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What the hell is going on?The question echoes in my mind, but I remain silent.
“Dammit, how did you get out of the binding?” My father’s voice, sharp and accusatory, cuts through the room as he moves past me, his focus entirely on my mother.
I’m momentarily rooted to the spot, taking in the sight of my mother. Her long, wavy brown hair cascades down her back, and her blue eyes meet mine with a warm, reassuring smile. There’s a natural, effortless beauty about her, a perfect blend of strength and vulnerability, but my father is a barrier between us.
“Drink your tea, lest you give yourself a heart attack,” she murmurs without looking up from her nails. Her voice is calm, almost indifferent. The scene transports me back to my childhood—to the arguments, the raised voices, the feeling of helplessness as a child caught between two warring parents.
I can see my mother’s subtle strength now, the minute tremors in her hand as she files her nails—a sign of controlled tension, not fear. My father, in his ignorance, might see it as a sign of weakness, but I know better.
My mother’s scent fills the room. It’s not tinged with the acrid smell of fear or anxiety. She’s in control, a stark contrast to the woman who used to break under my father’s scowl.
Realization dawns on me. During our years apart, she had time to grow and change. She’s been preparing for this moment, mastering her emotions and becoming an unshakable force.
My father, oblivious to the subtle power shift, sips his tea, still believing he holds the upper hand. He doesn’t notice the change in my mother, nor does he see the resolve in my stance.
I step closer, my presence now more pronounced. “Mother,” I say softly, ensuring my voice carries a tone of respect and love.
She looks up, her smile widening as she sees the man I’ve become. In that smile, I find a silent acknowledgment of everything we’ve been through, everything we’ve lost, and everything we are about to reclaim.
The moment is palpable with tension as my father settles into the small reading chair across from my mother, the dining cart creating a physical barrier between them. Jack’s quiet exit from the room is like a silent herald of what’s to come. My heart pounds in my chest, the rhythm a drumbeat to the unfolding drama.
“Sit, boy,” my father commands, though the only seats in the room are already taken by my parents, leaving no place for me to sit. His suite, modest by council standards, reflects his diminished status among the elite—a mere shadow of his ancestors’ glory. He’s become nothing more than a name, a placeholder in a legacy that has lost its sheen.
Grasping the situation, I pull a stool from the kitchen counter and sit on it, my posture controlled yet alert. The layout of the room, my mother seated near the window, splitting the space between the kitchen and the living area, and the doors to my father’s private quarters, all form a backdrop to this intimate yet charged confrontation.
The cool wood of the stool grounds me as I focus on my parents. I push back the creeping fear, reminding myself that I’m not alone in this. My other fathers, including my biological father, are somewhere close by, their silent support a bolster to my resolve.
“Now, I hear you have two children,” my father says, running a finger across his lips in a habitual gesture of contemplation. His eyes roam over my mother, searching for a reaction, but she remains stoically indifferent. His eagerness is palpable, a barely concealed desire to know if she bore him a potential omega heir.
The question hangs in the air, a loaded inquiry that seeks to pry into the lives he abandoned. I feel a surge of protectiveness, a need to shield the truth from his grasping curiosity.
“Yes, I have two children,” my mother replies calmly, her voice devoid of any emotion that might give him satisfaction. “And they are none of your concern.”
Her dismissive tone seems to take my father aback, but only momentarily. He recovers quickly, his expression hardening as he leans forward, trying to impose his presence.
In the charged atmosphere of the room, my mother’s calm demeanor is a stark contrast to my father’s growing frustration. She sets her nail file down with deliberate slowness and prepares her tea, intentionally avoiding the sugarplum laced sugar.
“My point is that they are, by law, mine,” my father asserts, his arrogance palpable as he pours liquor from his flask into his teacup, filling it halfway. “And I’ve heard Clara hasn’t yet bloomed.”
A minute twitch in my mother’s eye indicates her irritation as she sips her tea. “Again, what is your point?” Her voice is steady, a testament to the strength she’s cultivated over the years.
“I want her tested,” my father insists, throwing his hands up as though the decision is already final, “to see if she’s anomega. I have a mage ready on the health floor. We could know immediately.”
His approach has shifted from demands to manipulations, a sign of his desperation.
“No,” my mother states, setting her cup down with a quiet clink.
“What do you mean, no?” My father’s face flushes red. He busies himself with making his tea, adding two generous scoops of the sugar. It’s enough to incapacitate him, but a third scoop would be lethal.
As my father stirs his tea, my mother’s expression remains unreadably calm. “I said no,” she repeats firmly. “Theo and Clara do not belong to you.”
“You forget I make the laws,” he retorts, pouring cream into his cup.
My heart races as I watch him raise the cup to his lips, knowing the potential consequences of what he’s about to do. My father, blinded by his own sense of entitlement and power, fails to see the trap he’s walking into.
I can’t help but admire my mother’s resolve and her ability to maintain composure under such pressure. In this moment, she embodies the perfect balance of strength and subtlety—a true matriarch protecting her own.
“And yet, you do not own them,” I counter calmly, my voice steady despite the tension simmering beneath the surface.
