If you were given the choice between remaining inside all day with a novel, losing yourself in pages of adventure and escape, or stepping outside to wander alone, talking to the wind and your own echoing thoughts, you'd pick what suited you best. If novels were your sanctuary, you'd curl up by the fire. If conversation fueled your soul, you'd seek out a friend. Some might even blend the two. But choices are such simple, luxurious things.
Now imagine a starker dilemma: forced to choose between marrying a stranger—a man shrouded in dark rumors, already bound to another, making you his second mate—or remaining in the stifling confines of your parents' home. This man, twice your age, known for his ruthlessness. Whispers painted him as a tyrant who had built a harem only to dismantle it, leaving just one survivor. A man despised by all, called the devil, the demon. King Alaric Voss of Larkin, the Black Wolf. And you would be his concubine, not even a noble consort, though the title promised a life of opulence.
Which would you choose? The unknown horror of that union, or the familiar cage of your family's indifference?
You'd cling to home. To peace, if it existed there. To comfort, where you could pretend to be yourself. But you can choose because choice is your birthright. Mine was stripped away long before I even learned of this betrothal. My future had been etched in stone, decided in smoke-filled council rooms where my name was just a pawn. I was the price of peace—a treaty to end the decades-long war between Valerion and Larkin, a war that had soaked the borderlands in blood for longer than I had been alive.
I should be terrified, shouldn't I? Quaking in these silk trousers, tears streaming down my painted cheeks. I should fall to my knees before my parents, begging them to reconsider. As if. They didn't care. They never had. This palace, with its towering spires and endless corridors, had never been a home. All I'd known was torment—endless bullying from family and courtiers alike, their sneers like barbs in my flesh. I was less than nothing, a shadow in my own life. Even the slaves held more value—they had tasks, routines, a semblance of purpose. I was the overlooked omega, the spare heir no one wanted. Too willful, too strange, too much of everything they despised.
They despised my long red hair—a color no one else in Valerion possessed. They despised my mismatched eyes, one green, one blue. The people of Valerion were uniformly blonde with green eyes, like my brother, like my parents, like every noble who had ever looked at me as if I were a curse. I was the aberration, the wrong-colored bird in a nest of gold. And they never let me forget it.
The air in my chamber hung heavy with the scent of beeswax candles and the faint, unfamiliar perfume of the oils they had rubbed into my skin. It was a cloying mix—lavender for calm, they said, though it did nothing to still the storm inside me. I stood before the full-length mirror, its gilded frame tarnished at the edges from years of neglect, and stared at the figure gazing back. Was that truly me? The second prince of Valerion, dressed in white like some sacrificial lamb on his wedding day.
White, the color every omega wore for their bonding ceremony. Purity, submission, a blank canvas for the alpha to claim. My top was a masterpiece of lace, delicate threads woven into patterns of swirling vines and half-bloomed flowers that hugged my shoulders and chest, leaving hints of skin visible beneath like forbidden secrets. It felt light, almost weightless, yet it bound me tighter than any chain. The bottom—trousers of plain white silk—flowed straight and unadorned to my ankles. A long veil rested on a nearby stand, ready to be draped over my head, its sheer fabric embroidered with silver threads that would catch the light like falling snow.
I tilted my head, watching the way my long red hair gleamed under the candlelight. It had been gathered into an intricate updo, curls pinned with jeweled combs of pearl and sapphire, each stone cold against my scalp. Makeup adorned my face for the first time in my life—subtle rouge on my cheeks to mimic a natural flush, kohl lining my mismatched eyes to make the green deeper and the blue brighter. My lips bore a soft tint, the color of crushed berries. I looked beautiful. Ethereal. Like a prince from one of those fairy tales whispered in the servants' quarters. But beauty was a weapon here, or perhaps a curse.
As the second prince of a kingdom as vast and unforgiving as Valerion, one might assume I had been pampered, draped in finery from birth. Yet I had nothing. No luxuries, no affections.
This transformation was not born of my family's generosity but of the king's command. He—the man I was to wed—had sent his own attendants to prepare me. They had crafted these clothes, applied this makeup, even asked for my preferences on the wedding details as if my opinion mattered. What style of lace? What jewels for my hair? I had mumbled responses, too shocked to argue.
King Alaric Voss. The Black Wolf of Larkin. I had never seen his face, only heard the nightmares whispered in dark corners. I was being sent to his bed to seal a peace I did not believe in, to become a second consort in a kingdom that had every reason to hate mine.
But as I stared at my reflection—red hair, mismatched eyes, the face of a boy who had never belonged anywhere—I realized something strange. I was not afraid of leaving Valerion. I was afraid of what waited in Larkin. And yet, between the devil I knew and the devil I didn't...
At least the northern devil had sent nice lace.