Page 32 of Vicious Kings
"She was very thorough," I manage, resisting the urge to add 'thoroughly fucking awful' to the end of that sentence. "I had no idea there was so much that went into being a proper omega."
Oh my saints, I'm going to vomit.
He seems to miss my sarcasm.
"Excellent. Then you should have no trouble keeping pace with your classes." He pulls out a piece of parchment covered in more eye-watering script and slides it across the desk. "Your schedule."
I pick it up, squinting at the letters as they transform into English the moment my eyes land on them. The History of Fae-Human Relations. Omega Biology and Wellness. Courtly Etiquette and Protocol. The Art of Nesting.
"What's the point?" The question slips out before I can stop it.
He raises one perfect eyebrow. "I beg your pardon?"
Shit. But backing down now would be more suspicious than pressing forward. I channel my best confused-but-trying-to-understand expression.
"I mean, aren't I just here until some Fae decides they want me? Why bother with classes if I'm just going to end up as someone's pet anyway?"
The temperature in the room seems to drop a few degrees. His smile remains fixed, but something sharp enters those silver eyes.
"I can understand why you might think that, given your background." Each word is carefully measured, like he's picking his way through a minefield. "But I assure you, we take omega education quite seriously here at Valemyre. There is much you need to learn about the nature of our realm, the history that binds our peoples together, the delicate balance that allows both species to coexist."
Coexist. That's a funny way to spell 'systematic oppression.'
"You are not merely here to be 'scooped up,' as you so eloquently put it," he continues, and there's definitely an edge to his voice now. "You are here to become a bridge between worlds. To understand your place in the greater picture of our society. The transition will be far smoother if you devote yourself to learning rather than dwelling on outdated perspectives."
Message received. Shut up and play along, silly little human.
"Of course," I say, lowering my eyes in what I hope looks like contrition. "I didn't mean to sound ungrateful. It's just all so new."
"Naturally." The warmth returns to his voice like someone flipped a switch. Fucking Fae and their mood swings. "Now then, first things first. Your collar needs to be replaced."
My hand goes automatically to my neck, fingers finding the plain metal band that's been my constant companion since I woke up in the hospital. "Replaced?"
He produces a box from another drawer—how many fucking drawers does this desk have?—and sets it on the surface between us. It's made of some dark wood that seems to absorb light, with silver hinges. Or maybe they're platinum. Or some even more ostentatious metal from the Fae realms that I haven't even heard of.
I bet they've got some shit that would make great knives.
"The hospital collar served its purpose, but here at Valemyre, you'll need something more appropriate."
He opens the box, and I have to bite back a curse. Nestled in a bed of midnight blue velvet is a collar that makes my current one look like scrap metal. It's silver, but not just any silver. This shit practically glows. Delicate engravings cover every surface, more symbols that hurt to look at directly but probably mean something profound in whatever ancient language the Fae use to make themselves feel superior.
It's not as elaborate as some of the ones I saw on other omegas. No gems, no gold accents, no obvious enchantments beyond the basic ones. This is clearly the standard issue model, the baseline collar for unclaimed omegas who haven't yet caught the eye of someone important enough to shower them with jewels.
Still fucking humiliating.
Yep, that settles it. As soon as I get out of this place, I'm melting this thing down and making myself a custom blade. I've earned it.
Headmaster Valemyre stands, moving around the desk. I tense as he approaches, every instinct screaming at me to move, to fight, to do something other than sit here like a good little pet waiting to be collared.
"This is for your protection," he says, as if reading my thoughts. "And to grant you access to omega-only spaces throughout campus. Without it, you'll find many areas quite unwelcoming."
He raises one hand, fingers moving in a pattern that makes the air shimmer. The collar around my neck grows warm, then cool, then falls away entirely. For one glorious second, I'm free. No weight on my neck, no constant reminder of what I've become.
Then he's lifting the new collar from its velvet prison, and I have to clench my fists to keep from knocking it out of his hands.
"Hold still," he murmurs, and I catch something almost like sympathy in his tone. Not quite, though.
The metal is cool against my skin as he fastens it around my neck. His fingers are careful, not lingering longer than necessary. The collar settles into place.
