Haunted.
Full of a grief so deep it's become geography.
"Kai..."
"She was an Omega," he continues, like now that the words have started, they can't be stopped. "Did you know that? The Lawson family traditionally doesn't bond with Omegas. We prefer Beta arrangements—easier to control, less complicated dynamics. But my father made an exception."
His fingers pause on the last tie.
Holding.
Not pulling.
"He thought he loved her. Maybe he even did, in the beginning. But love and acceptance aren't the same thing, and he could never accept what she was. What she wanted. What she was capable of."
"What did she want?"
"To dance." A sound escapes him—not quite a laugh, not quite a sob. Something in between. "She loved it. Would have pursued it professionally if she'd had the chance. But Lawsons don't dance. Lawsons display power. And dance was seen as weakness."
Dance was weakness.
In a world where power is everything, beauty becomes a liability.
"Your mother was friends with mine," I say, the realization surfacing from somewhere in the back of my mind. "Weren't they? The Eastmans and the Lawsons—you weren't always enemies."
"No." He secures the final tie, but his hands don't leave my back. They rest there—warm, grounding, unexpectedly intimate. "They were friends. Best friends, actually. Your mother and mine. They trained together, studied together, dreamed together about a world where Omega strength was celebrated instead of suppressed."
I turn.
Slowly.
Carefully.
Until we're facing each other, close enough that I can see the flecks of amber in his dark gold eyes.
"What happened?"
"I don't know. Not really." His jaw tightens. "Something changed. Alliances shifted. My father decided the Eastmans were a threat instead of an asset, and once that decision was made..."
Once that decision was made, nothing could change it.
Once the label of 'enemy' was applied, it became permanent.
And everyone who got caught in the crossfire—my parents, his mother, all of us—became collateral damage.
"Your sword fighting," Kai says, and the shift in topic is abrupt but not unwelcome. "That's why you're different. That's why you've survived."
"My sword fighting?"
"The dual blades. The way you move—dance and violence combined. Most Omegas aren't taught to fight. Not really. They're taught to submit, to defer, to rely on Alphas for protection." His eyes search my face. "But you fight for yourself. Protect yourself. You're not dependent on anyone."
Rarity, he called it.
A rarity.
"My mother tried to learn," he continues quietly. "Your mother was teaching her. But it wasn't enough. Wasn't fast enough to protect her from a husband who saw her strength as a challenge to be crushed."
His mother tried to fight back.
