The Male Omega

Chapter 12: Under the Table

I did not want to go to dinner.

When the message came, I felt sick before the servant had even finished speaking.

“The family requests Mr. Knox’s presence for the evening meal.”

Requests.

I had learned quickly that in the Blackthorne estate, that word meant almost nothing kind.

The servant stood just inside the door, eyes lowered, voice respectful. Behind him, the corridor stretched long and dim and unfamiliar. I stared at the floor near his boots and tried to make my own voice work.

“Do… do I have to?”

It came out smaller than I meant it to.

The servant hesitated. “It is expected.”

Of course it was.

I looked at Rowan without meaning to. He was by the hearth, arms folded, already angry. I could feel it from across the room like a coming storm.

“Kyle shouldn’t be dragged into a family meal like some curiosity,” he said.

The servant looked even more uncomfortable. “I only carry the message.”

“Then carry one back.”

My chest tightened.

“Rowan,” I whispered.

He stopped.

The servant shifted. “The alpha will be present.”

That changed everything.

I saw it in Rowan’s face at once. Not because Xervic’s presence made the invitation gentler. It didn’t. But refusing a family meal with the alpha present would become another offense laid quietly at my feet, another reason for the household to call me ungrateful, difficult, ill-mannered.

I knew how these things worked.

Not because I belonged in rooms like that.

Because I had spent my whole life learning how quickly people punished the wrong kind of discomfort.

“It’s alright,” I said, though my stomach was turning. “I’ll go.”

Rowan looked at me hard.

I lowered my eyes.

After a long moment, he said flatly, “Then I’m going too.”

The servant opened his mouth.

Closed it again.

He bowed and left.

The moment the door shut, Rowan crossed the room. “You don’t have to keep saying yes.”

I rubbed my hands together because they had started shaking again. “If I say no, they’ll only…”

Only what?

Hate me more?

Talk more?

Make it worse?

I couldn’t finish. The words stuck in my throat, too childish and too true.

Rowan’s expression changed.

He understood anyway.

By the time I was dressed, my pulse felt wrong. Too quick. Too loud. My fingers fumbled twice at my cuffs before Rowan took over in silence, fastening them with the kind of rough care that always made my throat ache.

The dining hall was too bright.

That was my first thought when we stepped inside. Candlelight ran in long gold lines over polished wood and silver. Voices moved softly around the table, already in progress. The room smelled of roasted meat, wine, warm bread, herbs, and too many wolves.

I wanted to turn around.

Instead I froze just inside the doorway.

Every person at the table looked up.

Not dramatically.

Not all at once.

That would have been easier.

This was quieter than that. Eyes lifting one by one. A pause in conversation. A stillness settling over the room like dust.

My skin went hot.

I lowered my head at once.

The table was long, dark, gleaming. Xervic sat near the center. His father at one end, his mother opposite. Xylie was there. Amanda too. So were Aunt Eveline, Uncle Darius, Lucan, and the grandparents. Elder Moira alone did not look at me like I had interrupted something with my existence.

I wished I had not noticed that.

Because noticing kindness, even a small one, always made me feel closer to breaking.

A servant moved to pull out a chair.

Not beside Xervic.

Not near the middle.

Farther down. Near the lower end, between Lucan and an empty place that looked more symbolic than useful.

I stood there too long.

“Sit,” Seraphine said.

Not unkindly.

Not kindly either.

Just enough command in her voice to make my body move before my thoughts caught up.

“Yes,” I murmured.

I sat carefully, trying not to make noise, trying not to feel how far away Xervic was. Rowan was not allowed at the table; I felt his absence at once. He stood back near the wall with two estate attendants, close enough to see me, too far to help.

The first course was already being served.

No one spoke directly to me.

At first, I thought that might be mercy.

Then I understood what it really was.

Erasure.

Conversation resumed around me in low, polished voices. Territory boundaries. Winter stores. A healer from the western lands. Lucan laughed once at something Uncle Darius said. Amanda asked Seraphine a question about a moon feast from years before as if nothing in the room had changed.

I sat with my hands in my lap and tried to remember how to breathe.

A servant placed food before me.

I could not touch it.

My throat had gone tight. The room was too warm. Every sound scraped a little.

Across the table, Xylie glanced once at my untouched plate and then away with a faint look of distaste.

I saw it.

Pretended I didn’t.

“Has he no appetite?” Aunt Eveline asked lightly.

No one answered for a beat.

Then Lucan said, with a shrug that felt louder than it should have, “Maybe he’s too delicate for proper meals.”

A small laugh moved around one side of the table.

My face burned so hot I thought I might be sick.

I reached for the cup near my hand because doing nothing felt worse. My fingers were trembling. The cup knocked lightly against the saucer.

That tiny sound seemed enormous.

Amanda looked at me then, her expression all soft concern.

“Kyle,” she said gently, “are you unwell?”

The kindness in her voice made it crueler.

Every eye came back to me.

I froze.

Words scattered in my head. My mouth opened. Nothing came out.

“I—” My voice caught. I swallowed hard. “I’m fine.”

Lucan made a soft sound that might have been amusement.

Xylie said, “He does seem fragile.”

I stared at the tablecloth.

The pattern blurred.

I could feel myself getting smaller inside my own skin, shrinking around the attention, around the humiliation, around the awareness that even my silence was doing something wrong.

Then, from the center of the table, Xervic spoke.

“That’s enough.”

The room went still.

His voice was calm.

Not raised.

Not sharp.

But everything stopped around it.

I looked up before I could stop myself.

He was not looking at me.

He was looking at Lucan.

The cousin’s mouth tightened, though he said nothing.

Amanda lowered her eyes to her plate. Xylie went very still.

For one awful, foolish second, relief rushed through me.

Then Xervic added, “If this meal cannot proceed with basic restraint, it will end.”

Restraint.

Not kindness.

Not defense.

A warning for order’s sake.

Of course.

I dropped my gaze so fast it made my neck ache.

The conversation resumed after that, quieter. More careful. No one spoke to me again.

That should have helped.

It didn’t.

My food remained untouched. I could feel it there, cooling slowly beside my hand like another failure no one needed to name.

Near the end of the meal, I reached under the table to steady my hands against my knees.

Instead, my fingers brushed something warm.

I flinched so hard my fork slipped and clattered softly against the plate.

A few heads turned.

Heat flooded my whole body.

Under the table, I jerked my hand back at once.

It had been the edge of Xervic’s hand.

Nothing more.

A mistake of distance.

An accident.

But he had felt it too. I knew he had.

I could not make myself look at him.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered, though I didn’t know if anyone heard.

Maybe they didn’t.

Maybe only Xervic did.

I kept my eyes on my lap for the rest of the meal and prayed for it to end, feeling the shame of that small accidental touch burn through me far longer than it should have.

When I was finally dismissed, I stood too quickly, nearly unsteady, and caught myself on the back of the chair.

No one said anything.

That silence was its own cruelty.

By the time I reached the hallway, Rowan was already beside me.

He did not speak until the doors shut behind us.

Then, quietly, “You didn’t eat.”

I looked down.

“No.”

His hand hovered near my back, not touching.

“You don’t have to survive this by disappearing,” he said.

I wanted to believe him.

Instead I heard myself whisper the truth I could not seem to escape.

“I think that’s the only way they’d like me.”