My Beta Mate Sold Me Into Omega Servitude

The hall was quiet, but not empty.

I could feel him before I saw him.

A man stood near the dais now, half in shadow, half in the pale light spilling down from the high stone windows. Tall. Broad. Dressed in dark clothes with a heavy signet ring on his right hand that he was slowly turning between his thumb and forefinger.

He hadn't been there a moment ago. Or maybe he had, and I just hadn't seen him.

His head turned toward me.

His nostrils flared.

The ring stopped moving.

Everything in his body went still. Not the stillness of a calm man. The stillness of a man who had just been struck.

I didn't move. I kept my hands loose at my sides. My bag at my feet. My eyes on his face.

He stepped down off the dais slowly. One step. Then another. He crossed half the hall before he stopped, maybe ten feet from me, and I could see him properly now.

He was older than I'd imagined. Silver at his temples. Deep lines at the corners of his eyes. His mouth was pressed into a hard line, but something under it was trembling.

He looked at me like he was seeing a ghost.

"State your petition," he said.

His voice hit the walls and came back doubled. Layered. I felt it in my chest. In the stone under my feet.

And underneath the authority, I heard something else. A crack. Small. Barely there. Like a hairline fracture running through a bell.

I swallowed.

"My name is Isabelle Maren," I said. "Formerly of the Ironridge Pack. I am here to submit evidence of stolen battle formations bearing my wolf-scent signature, a forged blood-oath contract binding my wolf to Omega servitude under Thornveil Pack, and a fraudulent public rejection used to activate that contract. I request the Pack Alliance Tribunal, and I request Lycan authority to nullify the oath."

The Lycan King did not move.

He was looking at my neck. At the hollow scar. Then at my stomach — just for a second, just long enough that I felt my hand twitch toward it before I stopped myself.

Then he looked at my eyes.

Whatever he saw there made his jaw tighten.

"Accepted," he said.

Just that. One word.

He turned his head toward the shadows on his left. "Convene the Tribunal. Full authority. Six-pack representation. My son will oversee."

A voice from the shadows answered. "Yes, Your Majesty."

The King turned back to me. His eyes moved over my face again, slower this time, and I saw his throat work.

"You will be given quarters," he said. "Food. A healer, if you wish one."

"I don't need a healer."

His eyes flicked to my stomach again. Just for a second.

"You will have one available," he said. "If you wish."

I didn't answer.

He stood there a moment longer. Looking at me like he was trying to memorize my face. Like he was afraid if he looked away, I would disappear.

Then he turned and walked back to the dais without another word.

Someone appeared at my elbow — a woman in a gray uniform, quiet-footed. She picked up my bag before I could stop her and gestured for me to follow.

I walked out of the hall without looking back.

But I could feel his eyes on my spine the whole way.

---

The room they gave me was warm. A bed. A window. A small table with bread and fruit and a pitcher of water.

I didn't sleep. I sat on the edge of the bed and organized my documents. Again. Every page in order. Every seal accounted for.

My hand kept drifting to my neck. The scar was cold. Always cold.

But something else was warm. Low in my belly. The steady, stubborn presence of the child I hadn't told anyone about.

*One thing at a time,* I told myself. *One thing at a time.*

Sometime before dawn, I finally lay down. I didn't sleep. I just stared at the ceiling until the light changed.

---

A knock at the door just after sunrise.

The same quiet woman. She led me down a corridor of dark stone and pale wood to a chamber on the second floor. A long table. Papers already spread. A single chair on either side.

"Prince Dominic will join you shortly," she said, and closed the door.

I walked to the table. Scanned the room. Two exits — the door I'd come through, and a smaller one behind a bookshelf on the far wall. I moved to the corner where the wall met the window, set my back against the stone, and waited.

The door opened.

He walked in with a file under his arm, head down, reading. Dark hair. Broad shoulders. A stillness in the way he moved that reminded me of the King.

He looked up.

And the world stopped.

His scent hit me first. Dark pine. Thunderstorm. Deep and clean and — *oh God* — pulling at something inside me I didn't have the strength for. My wolf lurched forward so hard I had to plant my feet.

His whole body went rigid. His hands moved behind his back so fast I heard the knuckles crack.

One word landed in my head. Clear. Loud. Undeniable.

*Mate.*

I heard the same word echo from somewhere that wasn't mine.

His eyes moved over me. My scar. My face. The corner I'd chosen. The exit at my back.

Something in his expression shifted. Not softened. Understood.

He didn't step closer.

"Ms. Maren," he said. His voice was low. Careful. Every syllable measured. "I am Dominic Ashford. I have reviewed your petition overnight. I believe it has extraordinary merit."

I didn't move.

"How would you like to proceed?" he asked.

I stared at him.

At the wolf my body had just recognized as mine. At the man standing perfectly still on the other side of a long table, hands locked behind his back, waiting for me to speak.

My voice came out quiet. Cold. Absolutely level.

"I am here for justice," I said. "Not a new leash."

He didn't flinch. He didn't argue. He didn't try to explain what had just happened between us.

He nodded once. Slow. Deliberate.

Then he pulled out the chair across from me, sat down, and opened the case file.

"Then let's begin," he said.

I stayed in my corner a moment longer. Watching him.

He didn't look up. He waited.

I walked to the chair opposite him and sat down.

We worked through the morning. He asked questions — precise, careful, never pressing. I answered. He took notes in a neat, slanted hand. Every time our fingers came near each other reaching for the same page, he pulled back first.

I watched him do it. I didn't say anything.

Around midday, the small door behind the bookshelf opened. An aide stepped in, carrying a folder. He crossed to Dominic and placed it on the table without a word.

Dominic opened it. Read the first page.

His jaw tightened.

He read the second page. The third.

Then he set it down, closed his eyes for one long breath, and slid the folder across the table to me.

"You need to see this," he said. "Now."

I looked down.

The cover sheet bore two names.

Landon West. Daphne Russell.

A counter-petition. Filed this morning. Here. In this building.

My hand was perfectly steady when I opened it.