Claimed by the scarred Alpha

CÉLINE

He shook his head. The movement was sharp and dismissive. He crossed the space between us faster than I’d expected. His frame loomed over mine even though age had stolen inches from his height.

"You are trying to help yourself." Spit flew from his lips. "Just like you were when you told Theodore to follow his heart rather than the rules. My rules."

"I am not the reason Theodore chose to take his life."

The statement hung in the air between us. Truth wrapped in pain that never quite healed, no matter how many years passed.

"That is because of you." I did not stop. Even as his hand came up. "Because of how much you made him hate the thought of disappointing you."

The slap connected with my cheek. My head snapped to the side. Pain bloomed hot and sharp across my face. I tasted copper where my teeth had cut into the inside of my mouth.

I kept staring at him. Tears poured down my face now. I couldn’t stop them anymore. But I didn’t look away. I didn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing me crumble.

"I do not know what you are talking about." His voice shifted again. The confusion was back. "Theodore is fine and just got married. Remember?"

The whiplash of it made my stomach turn. He’d just been accusing me of driving my brother to suicide. Now he was acting as if Theodore were alive and well somewhere on the estate.

"You would rather have a stranger rogue hold power than me. Why?"

He pushed at my head with his finger. Each jab felt like punctuation marks in a sentence I’d heard my entire life.

He did not answer my question. Instead, he said; "This is what happens when a woman stays unmarried for so long."

His finger pressed harder against my temple. Like he was trying to push the thought directly into my brain through sheer force.

"I think it is time we start looking for suitors for you."

I smiled. The expression felt like cracking ice across my face. "Well, you know best, Father."

"I do."

His hand dropped away from my head. He turned and moved toward the chair near the fireplace. His steps were unsteady. He lowered himself into it with the kind of careful movement that suggested his joints hurt.

I stood frozen for a moment. My cheek throbbed where he’d struck me. The tears had stopped falling, but the tracks they’d left felt cold against my skin.

"I will go make your second cup."

He waved his hand dismissively. Already losing interest in my presence now that the confrontation had passed.

I returned to the dresser. My hands moved automatically. Selecting pills. Dropping them into a fresh cup. Adding water from the jug. The herbs went in next. A similar bitter-smelling powder I’d used in the first cup.

Then my hand went to my braid.

My fingers found the small vial I’d woven into the plait that morning. It sat hidden among the strands. Small enough that no one would notice unless they knew to look for it. The glass felt smooth and warm against my scalp.

I pulled it free carefully. The braid loosened slightly but held its shape well enough.

The vial’s contents were clear. Almost like water. You wouldn’t know what it was just by looking. That was the point.

I held it over the cup. My thumb pressed against the tiny stopper. It came free with a soft pop that seemed too loud in the quiet room.

The liquid dropped into the cup. It hit the surface with barely a sound. Then it started to sizzle.

I watched the reaction with detached fascination. Tiny bubbles formed where the liquid met the herbs. They rose to the surface and popped in rapid succession.

The sizzling stopped after maybe ten seconds. The liquid had dissolved completely. No trace remained except for a faint film on the surface of the water that would disappear the moment anyone stirred it.

I picked up the cup and turned back to my father.

He sat in his chair staring at nothing. His hands rested on the armrests. His breathing came slow and even. The dementia had pulled him somewhere else. Somewhere I couldn’t follow.

"Here, Father." I crossed the room and held out the cup. "Your second dose."

His eyes focused on me slowly. Recognition flickered again. "You are a good daughter, Céline."

The words should have meant something. It should have brought comfort or satisfaction or any emotion besides the hollow emptiness that lived in my chest.

"I know."

He took the cup from my hands, brought it to his lips, and drank deeply without question or hesitation. Trust was such a dangerous thing. He’d spent my entire life teaching me that lesson through cruelty, criticism, and impossible standards.

Now he was learning it himself.

He finished the contents and handed the cup back. "That tastes different today."

"The healers changed your medicine, perhaps." The lie came easily. "They did say they were trying new remedies to help with the confusion."

"Good." He settled back into his chair. "I hate being confused."

I moved back to the dresser and set the cup down among the others. My reflection stared back at me from the small mirror hanging on the wall. The red mark on my cheek stood out against my pale skin. It would bruise if I was any weaker through blood.

"I should let you rest." I turned toward the door. "Breakfast will be ready soon."

"Send Theodore to see me soon." My father’s voice followed me across the room. "I cannot wait to meet his new bride properly. Make her ready for me. Make sure she understands what is expected of a Valcourt Luna."

My hand closed around the door handle. "Of course, Father."

"And Céline?"

I paused but didn’t turn around. "Yes?"

"Wear something more appropriate next time. White makes you look washed out."

I pulled the door open and stepped into the hallway. The two Omegas still waited nearby. Their eyes went immediately to my face. To the red mark that was probably already darkening.

"He is resting now." I straightened my shoulders. "No need to bother him."

I then walked away before either could respond. My footsteps echoed against the marble floors. The empty vial sat heavy in my pocket where I’d slipped it after adding its contents to the cup.

The white dress felt like a costume now. Something I wore to play a role that had been written for me before I was born. Dutiful daughter... Unmarried woman... Someone who existed in the spaces between men and their ambitions.

But roles could be rewritten. Scripts could be changed. All it took was patience and the willingness to do what needed doing when the moment arrived.