"Did you miss me so much?"
Emira jolted awake, her breath catching as the words reached her ears. She blinked rapidly, trying to convince herself it had been a dream, but no, those calm, amused grey eyes looking down at her told her otherwise. Prince Zen was there, leaning close, smiling as though he had been watching her for a long time.
"Your... your highness," she stammered, her voice barely above a whisper.
The man’s smile deepened, and he tapped the tip of her nose with one finger, as though she were a child caught doing something mischievous. "What? You’re stuttering now? And blushing too?" His tone was teasing, but there was a weight behind it that made her pulse race. "Tell me, little fire, what were you dreaming about?"
Emira’s cheeks burned hotter. She shook her head quickly, refusing to meet his eyes. "I wasn’t dreaming," she blurted, too fast, too defensively.
Zen chuckled under his breath, the sound low and knowing. He caught her wrist before she could move, his fingers wrapping around hers with unyielding ease. "Really?" he murmured, lifting a brow as his gaze dropped. "Because your hand seems to suggest otherwise."
Her eyes widened, confusion flashing before realization struck. Slowly, almost fearfully, she followed the direction of his gaze- down to where her hand was resting. Her fingers curled as though burned the moment she noticed. They weren’t on the sheets, weren’t folded against her chest as she had thought. No, her palm was pressed against the firm rise of his chest, right over his heartbeat.
Emira gasped, her body stiffening as the shock tore through her. Why—why was her hand there? Her breath caught as her gaze dropped again, unwilling yet unable to look away. Her palm rested firmly against the hard plane of his chest, and even as she stared, her fingers seemed to curl tighter, brushing over the warmth of his flesh through the thin fabric. Her eyes widened further, and she was certain they were about to fall out of her face.
Move, she ordered herself. Pull back. Let go.
But her body betrayed her. The command never reached her hand, or perhaps the connection between her mind and her fingers had been severed entirely, because no matter how desperately she willed it, her hand refused to move. It was as if her palm had been rooted to him, locked in place by some unseen force that neither her shame nor her panic could break.
Her lips parted, searching for words that would not come. In a last, awkward attempt to save herself, Emira lifted her free hand and tugged at her trapped wrist, forcing it away from his chest. Heat scorched her cheeks as she dropped her gaze, her voice stumbling out in a low, apologetic rush.
"Sorry, Your Highness."
Prince Zen’s laughter rolled out, rich and unhurried, as though the entire situation amused him far more than it should. He tilted his head slightly, his grey eyes glinting, and leaned close enough to tap her nose again, the playful gesture at odds with the power he carried in his presence.
"It is entirely my pleasure, little fire," he said, his voice warm and teasing, though the weight of command lingered beneath it. "Now that you are awake, you can freshen up and come out. We will be leaving for the pack soon, and before that, you need to understand some rules."
At his words, Emira lowered her gaze at once. She did not trust herself to meet his eyes. Her hands, freed now, clenched tightly at her sides, trembling with the effort to still them. Rules. She knew that word well.
At the top stood the Alpha, followed closely by his family. Their word was law, their will absolute.
Below them came the ranked wolves and the warriors, like the enforcers and Betas, who served as second-in-command, and then the Gammas, who enforced order and discipline within the pack. After that were the warriors and their families, those tasked with fighting, guarding, and bleeding for the safety of the others.
And at the very bottom, always at the bottom, were the omegas like her.
Hurriedly, she nodded and watched as Prince Kael jumped out of bed and walked out of the bedroom.
As ordered, Emira hurriedly freshened up and moved to go outside, pausing at the dress that had been kept for her to wear today. This was as beautiful as the one yesterday but there was something unsettling about it... and as she stared at herself in the mirror, Emira knew what it was.
She stared at the dress laid out before her, fingers brushing over the fine fabric as though touching it might explain why it unsettled her so deeply. From the neck to the knees, it was modest, elegant, and beautiful—just as carefully chosen as the one she had worn yesterday. Yet her unease grew the longer she looked.
It wasn’t the color. It wasn’t the texture. It was the slit.
On the left side, the fabric parted cleanly from neck to shoulder, running deep enough that her skin would show whenever she moved.
And not just any part of her skin. The slit seemed positioned deliberately to expose the mark carved into her flesh—the jagged trail of three deep claw scars along the neck. The brand of her enslavement.
Emira froze, her chest tightening as though someone had tightened invisible chains around her ribs. It wasn’t as if she would deliberately try to hide the scars but showing them off like this also felt wrong, somehow.
Now, as her reflection stared back at her from the mirror, the fine fabric only drew more attention to the truth she wanted to conceal. The beauty of the dress clashed with the ugliness of her scars, and yet somehow it framed them perfectly, like a cruel display meant to remind her of her place.
Her fingers tightened around the fabric, knuckles paling. Was this intentional? Or was it a simple coincidence?
Had Prince Zen chosen this dress to make sure she never forgot what she was?