Chapter 5 - The Indentured Omega
Davian’s golden eyes locked onto Dorothy with terrifying intensity. "Explain," he commanded softly.
Dorothy took a deep breath, sitting down on a low wooden stool near the small fire. The warmth felt good against her cold skin, but the weight of the King's stare made her blood run hot.
"My father owes three thousand silver marks to the crown collectors," she explained, her voice low. "He gambled away his timber rights, his home, and his life. Collector Voss came yesterday. Lord Silas Blackwood bought my contract. Five years of domestic service in his personal estate to clear the debt."
Davian’s lip curled into a dangerous sneer. "Silas Blackwood does not take omegas for 'domestic service,' girl. He uses them as leverage, breaks them in his dungeons, or feeds them to his enforcers when he is finished."
"I know the stories," Dorothy whispered, her jaw tightening. "I had no choice. My father would have been sent to the silver mines. He wouldn't have survived the winter."
Davian leaned back against the straw, watching her closely. "Your father sold you to save his own miserable skin, and you took the quill to save his?"
"He is my father," she said defensively.
"He is a coward," Davian corrected flatly, his voice carrying the absolute authority of a monarch. "A father who trades his blood for tavern coin is lower than a rogue wolf. And you are a fool for signing."
"I am an unshifted omega!" Dorothy flared, standing up from her stool, her eyes flashing with sudden rage. "I have no wolf! I have no scent! I am infertile! According to the laws of your kingdom, I am worth less than a draft horse! What other value do I have besides buying my father’s life?"
Davian stared at her.
He did not flinch from her anger. Instead, he rose slowly from the hay, wrapping the wool blanket around his waist. Even wounded, his presence was overwhelming. He walked toward her, his bare feet making no sound on the dusty floorboards, until he stood mere inches from her.
Dorothy had to tilt her head far back to meet his eyes.
Davian reached out. His large, rough hand, covered in light calluses, gently took her small chin. His touch was warm—so hot it felt like a brand on her cold skin. He lifted her face, forcing her to look straight into the golden depths of his gaze.
"The healers who judged you were fools," Davian said, his voice dropping to a low, rough rumble. "The pack that cast you aside is weak. I am King Davian of the Silver Court. I have led thousands of wolves into battle. I have smelled the scent of warriors, lords, and kings."
He bent down, his lips brushing the shell of her ear as he inhaled deeply.
Dorothy’s breath hitched. A strange, electrifying shockwave shot down her spine—a feeling she had never experienced in her entire life. It felt as though something dormant inside her chest, something deep and frozen, gave a sudden, violent twitch.
"Your scent is not weak," Davian whispered against her skin. "It is buried under ice. But beneath the ice... I smell a fire that could burn this entire mountain to ash."
He pulled back, his golden eyes burning into hers. "You saved my life, Dorothy Thorne. Under crown law, a royal debt supersedes all private contracts. Silas Blackwood does not own you. Voss does not own you. Your father does not own you."
"The contract is signed," Dorothy said, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. "Voss has the parchment. The transport wagon comes in two days."
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Davian’s smile was a cold, terrifying thing.
"Let them come," the King growled softly. "I will be waiting."
