The sun had shifted by the time Lucas stepped into the study.
Long shadows striped the floor, drawn by the slant of gold light that filtered through the high arched windows. The room was quiet, save for the soft tick of a vintage wall clock and the distant rustle of ivy brushing against the glass.
A thick folder sat waiting for him on the desk—unassuming, clipped with gold tabs, the seal of House D'Argente embossed in the upper corner.
He closed the door behind him and approached slowly.
The air smelled of old paper and sandalwood, a trace of Serathine's presence lingering like the echo of a weapon already drawn. No guards. No advisors. Not even David. She'd made sure he'd be alone for this.
Lucas sat.
For a long time, he just stared at the contract, his hands clenching firmly against the desk, leaving his knuckles white.
The silence of the study thickened.
Lucas didn't open the folder.
Not yet.
His fingers remained pressed against the dark wood of the desk, the grain beneath his skin the only thing grounding him. His knuckles had gone pale from the pressure, tendons drawn tight. The contract sat there like a sealed tomb, waiting to be pried open.
He didn't need to read it to know what it was.
He remembered.
Not the exact language. Not the legal phrasing. But the weight. The consequence. The moment everything changed, quietly, beneath the surface of a life already full of compromises.
The folder was thick but neat—cream cardstock, embossed edges. The contract inside wasn't written in elegant script; it was printed. Clean. Cold. Pages clipped into a sleek binding, like the record of a purchase order rather than the dismantling of a boy's future.
He didn't touch it at first. Just stared.
His hands were clenched on the desk, knuckles pale, the edge of his thumb digging into the meat of his palm.
He remembered how it felt, not to read it, but to feel it. Not the language, not the legal phrasing—but the weight. The consequence. The moment everything had changed quietly, below the surface of a life already bent by compromise.
It had been the second year of their so-called bond.
One failed heat after another. One accusation after the next.
He remembered Christian's rage.
The contract was thrown across the room like a declaration of uselessness.
"What use are you if you can't even give me an heir?"
Lucas reached for the folder. His fingers trembled, but he didn't stop. His thumb brushed the corner of the first page. The paper bent slightly beneath the pressure.
He began to read.
'This agreement constitutes the formal transfer of omega custodial authority from Mistelle Kilmer to the designated head of House Velloran. All decisions pertaining to heat cycle management, bond approval, fertility planning, and mating arrangements shall henceforth be subject to House Velloran oversight.'
He swallowed hard.
There was no mention of his name after the first paragraph. No Lucas. No boy. No person. Just "the omega."
Like a function. A title. A piece in a vault.
He turned the page.
'Clause 6b: Should the omega fail to present during the natural cycle by age twenty-two, hormonal induction shall be permitted under medical authority.'
'Clause 8: Consent from the omega shall not be required for initial bond attempts if the custodial claim remains uncontested.'
Lucas stopped.
The world narrowed into a single pulse behind his eyes.
These clauses…
Christian Velloran had come into his life after his twenty-two birthday; he believed that Ophelia had told Misty that he had his heat and was sold. But with clause 6b…
…it didn't matter.
Lucas stared at the words.
It didn't matter when he had his first heat. It didn't matter that he'd hidden it, delayed it, suppressed it with every scrap of control he had as a teenager trying to keep some piece of himself untouched. Because with Clause 6b, they had the legal right to manufacture one.
To drag him into it chemically.
To induce a cycle on their schedule.
To engineer his body to suit the contract they had signed without his consent.
His stomach turned.
He remembered the injections. He hadn't understood them then. The sharp cold of the needle. The dull fog in his head. The way his skin flushed with fever and his mind dissolved into instinct—and how Christian had appeared at the door with perfect timing
It was never an accident.
It had been planned.
Sanctioned.
Paid for.
He turned to Clause 8 again.
'Consent from the omega shall not be required for initial bond attempts if the custodial claim remains uncontested.'
His hands curled tightly around the edge of the page, the paper creasing beneath his grip.
He hadn't fought it.
He hadn't known what to fight.
They'd put a collar on him wrapped in silk and called it protection. They'd offered kindness with conditions buried in fine print. And when he broke, when he bled, when he cried in a soundproof room and begged for it to stop—no one had listened. Because legally, they didn't have to.
Christian hadn't needed his yes.
And now he knew why.
Lucas stood, the chair sliding back with a soft scrape against the polished floor. The contract sat open on the desk behind him, the pages still fluttering slightly from his last motion, like a creature trying to breathe.
He hadn't even realized he was crying until the tears dripped onto the paper—his paper, his body, his life dissected in numbered clauses and sterile font. A contract pretending to be care. A cage pretending to be protection.
And all this time, he had blamed himself.
Lucas's chest trembled as he stared at the words again, blurred now by the wetness staining the edge of Clause 6b.
They had planned for his body to fail. Had signed away every right to his consent, to his choice, to his dignity. And when it did fail—when the forced heats produced nothing—he was punished. Not because of bad luck. Not because of weakness. But because he had tried to escape the system before, they could chain him to it.
His body hadn't betrayed him.
They had.
He had thought it was the suppressants. Thought it was the years he'd spent hiding his nature, suppressing the instincts, denying the heat that whispered threats and shame into his bones. He thought he had broken himself.
But it wasn't him.
It was them.
Christian, with his cold smile and perfect timing. Misty, who sold him twice and still claimed motherhood like it was something earned. And the contract—legal and obscene—sitting on the desk like proof of every nightmare he'd tried to forget.
Lucas let out a low breath, unsteady.
They treated him like he was less than a mare. Because even a mare is kept healthy, valued for what she can produce.
He was used, corrected, and then discarded.
He wiped his face with the back of his hand, slow and mechanical. No panic now. Just grief. A grief so old it felt like it belonged to someone else—but he was the one who carried it.
A click of the door opening made him raise his head. Sera was in the door with a bowl of ice cream.
"Bribe." She said, raising the bowl.
She didn't step inside right away. Just stood in the doorway like she knew something fragile was still unfolding in the air—like if she moved too fast, it might shatter.
Lucas blinked at her, eyes red but dry now. The contract still lay open behind him, the pages spread like an autopsy. He didn't hide it. Didn't even move to close it.
Sera took one look at his face, then crossed the threshold with her usual grace—heels soft against the carpet, bowl held like an offering.
"I debated alcohol," she said lightly, placing the bowl on the edge of the desk, far from the stained pages. "But it's barely noon and I do have standards."
Lucas let out a breath—not quite a laugh, but not nothing either.
"Sugar's safer," he murmured, voice rough around the edges. "You're right."
Sera nodded, brushing a stray curl behind her ear as she leaned slightly against the desk. She didn't ask if he was all right. Didn't comment on the tears. Just let the silence settle.
Lucas looked at the ice cream. Vanilla again, with crushed toffee and caramel spiraled like gold thread across the top.
"You remembered," he said, almost under his breath.
Sera raised an eyebrow. "Of course. I may collect lost things, but I remember what they like."
Lucas lowered himself slowly back into the chair. He picked up the spoon, letting the cool metal rest against his fingers before digging into the bowl.
One bite. Cold, sweet, sharp.
It grounded him better than anything else could.
"I read it," he said eventually, tone even.
"I assumed." Sera's voice didn't soften. If anything, it sharpened. "And?"
He turned his head just slightly, enough to meet her gaze.
"I want the contract destroyed and the people that made it with it," he said.