Bound by Secrets and Shadows

Chapter 1

The marketplace buzzed with life as the vibrant sounds of clinking glasses and chatter filled the air. Waitstaff hurried past, almost colliding with a group of glamorous dancers swaying in extravagant skirts, their heavy perfumes blending into an intoxicating fog that hung over the scene.
"This is my first time using this device, so it might sting a little. Just bear with me," said Lucius Bennett, his voice low and reassuring as he positioned a piercing gun against Alaric Winters' earlobe. The metal felt cold against his skin, and the sharp pain that followed made him flinch, causing his tightly shut eyelids to tremble.
Seated on a low stool in a dimly lit corner, Alaric nodded willingly, though his heart raced with uncertainty. The piercing was not just for decoration; it was a tracking device. With his ear pierced, Alaric could now feel something deeper settling within him—a fear of being trapped.
Alaric opened his eyes to find Lucius watching him, a mix of concern and regret on his face. "It’s all right now," Lucius said with a small, comforting smile. "You’ll get used to it."
Lucius, a beta working at the marketplace, wore a uniform similar to Alaric’s, though Alaric’s was new and pristine. They weren’t familiar with one another—Lucius had been tasked by a higher authority—but there was an unspoken understanding that linked them in this moment of desperation.
Silently, Alaric mouthed a thank you, urging Lucius to proceed with caution.
As Alaric stepped into the marketplace’s main hall, the overwhelming scent of omega pheromones nearly knocked him off his feet. If not for the suppressants he had taken, he would have crumbled to the ground. The place was an underground bar, far from the orderly structure of Capital City. Here, in this chaotic realm known as Desolate Star Sharo, alphas flaunted their dominance, and omegas were nothing more than prey.
The dim lighting couldn't hide Alaric's allure. He stood out, even in a crowd that looked like it was featured in a high-fashion magazine. The makeshift earrings were poorly constructed, but they accentuated his beauty, turning him into a dazzling gem amongst the rough stones.
He took a step forward; instantly, dozens of hungry eyes locked onto him. It was as if he could physically feel them marking him as their next target.
---
**Alaric's Escape**
Alaric Winters had always been pampered. Burdened by the impending arrangement to marry a mysterious prince from the Imperial Royal Family, he had decided to escape the clutches of his predetermined fate. Aboard a ship, he thought he'd found a way out, but fate had other plans. His ship crash-landed on this desolate rock, and now, he was at the mercy of this unfamiliar world.
Though he was terrified, the thought of yielding to a life he didn’t choose filled him with renewed determination. Outside, he had tried to earn a living through odd jobs, but fate threw another wrench in his plans—he was discovered by none other than General Maximilian Stone, the Empire's top commander.
Caught in the act of trying to flee yet again, Alaric was shackled and taken onboard the general's vessel. He felt humiliated but also uneasy as he found himself in close proximity to someone so powerful.
"Come on, there's no need for that," Alaric protested as the shiny handcuffs clinked around his wrists.
"Just safety measures, little one," the general's voice was low and smooth, hiding the menace beneath. "You've yet to understand how the stakes are raised around here."
Yet amid the harshness, there was something—some unseen connection—that pulled him toward the sharp-eyed general. Though initially wanting to avoid him, Alaric felt a twinge of curiosity about the enigmatic alpha.
Days turned into weeks filled with fights of will and unexpected chemistry. The general loomed like an inescapable shadow, drawing Alaric in without him knowing why.
The first time he experienced the rush of heat—an omega’s body responding to an alpha—he was petrified. But one night, as the world outside spun into chaos, they found themselves together. Sir Cedric Hawthorne, the general’s true name, looked softer under the dim lights, his facade cracking just enough for Alaric to catch a glimpse of the man underneath.
“Who do you really wish to be with?” Cedric rasped, voice laced with desire and vulnerability.
Alaric pondered, momentarily lost. “He saved my life,” he stammered, suddenly doubting his prior reasoning.
Cedric chuckled darkly, “And so did I, many times.”
---
**The Engagement**
Soon, the time came for Cedric to publicly fulfill his obligations. He would attend an engagement party as a royal duty, and Alaric braced himself for the fallout. He was whisked away to an extravagant hall where festivity was nothing more than a thin veil over deep-rooted expectations.
The moment Alaric’s eyes fixed on Cedric, who stood tall amidst the glimmering lights, he felt something inside him shatter. There stood the man who encapsulated every fantasy of rebellion he had woven in his mind, engaged to someone else.
With Cedric’s announcement, silence fell over the room as he declared, “I cannot marry this woman.” Shock echoed through the gathering, eyes darting in disbelief, but Alaric was no longer a bystander.
What did he mean? Did Cedric's words hold a piece of hope?
Amongst the buzzing thoughts and chaos, he was confronted once more with his own desires, battling his fears. Just as he opened his mouth to shout the truth, arms grabbed him from behind and pulled him away.
Alaric glanced back at Cedric, and the look they exchanged spoke volumes—was love worth the risk?
As with all such moments, a banner flashed high above their heads, pulse racing in his heart—now that he understood what it meant to flee from societal chains, would he dare to chase after the truth of his heart?

Chapter 2

Alaric Winters adjusted his beret, allowing his tousled golden hair to cascade down and reveal a hint of his curly ponytail. Dressed in a white shirt tucked into suspenders over sleek pants, he looked almost like a tempting dessert come to life.
Yet, the people around him remained still, their indecision hinging on the black feather perched atop Alaric's hat. It marked him as someone of interest—a person either taken or in the midst of a transaction. To make a move against him would mean considering the potential consequences of angering those behind the deal.
Alaric walked with a slight limp, the injury in his leg slowing him down, but to passersby, it appeared he was merely a graceful Omega gliding through the crowd.
"Pick up the pace, will you?" a rough voice crackled insistently through his earpiece. The sudden sound startled Alaric, causing him to shudder involuntarily.
With clenched lips, he hurried his steps, though the increase in speed was minimal due to his injury.
Three days ago, Alaric had swiped the housekeeper's access card and bolted from Capital City—escaping for his life. In The Empire, few Omegas were skilled pilots, as it was not part of their core curriculum. Alaric's flying skills were limited, leading to a crash landing on this unfamiliar planet.
Although he managed to minimize the damage, he sustained injuries regardless.
While trapped in the cockpit, he gazed out at the expansive galaxy, resigned to the thought that he might become nothing more than cosmic dust. Just then, he noticed figures approaching, attempting to pry open the warped door.
Out of sheer desperation, Alaric smashed his wrist-mounted holo-computer against the ground, but the device was sturdily built and remained intact.
As alarms blared, a wave of terror surged through him—a strength he didn't know he possessed allowed him to rip off the broken controls and reduce the holo-computer to shards.
That device was his only proof of identity, containing a locator feature, but at that moment, he yearned for anonymity.
The shattered screen flickered defiantly one last time, stopping at a message:
"As a high-ranking Omega of the House of Lemont, it is your duty to mate. Do not act impulsively; remember, your first heat has yet to come."
—Darius Lemont
The glow faded, its flicker slowing like a drowning man's labored breath until it finally extinguished with a dull thud.
Alaric exhaled slowly, sweat-soaked strands of hair stuck to the side of his face. A fleeting smile broke through his exhaustion, giving him the lightness of a bird returning to the open sky. However, the freedom he craved was not yet within reach.
In the Great Hall, he spotted the silver-masked man he needed to transact with, seated by the window. He paused to ease the pain in his foot and, clutching a flask of mead, approached.
"Sir, may I offer you a drink? If you require special services, please speak to the manager at the front desk," Alaric recited the line, dictated by his earpiece, eagerly anticipating the man's response.
Concealed behind the mask, the man’s piercing gray eyes scrutinized him with an unsettling depth—a gaze deeper and more captivating than any Alaric had encountered before. His brow furrowed, transforming his expression into an intriguing landscape.
"Oh," the man’s voice rose, laced with amusement. "Special services require a trial run first."
Stuck in his thoughts, Alaric hesitated, listening as his earpiece urged him to comply. "Unbutton your shirt and hand him the pendant around your neck."
But Alaric realized he wasn't wearing anything underneath. He felt a wave of uncertainty wash over him. Despite his instincts to resist, the voice turned firm, even threatening. Taking a deep breath, he began to unfasten his shirt.
Certain transactions, he learned, needed to be hidden beneath the guise of something else. Understanding dawned on him—it was a cover for an illicit deal.
One button, two...
Soon, his pale chest was exposed, untouched by sunlight, the skin soft and unblemished. Alaric's movements slowed as he contemplated stopping, but the command in his earpiece persisted. "Continue."
Tension coiled in his gut, breath quickening as he bowed his head, aware the masked man was watching him intently. Even seated on a high stool, the man’s presence loomed over him, their eye levels meeting.
What would it feel like, he wondered, to be scrutinized so thoroughly? Time dragged on as Alaric’s fingers tightened around his collar; his mind raced as he unconsciously fidgeted with the buttons. Just as he teetered on the brink of indecision, the man spoke.
"You can stop now. Present it."
The man’s voice was rich and noble, a stark contrast to the coarse command in Alaric's earpiece.
Alaric looked up sharply, locking eyes with the man. There was no judgment there, just calm scrutiny—like examining a flower amidst a field.
Slowly, he unfastened the pendant from around his neck, revealing an ornate iron sphere disguised as jewelry.
The masked man, donning stylish black gloves, methodically opened its lid. Alaric's curiosity flared as he leaned forward for a better look.
Inside lay a white diamond-like crystal, shimmering alluringly under the lights—most would mistake it for a rare gemstone. However, Alaric froze, recognition washing over him.
He knew this substance; it was called "White Lumen," rarer than gold and heavily restricted in private transactions within The Empire. The rights to it lay tightly controlled by the War Department and primarily allocated for military spacecraft energy.
Engaging in a private trade for "White Lumen" was tantamount to rebellion, largely necessary only to former members of The Free Legion, a faction nearly eradicated by The Empire a decade prior. Whispers hinted that they were resurfacing.
The masked man regarded the crystal, and as his gaze returned to Alaric, it held a new depth—a complex mixture of intrigue and expectation, one that Alaric, head bowed, was unaware of.

Chapter 3

“Take me to see your boss,” the man said calmly, his tone devoid of panic, as if he were merely requesting a cup of coffee.
Alaric Winters, however, felt the weight of the situation. The man in front of him likely belonged to the notorious Free Legion. The boss running this marketplace was definitely not a kind-hearted soul. Trapped between danger ahead and behind, Alaric felt the walls closing in.
He pressed his thin lips together, barely noticing the anxiety spilling out around him, saturating the air with the subtle scent of orris flower.
The masked man must have sensed Alaric's tension. He rose to his full height, casting an imposing shadow over the smaller man.
“Is there a problem?” he asked, his voice low and threatening.
Just then, Alaric's earpiece blared to life. “Get him over here, damn it! Are you deaf?”
Surrounding waitstaff appeared to receive orders, turning their heads in Alaric's direction.
Moments before despair took over, chaos erupted.
In an instant, the table in front of him was flipped over, and a cold handcuff snapped around Alaric's wrist, pinning him harshly against the corner of the table and wall.
He froze momentarily before the masked man shoved him roughly, forcing his head down.
The laughter and chatter that filled the space suddenly gave way to shouts and mayhem.
Patrons nearby sprang into action, shedding their disguises to reveal military insignia on their shoulders. They transformed into armed soldiers, clashing violently with the marketplace's bouncers. Terrified waitstaff huddled together, screaming amidst the chaos, feeling the blood spraying onto them.
Alaric peered out from behind the upturned table and quickly realized that the masked man was an undercover agent of the Imperial Army.
He watched as the once-calm masked man slammed a struggling bouncer's head against the wall with an unsettling ferocity.
The bouncer was propelled backward, crashing against the very table Alaric clung to, the impact resonating through him. He winced as he saw blood pouring from the bouncer's mouth, the metallic smell making him feel nauseated.
As the fight wore on, the bouncers began to falter.
The masked operative dislocated the leader's arm with a cruel twist. He then bent down to pick up a laser pistol that had clattered to the floor—a sleek, high-end weapon.
“Nice gear,” he commented, tossing the weapon to a nearby soldier, brushing off his hands as if to shake off the tension of the encounter.
“Yeah, it’s astonishing how quickly the Free Legion has regrouped; those traitorous dogs are responsible for 80% of this mess,” the soldier cursed, pointing toward the frightened waitstaff crammed in the corner. “What should we do with them, Sir Cedric?”
Sir Cedric removed his mask, revealing a strikingly handsome face, his sharp features highlighted by his fitted black coat and blood-specked leather gloves.
He tilted his head, his piercing silver-gray eyes assessing the situation, landing on the only Omega present in the room. A pair of amber-colored eyes gleamed beneath a cascade of golden hair, observing quietly amidst the disorder.
The boy didn’t scream or cry; he simply stood still, looking remarkably composed despite the horrors unfolding around him.
“Take them back for questioning,” Sir Cedric commanded, his voice as cold as his gaze.
He locked eyes with Alaric briefly before motioning to a beta soldier beside him. “Help him up and bring him with us.”
Once the soldier hoisted Alaric to his feet, they unclipped the handcuff from the table leg. His legs felt weak under him, and he stood slowly. The soldier seemed to treat him with more leniency than the panicked waitstaff, perhaps due to Alaric's Omega identity.
“Thank you,” Alaric murmured quietly.
But as he spoke, a small cut on his bottom lip started to ooze blood, his heart racing as it threatened to burst from his chest. No ordinary person could maintain composure in such a brutal scene, and Alaric was no exception. He hurriedly wiped the blood away with his hand, biting down on his palm to regain his focus.
The soldier didn't notice his distress; instead, he blushed at Alaric's gratitude, awkwardly scratching the back of his neck.
Meanwhile, Sir Cedric's sharp gaze remained fixed on Alaric, eerily steady—neither warm nor cold, yet intensely captivating.
Alaric silently prayed for divine intervention to shield him from the scrutiny of those piercing eyes.
Perhaps his prayer was answered, for suddenly, Sir Cedric's wrist communicator began to vibrate.
Cedric turned his attention to it, answering the call. A holographic image projected before him, showing an elderly man clad in meticulously tailored clothes, beginning a familiar litany.
“My dear Sir Cedric, you've been away from Capital City for three days now. The emissaries from House Lemont have been waiting with the marriage contract. If you don’t return soon, they’ll storm the palace! Having an Omega by your side is a blessing; you truly need this marriage.”
Alaric couldn't hear the complete conversation, but he caught Cedric's deadpan response.
“No, Mr. Butler.”
Cedric's eyes found Alaric’s again as he added solemnly, “I’m fully aware that I do not need an Omega.”

Chapter 4

After a devastating car crash, Alaric Winters clung to life while his parents were tragically killed, leaving behind a vast fortune that his cousin's family schemed to seize. The fate of the Winters legacy had shifted dramatically.
From a young age, Alaric was frail and strikingly delicate, earning him the nickname "the fragile medicine bottle" among peers, who teased him for being born with a congenital heart defect. Now, with one ear nearly deafened, he was referred to as "the vulnerable deaf one," and after settling a mountain of debt, he could barely afford the imported medications he desperately needed.
As others reveled in his misfortune, Evelyn Bright emerged as his unexpected ally, declaring her intent to marry him.
Fast forward, Alaric found himself wed to Evelyn, the very person who had previously rebuffed their family's attempts at a union.
Three months ago, it would have been perceived as a strategic alliance; now, it felt more like charity work.
Alaric puzzled over Evelyn's sudden change of heart. Was it his wealth she desired? His remaining assets—a rundown villa—barely matched the worth of one of her vehicles.
Was it him she wanted? After moving into Evelyn’s home, he felt more invisible than ever as she flitted about, giving him little attention.
Yet, Evelyn made sure he received only the best—effective treatments and opportunities to study at prestigious universities.
One day, while trying on a dance costume in the solitude of their home, Alaric found himself interrupted by Evelyn. The next day, his closet was filled with a stunning array of dresses.
At one of Evelyn's family gatherings, a video of Alaric dancing in women's clothing was maliciously edited and circulated, spurring rumors. With a dark scowl, Evelyn demanded all festivities cease—her family, too fearful to speak up, awaited her decision.
That night was tumultuous as they isolated the culprits, leaving them to beg Alaric for forgiveness, trembling as they clung to his legs.
All eyes turned to Evelyn as she contemplated her response, but she looked to Alaric, patiently waiting for his words.
When Evelyn was fourteen, she had cared for a little swan, elegantly dressed in a ballerina's attire, a beautiful creature that would look at her with yearning eyes, calling her "sister."
Evelyn vividly remembered the first time she lulled Alaric to sleep; he awoke in tears, having dreamt that they had lost each other in a snowstorm. A year later, on another snow-covered day, she returned him home, only to find him curled against her shoulder, wetting her sleeve with his tears.
With each winter snowfall, memories of Alaric flooded Evelyn’s mind.
The day after their hasty wedding
The "Silver Ship," powered by white basalt, stood as one of The Empire's most prized assets, particularly The Vessel Artemis, which housed a specially designed interrogation chamber meant to block pheromone interference.
Ordinary Beta offenders typically lacked sensitivity to pheromones, which made the use of the chamber unnecessary. Alaric’s presence here marked him as an individual of significant interest.
He sat quietly in the rigid chair, casting a calm gaze at Interrogator Pritchard, appearing even smaller and paler than he had in the bustling Marketplace moments before.
"Gender?" the Alpha interrogator inquired from behind the barrier.
"Omega," Alaric replied, his voice steady.
"Age?"
"Nineteen."
As the interrogator pored over the recently acquired file, Alaric’s identity was largely a mystery. Reports from the Marketplace where he had worked revealed nothing conclusive, as he had recently been forced into service, leaving him nameless and powerless.
"Your name?"
"I go by Jojo," Alaric responded, aware of the skepticism in the interrogator's brow.
The officer frowned, clearly unconvinced by the simplicity of his name. "What are the two characters?"
Alaric noted the doubt in Pritchard's eyes and offered an explanation: "I grew up in Exile's Haven, and that’s what everyone called me. It doesn’t matter which two characters."
His tone remained soft but assertive, devoid of hesitation or fabrication.
In truth, Alaric was far from a drifter from Exile’s Haven; his father was Duke Raymond Lemont, a member of one of The Empire's three esteemed noble families. If discovered, he would be dragged back to Capital City and restored to the House of Lemont.
Alaric decided to take a bold risk. The interrogator’s curiosity piqued when he heard the words "Exile's Haven": "How did an Omega survive in a place like that?"
Slowly, Alaric rolled up the sleeves of his work shirt, revealing his scarred arms, marred from bruises and scabs. These injuries were a result of the recent aircraft crash and occasional assaults from Marketplace patrons, but they served his purpose well now.
Silence enveloped the room, his restraint speaking louder than words.
Just as he prepared to unbutton his shirt to show abdominal bruises, the interrogator stopped him. "That won’t be necessary."
An attractive Omega managing to survive in such chaos was plausible; there were always those who found reasons to keep him alive.
The interrogator’s demeanor shifted from cold scrutiny to a flicker of pity—powerful Alphas often felt a visceral urge to protect delicate Omegas.
Decades back, a rebellion caused by an independent government led to the dislocation of citizens from Capital City. Those who fled struggled for survival in remote galaxies, labeling it as "Exile's Haven."
In that place, identity ceased to exist, and survivors often relied on mere luck. An Omega navigating through that world would be all too familiar with trauma.
The interrogator sighed, only to have the door swing open.
Upon seeing who entered, the interrogator stood at attention, but Major Cedric Hawthorne gestured for him to continue, unwilling to disrupt the process.
Cedric's presence here was unexpected; Alaric was merely a small piece in the grand scheme of underground dealings. There was no need for the high-ranking commander of The Empire's military district to personally lead the inquiry.
Having just escaped the relentless chiding of his elderly butler, Cedric sought refuge from his demands to return to marriage discussions, only to find that door wide open.

Chapter 5

As the recorder finished recounting the recent interrogation, Sir Cedric Hawthorne asked, "Have we compared this against the facial recognition database?"
His subordinate responded respectfully, "Yes, sir. We matched it, but the final results still yield over fifty potential matches. We can’t be certain."
In the current climate of severe overpopulation imbalance, the total number of Alphas and Omegas in The Empire barely equals one third of the Betas, with Omegas being as rare as diamonds.
However, after the skirmish years ago, the streets teemed with undocumented citizens. Investigating the identity of a person who seemingly appeared out of nowhere was no simple task.
Sir Cedric nodded, remaining silent.
He observed with an air of detachment, as if he had no intention of interfering. However, as the interrogation drew to a close, a faint chuckle escaped him.
"What do you believe? How much of his story is true, and how much is false?" While phrasing it as a question, his tone was more authoritative.
Caught off guard by his sudden inquiry, the interrogator hesitated, then replied, "Um, High General, I don’t think he seems to be lying."
Sir Cedric offered no commentary on the answer but instructed, "Prepare a medical kit."
"Yes, sir."
On the other side of the quarantine dome, Alaric Winters couldn’t see what was happening in the interrogation room. As he waited for the questions to resume, he swallowed hard and exhaled slowly.
Perhaps he could bluff his way through this.
But in the next moment, the dome slid open. Alaric looked up to meet the piercing gaze of the person he least wanted to see.
Sir Cedric had donned a silver and black military uniform, gold epaulets glinting on his chest, and a narrow leather belt cinching his trim waist, making him appear even colder.
This was a remarkable Alpha, distinguished by his looks, rank, and a sharp, commanding aura. He undoubtedly held the highest position aboard the Silver Ship.
The man placed the medical kit on the desk in front of Alaric, methodically donned medical gloves, and raised his hand toward Alaric's face. Instinctively, Alaric recoiled, avoiding his touch.
"You'll be fitted with a listening device for the rest of your life," Sir Cedric said coldly.
Alaric's heart raced; how did he know?
Reluctantly, Alaric did not move again. He was unsure where this Alpha general’s overwhelming kindness was coming from, however he prepared to have his wounds treated personally.
The fresh ear piercing still throbbed painfully, and as the antiseptic made contact, a sharp agony shot through him. He bit down on his already pale lower lip and let out a soft, pained breath.
But Sir Cedric’s next words left Alaric utterly stunned.
"You’re quite clever," Sir Cedric said, retrieving a syringe from the medical kit and fixing his gaze on Alaric. "You attempted to draw from Exile's Haven, a place without verifiable origins."
He pressed the syringe, expelling air from the chamber as the liquid began to glisten. "But sadly, you weren’t careful enough. In the Marketplace, you struggled greatly, hoping your performance would convince me you were from Exile's Haven."
Alaric stared at the needle, his brows knitted and his forehead damp with sweat. As he was pinned to the chair, he felt utterly powerless, at the mercy of this man.
Sir Cedric’s icy hand clutched Alaric's forearm as the needle pierced his skin. "But the holding area had cameras. It must have been taxing for you to keep it together until then."
The substance flowing into Alaric’s veins was a military-grade solution, rapidly replenishing the moisture and nutrients he had lost, symptoms of his evident dehydration from vomiting.
Sir Cedric spoke in a tone devoid of blame, yet each word chilled Alaric to the bone. Perhaps it was the sheer severity of the man that bore down on Alaric, mirroring the scent of his pheromones.
In the confined space, Alaric caught the distinct scent of the man before him—sharp and cold, a hint of gunpowder that evoked the ashen aftermath of gunfire.
Not that Sir Cedric intended it, but he had mastered pheromone control to perfection. Unfortunately, his pheromone level was so high that even with efforts to restrain it, it couldn’t be entirely mitigated.
Alaric averted his gaze, no longer looking at him. But with the injection finished, he felt a surge of defiance rising within him against the aloof general.
"Still not ready to talk?" Sir Cedric discarded the syringe, looking down at him. "Where are you from, and what are you doing here?"
Alaric felt a sense of suffocation, the atmosphere around him heating up. It felt as if he might ignite right there, his refined features cooling as his amber eyes hardened.
His fists trembled against the desk as he stammered, "I came to find the person I care for. He’s an Alpha just like you."
He lifted his gaze, meeting Sir Cedric's. "But he’s far more polite and likeable than you."
Sir Cedric stood in the corridor, tall and rigid, his expression an unreadable mix of emotions.
He had nearly provoked a stranger Omega into a heat cycle, leaving him himself puzzled.
"I assure you my pheromones aren’t leaking. I don’t know why it would affect him at this distance," Sir Cedric spoke somberly.
His butler, Sigurd Morningsong, stood across from him, exuding an aura of exasperation. "My dear General, I think you've been cooped up in the Barracks for far too long. It's evident you’re out of touch with how to interact with gentle Omegas. You should consider taking a course at the Order of the Omega."
With a knowing smile, the butler advised, "Your pheromone level is so elevated that even without active release, this close proximity can be overwhelming for an Omega."
Sir Cedric paused, taking in the remark before responding sincerely, "I’m sorry."
"No," Sigurd replied with a smile, "there’s no need to apologize to me. Especially not now, as you’re on the brink of your first post-adult heat period. Your pheromone output is bound to be more aggressive, and you should complete your marriage arrangements as soon as possible."
There it was again; Sigurd had a knack for steering their conversations back to that topic.
Sir Cedric rubbed his temples, appearing weary, as he contemplated the implications of his situation.

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