LUCIAN POV'.
I sat at the dining table, waiting for the newest member of this house — my new spouse — to come down for dinner. Out of courtesy, I didn't start eating. I planned to begin when he took his seat just a few inches from me.
I was quietly scrolling on my phone when a new scent slipped through the room — calm and inviting. Unexpected.
It was sweet.
Jasmine. Chamomile. Vanilla. Coco. All blended smoothly together.
It drifted into my senses softly, clinging to the air like silk. I blinked, tried to shake it off, tried to dismiss it as some lingering perfume.
But it didn't fade, instead It deepened. Spread. Settled.
And then… the owner of that scent walked in.
Good gods.
He's beautiful.
No — ethereal.
The kind of beauty you look at and forget how to speak. The kind that doesn't belong to this world. Something you'd worship or destroy simply because you didn't know what else to do with it.
His hair was perfectly imperfect — gold waves slightly curled from his bath. His crystal-gold eyes fierce yet soft. His skin so fair it almost glowed. Everything about him screamed quiet danger.
And those plush champagne slippers…
Of course, I had them placed there.
I told the maid exactly what to prepare. Told my assistant to research everything — his schedule, his household, his parents, their patterns, his food, his preferences, likes, dislikes. Everything.
The file on him was thick — but predictable.
And from everything I read, I already knew:
His mother wouldn't pack anything decent for him to wear tonight.
I was right. If she had, he wouldn't be wearing what I chose instead.
I also knew his parents expected me to breed him tonight.
Laughable.
They clearly didn't know their son.
And me knowing better… I knew that even touching a strand of his hair tonight wouldn't be possible.
The maid pulled out the chair beside me. His scent washed over me fully — a quiet hurricane — and I let it.
I'd never allowed another omega's scent to touch me like that. Ever. Usually, I'd be disgusted. But with him? I found myself accepting it. Welcoming it.
I let my eyes travel over him, taking in every detail like he was something sacred. He didn't shrink. He grounded himself beside me, and when his eyes met mine, there was no fear. Not even a flicker.
Other omegas tremble. Look away. Blush. Act shy.
But him?
The complete opposite.
He stared at me like I was a man, not a title. Like he wasn't one command away from being dragged to an underground cell.
And what was worse?
I knew I couldn't touch a single hair on his head. Not because I can't. Not because anyone would dare question me. But because I couldn't imagine myself doing that.
Because unlike anyone before him…
I don't want to hurt him.
We've met before — though I'm sure he doesn't remember. And if he ever does, he'll probably hate me more.
"What?" he asked when he realized I'd been staring without saying anything.
"Nothing," I replied. "Can't I assess my wife? I need to take in how ugly you are."
His reaction was immediate. A smirk.
"Oh? Ugly? Thanks. But your eyes say otherwise," he said, lashes fluttering effortlessly.
God. He was going to be the death of me.
The real reason I agreed to the marriage? Not power. Not duty.
It was him.
When my parents mentioned the arranged match they'd been trying to push on me for ages, he was the only one who caught my interest when they showed me pictures and reports.
Because the memory of his eyes from our past meeting was already burned into me.
He left a mark.
That fierce glare. That sharp tongue. It twisted its way into my chest and never really left.
And when they finally offered him as another arranged option I was already planning to reject… my pulse spiked when I saw him.
It felt like a jackpot.
"Don't flatter yourself," I said. "Me looking doesn't mean you look good."
He scoffed.
"And I can break that little composure of yours with just a look," I added.
"Oh really? I dare you to try," he said, staring straight into my soul.
Oh, how I wanted to kiss that fierce little mouth.
"You're bold," I murmured, watching him pour orange juice with calm elegance.
Picking up his glass, he sipped gently — elegant, like he was negotiating business between stakeholders and not sitting beside me in pajamas.
"I'm more than bold," he replied. "I can be very heartless too."
"Oh really?" I smirked. "I'm looking forward to that."
My gaze dropped from his jaw to his throat… his collarbone… the open cut of his satin shirt. Everything inside me ached to see and feel the rest.
Then he said—
"You called me here to eat… or are you planning to starve me to death?"
He didn't shift. Didn't blink.
"Because I had to prepare for your wedding… I haven't eaten since early this morning."
My wedding?
Not ours?
Hah.
He really said your, like he was just another guest doing me a favor by showing up.
Fascinating.
I chuckled quietly, amused.
Without another word, I signaled the maids, and they began serving the food.
He tried to hide it, but I saw the tiny smile of relief.
Slender fingers reached for the fork. He cut into the meat gently… and took a bite. Quiet. Composed.
I watched him.
I've got a long way to go.
To earn his comfort.
To make him feel safe here.
To unravel the pattern of control he's been wrapped in since birth and show him:
No one here will force him to submit.
If he ever does — he'll do it willingly.
And when he does?
God help me…
I'll already be his.