His Omega, His Ruin

The First Meal

The bathwater had been scalding, a stark contrast to the ice that had settled in my veins hours

before, but I stayed submerged until the skin of my fingers pricked and pruned. Scrubbing the

mud from my hair felt like a baptism, washing away the Omega who had knelt in the dirt and

replacing her with someone cleaner, softer, but infinitely more confused. When I finally emerged,

wrapped in a towel that was thicker than the blankets I was used to, I found a pile of clothing left

on the vanity. There were no Omega rags here. Instead, there was a black t-shirt that was

clearly his. It swallowed me whole, the hem hitting my mid-thigh, the fabric heavy and infused

with the scent of cedar and rainstorm. pulling it on felt like stepping into an embrace, a second

skin that marked me as belonging to something far powerful than myself.

I crept downstairs, the house silent except for the rhythmic ticking of a grandfather clock in the

hallway. My stomach gave a treacherous growl, reminding me that I hadn't eaten since

yesterday morning. Old habits died hard, so I instinctively headed toward the back of the house,

looking for the kitchen entrance where the servants usually slipped in. In my old pack, I ate

standing up near the pantry, picking at whatever was left after the ranked wolves had finished. I

found the kitchen easily enough—it was a cavernous space of gleaming steel and dark

granite—but before I could reach for a cabinet, a shadow detached itself from the doorway.

Magnus was there. He had changed too, wearing dark joggers and a fitted grey henley that

strained across his chest, emphasizing the terrifying width of his shoulders. He didn't speak; he

simply jerked his chin toward the dining room. I froze, my heart rate spiking. The dining room

was for Alphas. It was for important people. I took a step back, looking for a side table or a stool,

but Magnus moved faster than I could track. His hand landed gently on the small of my back,

the heat of his palm searing through the cotton of his shirt, guiding me firmly into the grand hall.

The table was set for two, but not at opposite ends. A single place setting was arranged at the

head of the table, and another directly to its right. He pulled out the chair at the head—the

Alpha’s seat—and waited. I stared at him, bewildered. He wanted me to sit there? When I

hesitated, he simply pressed down on my shoulders until I sank into the velvet cushion, then he

took the seat beside me, effectively placing himself at my right hand. The symbolism was

deafening. He was positioning himself as my second, my protector, not my overlord.

He served the food himself, ignoring the staff who hovered in the periphery. He placed a plate in

front of me that held a steak the size of my head, seared perfectly and swimming in rich, dark

jus. The smell hit me like a physical blow, making my mouth water so hard it hurt. Meat was a

luxury I rarely saw; usually, I subsisted on breads and root vegetables. I picked up my fork, my

hand trembling slightly, and cut a small piece. Magnus didn't eat. He leaned back in his chair,

one arm draped over the back, watching me with an intensity that made the air in the room feel

thick and heavy.

I took the first bite, and a moan of pure pleasure escaped my lips before I could stop it. The

meat melted on my tongue, rich and iron-heavy. I chewed slowly, conscious of his golden eyes

tracking the movement of my jaw, the way my throat worked as I swallowed. It felt intimate,

almost obscenely so, to be watched while I satisfied such a primal need. I ate half the steak, the

rich protein settling heavily in my empty stomach, before my old instincts kicked in. I stopped,

putting the fork down, and began to push the remaining meat to the side of the plate.

Magnus sat up straight, the casual slouch vanishing instantly. His eyes narrowed, focusing on

the half-eaten meal. I flinched, thinking I had offended him by not finishing, but his voice, when it

came, was low and rough with a suppressed emotion I couldn't place.

"Why are you stopping?" he asked, his gaze flicking from the plate to my face.

"I... I'm saving the rest," I whispered, keeping my eyes on the table. "For tomorrow. In case there

isn't..."

I trailed off, but he understood. I saw the realization hit him like a physical blow. He knew I was

hoarding food because I expected to be starved again. A low growl started deep in his chest,

vibrating through the table and into my bones. He reached out, his large hand covering mine

where it rested on the tablecloth, his grip tight enough to bruise if he wasn't being so careful.

"Eat it all, little wolf," he commanded, his voice dark and promising violence against anyone who

had ever made me feel this way. "There is no shortage here. I will burn the world to ash before I

let you go hungry again."