Prologue
Rosalind
“DAUGHTER, MAY I present to you, Prince Aramis of Torvan.”
My father, the King, makes this announcement with a beaming smile, like I should be impressed with my suitor’s credentials.
I’m not impressed. This is the fourth noble I’ve suffered an introduction to within my father’s study. A parade forced upon me from the day my scent changed. I welcome the introduction as much as I welcome the ensuing pomp and ceremony.
Which is to say, I don’t welcome it at all.
I study Aramis through narrowed, jaundiced eyes. A little brutish, with storm-grey eyes and a military bearing, he cuts an imposing figure. His choice of attire is worthy of note. Leather pants molded to muscular thighs and leather jerkin armor, which, although spotless, lend further evidence to the tales of his barbaric life.
When my perusal of the male offering himself as a suitor returns to his face, I concede that he is handsome, in a rough, uncivilized sort of way.
My father clears his throat.
“A pleasure, Rosa,” Aramis says, performing a formal bow that is not swift enough to hide his smirk.
“Rosa?” I reply, voice ripe with incredulity. Only my closest family dare to call me as such. I hear my father’s soft, distressed groan, but I’m incensed by the presumptuousness of Aramis and don’t care to temper my response. My eyes narrow—Aramis raises a single brow. He’s not a man, I remind myself, he’s an Alpha, and my recent acquaintance with their kind has set a firm determination that they are all much enamored with their own importance and arrogant to the core.
“My name is Princess Rosalind.” My voice has a high, waspish quality that I do not recognize.
“I’ll leave you to get acquainted,” my father says, already making strides toward his study door.
“Rosa,” Aramis repeats as though savoring the word. He dares to wink at me as he takes my hand within his while I’m still wallowing in shock. “I believe it suits your sweet disposition so much better than Rosalind.”
CHAPTER ONE
Two months later…
Rosalind
CIVILIZED.
That is the word that comes to mind as I gaze out across the ballroom. Silken gowns in every color of the rainbow, dazzling jewels that sparkle in the lamplight, and dashing gentlemen in smart, dark suits.
A string quartet weaves a melody between the laughter and subtle din of conversation. Beyond the dance floor, the open balcony doors bring the balmy summer breeze and the sweet scent of honeysuckle to wrap around the swaying dancers. On the periphery, men talk, and fans flutter as ladies, old and young, cool faces heated as much from the attention of suitors as the dancing.
Civilized.
On the surface, at least.
I stand in the shadow of my mother, the Queen. Dark hair with a touch of pure white at her temples, she is the embodiment of regal. She is taller than me by a head and shoulders, as are most people within this room. I’m the third born of five, and my parents’ only Omega child. My whole life has been one of indulgence… until my scent changed.
Now every Beta woman sees me as a threat. Where once the castle women might have offered me a smile, now furtive glances and hushed whispers greet me daily.
Their superstitions make little sense. My scent may be enticing to a Beta male, but it will certainly not drive them mad with lust—unlike an Alpha.
It matters not that I’ve no interest in any male, be they Alpha or Beta. I have become a prisoner of our home, allowed out only under the watch of my parents’ most trusted escorts.
“Stephan is a good man,” my mother says, head inclining meaningfully toward the tall blond Alpha. She is fishing for an answer to the burning question that has been the talk of the castle. “But so is Brent?” She smiles brightly, like it might make the conversation more palatable.
Stephan is a good man, but he’s also a weak Alpha, and a part of me recoils. Brent is neither a good man nor a good Alpha, and I would sooner live with a pig.
Over the last two months it has become painfully apparent that my parents care not which Alpha I choose so long as I choose one.
“My dear, you need to pick a suitor,” my mother chides softly when I give no answer.
My fan is put to good use cooling my face heated from neither dancing nor the attention of a gallant man.
It is anger that brings a flush to my cheeks; the ever ticking clock never stops taking me forward in unavoidable increments toward my doom.
Across the sea lies the Imperium. There, I’ve been told, a single Omega is given over to the care of several Alphas—three or four is not uncommon.
I shudder.
Thank the Goddess that I do not live in such a barbarous kingdom. Here it’s only one Alpha to which I must submit.
One is more than enough.
“Why?” The word is a hiss passing my lips.
Her face softens as though in understanding. Yet she knows nothing of how I feel. My father, her one and only suitor, was her childhood love, and they were betrothed from the age of six. The Goddess smiled with kindness upon my mother’s life. She knew nothing of suitors then. Just as she knows nothing of suitors now.
“If you do not pick, my dear, your father will.” The same encouraging tone even though I’ve disobeyed them and taken far longer than is socially acceptable in this matter.
The tone does nothing to soften the blow delivered by those words: my fan stills, the fragile accessory straining under my fierce grip.
Civilized? No, there is nothing civilized about this grand ballroom, nor the many suitors who vie for my hand.
My eyes flash to meet my mother’s. They are the same eyes I see when I look in the mirror, just a few more lines gracing the corners. Laughter lines, for my mother smiles and laughs often, at least she used to. Of late, she has not laughed so much, and I know that I’m the cause.
I must choose.
Only words, yet they trap me as effectively as a vise, whiting out the lively tune and conversation and bringing a tightness to my chest. She has never spoken the words before, never admitted my dire fate.
I want the words taken back so that the ignorance might linger longer.
This will be my last all-summer party within my home and castle. The ticking clock tells me I’ll not make it to the autumn harvest.
As I meet my mother’s steady gaze, I realize that my time is counted in hours rather than days.
“I know.” I lower my lashes. “I will give my answer tomorrow.”
“My dear child,” she says, drawing me into her arms, filling my lungs with the scent of lilies. It comforts me, but it is a false comfort, for tomorrow, I must choose. “The Goddess made you an Omega. She has blessed you a thousand times, Rosa. I promise she will not abandon one so cherished. These nerves will pass once you are bound and mated.”
Mated, such an ugly, vulgar word that makes me sound no better than a beast. Omegas do not engage in marriage like a Beta couple might do. Omegas are a throwback to an era when all humans were shifters, and we lived like animals in caves.
Omegas.
They tell me I’m a coveted prize.
In truth, I’m a nuisance, and they cannot wait for me to leave.
I smile, projecting brightness that I do not feel. “Tomorrow,” I say. “Let me have this night.”