might grasp if there was no loyalty or love. Awash in fresh sadness, her anger evaporated, leaving her voice small and insecure. “Was it her fault for loving you as her friend?”

  Gently, Jacques cupped her painted cheek, his thumb lightly stroking soft skin. “My sweet Omega, in a year’s time, with experience as my mate and my love to guide you, you will feel far differently than you do today.”

  What a horrible thought her soul might be bought with so little. “If that should be the outcome, then I would deserve you.”

  A passionate yet soft kiss fell on her lips where he doted and breathed her in, agreeing, “Yes, dear Brenya.”

  Though his lips brushed softly, and the tip of his tongue only teased lightly, Brenya could not stomach another moment of his attention. “Please—” She took a cautious step away, body aching in unimaginable ways as she smoothed her skirt, pretending to admire his hard work in preparing her. “—may I go to Annette now?”

  Dark, unamused laughter came from the Commodore, who countered her step before he took her chin between his forefinger and thumb and forced her attention right back to his narrowed eyes. “You’ve underestimated me, Brenya, so many times. I am Commodore, King, because I took power from the brother I murdered. I fed an Omega to Ancil when he indulged his habit of looking your way too long. I faced down a true despot and now hold his envoy prisoner. Yet you think I cannot see your every transparent scheme. Your mind is brilliant. You were born with a genius I admire beyond words, yet you have been overcome time and again by the Alpha you belong to. So, hear me, my darling mate, when I say to you that I am not blind to your intentions.”

  Her every response since she’d been rescued had been unthinking and erratic, automatic and so unlike the woman she had been before. Intentions? She had difficulty enough processing all that was going on, all that had changed, all the feelings. Her only intention was to survive intact.

  A goal that felt impossible in the care of such a man.

  Purr rumbling a soothing music from his chest, softening his tone, Jacques saw her suffering and tried to soothe, even while delivering another heartbreak. “Annette does not belong to you. You can’t keep her.”

  It seemed he didn’t want her to have anyone to care for. After all, Annette was not the first friend the Alpha had taken away. Thoughts of George sparked in Brenya’s thoughts, shame and pain blooming with the knowledge that she had lost him too.

  As if Jacques could read her very thoughts, a warning growl issued from his throat. “If you speak his name, you know what I will do to him.”