𝗚ᴜɪᴅᴇ 𝗧ᴏ 𝗗ᴇғʏ 𝗜ᴍᴘᴜʟsᴇ [ 𝙼! 𝙾𝚖𝚎𝚐𝚊 𝚡 𝙼! 𝙰𝚕𝚙𝚑𝚊 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛 ]
ＣＨＡＰＴＥＲ 2
"I got mental issues, always fucking miss you
Tons of bloody tissues all of over my room
I need to clean them up, baby, I'm fucked up
Baby, will you help me? Because I'm gonna help you"
ᴀʟʟ ɪ ᴡᴀɴᴛ ɪs ʏᴏᴜ ʙʏ ʀᴇʙᴢʏʏx
༶•┈┈⛧┈♛ ＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊♛┈⛧┈┈•༶
𝗧𝗛𝗘 office into which M/n had been led was nothing like the grand receiving chambers below.
Ordered with such merciless precision that even the silence within it seemed disciplined.
Tall shelves of books climbed the walls, their dark spines arranged in severe perfection. A narrow fire burned within the hearth despite the mild weather, its crackle soft beneath the ticking of an ornate clock upon the mantel.
Near the window stood a modest writing desk of polished mahogany, where several documents had been neatly arranged beside a porcelain cup from which steam still rose.
And seated beside it, as though he had been expecting no interruption greater than the turning of another page, was —
Anatole Blanchard.
He held a sheet between gloved fingers, his posture immaculate, one leg crossed over the other, his expression composed to the point of indifference.
At the sound of the door opening, his gaze lifted. It did not widen.
It merely settled upon M/n as though assessing whether the contents of the file matched the figure now before him.
For a moment, neither spoke.
M/n stood uncertainly near the threshold, feeling suddenly too aware of his own breathing. Anatole lowered the paper only slightly.
“Are you Mr. M/n Levine?”
His voice was calm, carrying neither warmth nor hostility, but something sharper than both: certainty. M/n swallowed.
“Yes… sir.”
Anatole gave one small nod, then folded the paper neatly and set it upon the desk. At last he rose.
His cane came with him, taken in one hand with practiced elegance. The polished black wood gleamed beneath the afternoon light.
M/n watched him, uncertain.
He had expected perhaps conversation, questions, formal beginning.
Instead, Anatole stepped away from the desk and came to stand before him with measured grace.
“Introduce yourself.”
M/n blinked. For a moment he wondered whether he had misheard.
“You are already acquainted with my name, sir,” he answered carefully, unsure whether that had been impertinent.
Anatole’s expression did not alter.
“And yet I requested that you introduce yourself, not that you observe what I already know.” M/n straightened at once.
“Yes, sir.” Perhaps it was formality, he thought.
Perhaps etiquette began with repetition. He gathered himself, clasping his hands behind his back as he had been taught.
“My name is M—” Then it came.
A scent. A sweet trickle of scent had invade his nostrils. Soft at first—so delicate he nearly thought he imagined it.
Not floral in the way perfumes worn by noble ladies were floral, nor sweet in the childish sense of sugared pastries from the kitchen.
It something impossibly unfamiliar and yet instantly arresting. It entered his senses like heat slipping beneath locked doors.
The rest of his name had died in his throat.
For one suspended second, his thoughts simply stopped. His lips parted without command.
A strange warmth gathered beneath his tongue, sharp and immediate, his pulse rising so abruptly that it startled him.
𝗖𝗥𝗔𝗖𝗞!
The violent strike of wood against polished floor shattered the moment. Anatole’s cane had struck the ground hard enough that the sound echoed through the room. M/n was startled visibly.
“Again,” said Anatole. The sweetness remained.
Wait.. No... It was stronger now.
M/n stared, bewildered, his chest rising too quickly. He had never known such a scent existed. Never breathed anything that made thought come apart so suddenly. His fingers twitched.
“My… my name is M—M/n…” His own voice betrayed him. It broke midway.
𝗖𝗥𝗔𝗖𝗞!
Another sharp strike of cane against floor.
“Again.” M/n’s ears burned. He could not understand it.
Why was his voice trembling?
He conversed with his father without this weakness.
Even under his mother’s strict correction he did not falter thus. Yet now before this stranger—
He could scarcely command his own tongue.
Then realization came. His eyes widened slightly.
No servant stood nearby. No flowers were near enough. No incense burned.
It came from Anatole. That sickly sweet scent was coming from the man infront of him. It was him.
How foolish. His mom did mention he was an omega that commands control.
And Anatole was the first omega scent M/n had ever inhaled knowingly. And Anatole had released it without warning. The lesson had begun before greeting had ended.
M/n inhaled sharply, regretted it instantly, and tried again.
“My name is M/n Levine,” he said, forcing each word carefully.
“First heir to House Lev—” The scent thickened. Enough that his body noticed. Enough that instinct stirred like something waking too quickly.
His breath caught. His hand rose at once to cover mouth and nose. Inside him, everything felt suddenly disordered. Something primal clawed upward beneath his ribs.
His pulse hammered so loudly he thought surely Anatole must hear it.
𝗖𝗥𝗔𝗖𝗞!
The cane struck harder.
“Are you indeed a nobleman,” Anatole said coldly, “if your own name proves too burdensome for your tongue?”
M/n shut his eyes briefly, fighting to steady himself.
“No, sir— I mean—”
“An heir unable to survive a greeting,” Anatole continued, voice even sharper now,
“would scarcely endure a drawing room. Society shall bury you alive before luncheon.” The words landed with surgical precision.
M/n clenched his jaw. Anatole stepped once nearer.
“Your file speaks at length of your education. Languages, history, estate law, music.”
Anatole grew silent.
“How curious, then, that none appear to have instructed you in the art of possessing a spine.” The insult struck deeper than M/n expected.
Heat clamour onto him immediately, only embarrassment now, but wounded pride.
His scent threatened to rise. He felt it, Felt that dangerous pressure beneath skin. And suddenly, before Anatole could continue—
“My name is M/n Levine!” The words came louder than intended.
“First heir to House Levine, eldest son of Lord and Lady Levine, and future bearer of my family’s title!” Silence. Even M/n startled at himself. Anatole blinked, then slowly lifted his chin.
“Well,” he said at last, “that was regrettably closer to a battlefield declaration than an introduction.” M/n flushed at once.
“Forgive me—”
“A nobleman does not announce himself as though summoning cavalry.” His cane tapped lightly once.
“Should you choose to repeat such volume before guests, I shall presume you wish them deaf.” M/n lowered his gaze.
“Yes, sir.”
“Look at me when addressed.” He obeyed immediately, though the scent still pressed insistently against his senses. Only now Anatole’s own expression had returned to something composed.
As though the entire exchange had merely confirmed expected weaknesses. At last Anatole inclined his head slightly.
“Anatole Blanchard.”
His own introduction came with effortless precision.
“I have been entrusted, whether wisely remains to be seen, with the shaping of your conduct.” He paused, gaze unmoving.
“For the coming months, I shall serve as your instructor in etiquette, discipline, social comportment, and self-governance. And, should Providence prove unusually merciful, perhaps even help you resemble an alpha fit to stand among others without reducing them to collapse.” M/n remained silent, though inwardly struggling as the scent persisted.
“There shall be five stages to your instruction,” Anatole continued.
“Each one designed not merely to civilize your exterior, but to correct what years of indulgent confinement have allowed to rot unchecked.” M/n frowned faintly at the word.
Indulgent.
Anatole continued before objection formed.
“Your case, Mr. Levine, is severe.” No cruelty in tone, only fact.
“You possess strength without familiarity, instinct without discipline, and scent without command.” His gaze sharpened.
“A dangerous combination in any household. A humiliating one in a noble house.” M/n swallowed hard.
“You shall not be taught gently.” The words were calm enough to feel colder.
“I do not soften lessons so that pride may survive them.” His cane settled before him.
“Some exercises shall exhaust you. Some shall irritate you. Several shall offend whatever fragile dignity you presently preserve.”
Then, with perfect composure:
“And none shall be altered merely because you dislike them.”
M/n drew slow breath through his nose—instantly regretted it, for the omega scent still lingered. Anatole noticed that too.
A near invisible lift of brow.
“If you intend to survive the first week, Mr. Levine…” His voice lowered.
“Learn swiftly that discomfort is not injury.”
The cane struck once more, softer this time.
“Now.”
He looked directly at him.
“Introduce yourself again.” M/n obeyed at once.
He lowered the gloved hand that had covered his mouth and nose, though not without visible hesitation, fingers lingering near his face as though reluctant to surrender what little shield remained between himself and that dangerous sweetness suspended in the air.
For a brief blessed moment, the scent had lessened.
Not vanished entirely, but receded enough that his thoughts no longer stumbled over one another. He took advantage of it immediately.
Drawing a careful breath through parted lips, he straightened his spine, lifted his chin, and began again with deliberate care.
“My name is M/n Levine,” he said, this time neither too soft nor shamefully loud, his tone measured as he had been taught since childhood. “First heir to House Levine, eldest son of Lord and Lady Levine, and lawful successor to my father’s estate.”
The words emerged without fracture. Without trembling. A proper introduction at last.
Anatole gave one single a court nod, as though acknowledging not success, but merely adequacy.
“Acceptable.” The word landed like a stamp upon parchment. M/n exhaled quietly before he could stop himself.
“You shall not expect forewarning for what is to follow, Mr. Levine.” His voice was even, almost conversational, though no softness entered it. M/n lifted his gaze.
Anatole had resumed that unnervingly composed posture, one gloved hand resting atop the silver head of his cane.
“I do not believe in announcing the shape of a lesson before it arrives,” he continued.
“Men prepare masks when granted too much knowledge. They rehearse virtue, compose false restraint, and present obedience only because they have had leisure to arrange it.”
His gaze sharpened.
“I have no interest in witnessing what you look like when prepared. I should rather see what emerges when instinct is caught uninvited.” The cane tapped once against the floor.
“Raw reactions reveal where discipline has failed. It is there that work begins.” M/n listened carefully, shoulders still held with effort.
Anatole inclined his head slightly.
“You shall know only the title of each stage. The contents remain mine to determine.”
Then, with faint coolness:
“I prefer to meet unruly behaviour honestly before I set about correcting it.”
The implication, that M/n himself was unruly enough to require shaping like a difficult animal, stung more than he wished it to.
Yet before he could dwell upon it, Anatole continued.
“For now, before instruction formally commences, you shall undergo a preliminary exercise.”
“A pretest?” The word escaped M/n before thought.
𝗖𝗥𝗔𝗖𝗞!
The cane struck sharply. The sound startled him enough that his shoulders stiffened. Anatole’s expression did not alter.
“You speak before permission.” M/n immediately lowered his head.
“My apologies, sir.”
“There are rules beneath this roof,” Anatole said, each word clipped with polished authority.
“You shall learn them now, for I do not repeat myself when obedience alone would suffice.” The room seemed smaller suddenly. The fire hissed softly behind them. Outside, faint carriage wheels passed somewhere beyond the tall windows.
Yet within that office, only Anatole’s voice occupied the air.
“First,” he said, “you shall not speak unless spoken to.”
Another tap of cane.
“Second: you shall not question my methods while under instruction.”
Another.
“Third: when commanded, you shall obey at once, whether the task pleases you or not.” His gaze remained fixed upon M/n.
“Fourth: you shall commit yourself fully to every lesson if improvement is truly what you seek. Half-hearted participation is insultingly visible.” Anatole adjusted his glasses.
“And fifth: our schedule shall be observed precisely unless I excuse otherwise. Time, Mr. Levine, is not elastic merely because noble houses enjoy pretending it so.” The silver head of the cane tilted slightly.
“Are my rules clear?” This time M/n answered carefully.
“Yes, sir. I understand fully.” Anatole studied him for a second, then nodded. By now the scent had lowered almost entirely, leaving only the faintest trace.
Enough that M/n’s lungs ceased protesting. Enough that he almost relaxed. And that was his mistake.
For Anatole’s eyes drifted briefly over him, then narrowed by a fraction.
“You are perspiring.” M/n blinked. Only then noticing the warmth gathered at his temples.
The collar at his throat suddenly felt too close. Without ceremony, Anatole reached into his coat and withdrew a folded white handkerchief. He held it out.
“Take it.”
M/n looked at the offered cloth. The gesture was simple enough. Almost courteous.
And because the scent had lowered, because the room no longer felt unbearable, because this seemed too ordinary to conceal danger—
He answered honestly.
“That shall not be necessary, sir.” Anatole lifted his gaze. It was not anger. It was something colder.
“Do you recall my second rule?” M/n hesitated.
His stomach sank. Of course.
Immediate obedience.
So this too had been part of it. Another lesson hidden inside ordinary kindness.
“I…”
The cane tapped once.
M/n straightened.
“Yes, sir.” He stepped forward. Only then did it begin. And with each measured step the scent returned.
No—
It did not merely return. It rose. So suddenly, so violently. As though Anatole had lifted some invisible barrier and released it in full. Sweetness flooded the air with alarming force.
It struck M/n so abruptly that his next breath faltered. His mouth parted involuntarily. Saliva gathered embarrassingly fast beneath his tongue.
His pulse leapt.
By the third step his knees felt uncertain. By the fourth, his fingers trembled. The scent was unbearable up close.
No—
Worse than unbearable.
Irresistible.
His instincts, long dormant from years of isolation, reacted with savage confusion. Every nerve beneath his skin seemed suddenly aware. His body felt traitorous. Yet, Anatole remained still.
One hand extended, handkerchief balanced between gloved fingers as though nothing unusual occurred at all.
No sign that he failed to notice M/n’s unraveling. The distance between them closed.
M/n’s hand moved forward. He took the handkerchief at last, careful not to brush Anatole’s glove.
Then retreated at once, one pace, then another, until several feet lay between them again. His breath came weaker now.
“Th-thank you…” He dabbed the cloth against his forehead, Then his neck. And froze.
Because even away from Anatole— The scent remained. His eyes widened.
The handkerchief.
It carried Anatole’s scent deeply woven into the linen. A deliberate trap. A low sound broke the silence. A chuckle, almost amused.
M/n looked up sharply. Anatole had begun walking toward him. The cane tapped once with every step.
“M—Mr. Blanchard…” M/n’s voice weakened.
“Please… do not come nearer.”
Anatole ignored the plea entirely. Instead his eyes moved over M/n with infuriating calm.
“How visible you are,” he remarked. Another step.
“How quickly discomfort writes itself upon your face. If a mere handkerchief unsettles you…” His voice sharpened faintly.
“…then your file did not exaggerate nearly enough.” M/n gripped the cloth too tightly. The scent overwhelmed reason. Every breath made it worse.
“An omega’s trace upon linen, and already your posture fails.” Another step.
“What precisely did your tutors imagine society would do with you?” His words pressed harder.
“Seat you beside a lady and pray she survives the first course?” M/n clenched his jaw. The handkerchief shook faintly in his hand.
“And still you stand there trembling as though scent were sorcery.” One final step.
Close enough now that M/n could no longer separate the scent in the room from the scent trapped in the cloth.
Without warning, Anatole lifted one hand and caught M/n lightly beneath the chin.
“Look at me when being addressed.” That did it. The remaining thread snapped.
Because the touch,
Because the scent,
Because the words carved too neatly into already wounded pride,
Because humiliation, confusion, instinct, shame, and something fierce and nameless surged together all at once,
M/n’s restraint broke.
A violent rush of pheromones burst from him before he could stop it. Heavy enough that the room itself seemed to change. His breath left him in a ragged sound. The handkerchief slipped from his fingers.
His alpha presence struck outward without permission.
The break came so suddenly that even the air seemed unable to keep pace with it.
One moment Anatole’s fingers remained beneath M/n’s chin, steady, forcing his gaze upward.
The next, a violent force struck him before the thought had fully formed.
His cane slipped from his grasp as his balance gave way, his back hitting the carpeted floor with enough force to jar breath from his chest. The fall was not elegant, not controlled, the polished dignity of his posture shattered in a single instant beneath the weight that came over him.
M/n. Pinned above him.
For the first time since their meeting, Anatole’s composure fractured, not entirely, but enough that surprise flashed nakedly across his face.
Not surprise that it had happened.
That possibility had long been accounted for the moment he chose provocation over gentleness.
No—what unsettled him was the speed.
How swiftly the restraint had vanished. How abruptly instinct had seized command.
M/n hovered above him, breathing harshly, every inhale ragged enough to sound almost painful.
Both hands were planted hard upon Anatole’s shoulders, gripping with enough pressure that even through layers of cloth Anatole could feel the strength in them.
His eyes changed.
No longer merely startled eyes of an anxious noble heir, but something fiercer, something entirely ruled by alpha instinct.
His pupils were blown wide. The faint glow beneath them made him look almost unrecognizable.
His mouth had parted, breath spilling hot and uneven, revealing sharpened fangs that had descended without warning.
A thin line of saliva caught at his lower lip. Every sign spoke plainly:
He was no longer fully present. In his place was an alpha overtaken.
And in such circumstances Anatole knew precisely what should have followed.
Instinct descending into ugliness.
He had seen enough noble households hide such incidents behind locked doors and sealed mouths.
He had expected resistance to vanish entirely once an untrained alpha reached this point. His hand moved instinctively toward where his cane had fallen.
He intended to strike. Enough to knock M/n out cold. But before his fingers even reached the polished wood—
**Crack.*
The sound startled him more than the fall had. Not cane against floor.
Palm against skin.
M/n had struck himself—Hard. The sharp slap echoed through the room. His head snapped slightly to one side. A red mark bloomed across his cheek almost immediately.
Anatole froze.
𝗦𝗟𝗔𝗣
A second strike. Harder this time.
𝗦𝗟𝗔𝗣
Then a third.
So severe the sound of it cut through the lingering heaviness of pheromones like snapped thread. For one suspended second even M/n seemed startled by his own violence.
Then breath shuddered out of him. His grip vanished. He recoiled backward abruptly, almost scrambling away from Anatole as though he himself had become the threat he feared most.
His eyes cleared only slightly, but enough. Enough for horror to enter them.
The glow of dominance remained faintly, but now fractured by recognition. He stared at his own hands.
At Anatole.
At what nearly occurred.
And then the tears came, not fully fallen, but gathered visibly, bright against flushed skin. His breathing turned ragged in another way now.
No longer hunger, no longer instinct.
Panic.
“I—” The word broke before completion. No explanation followed, no apology. As though language itself had abandoned him. M/n rose too quickly, nearly stumbling as he found his footing.
Then fled. The office doors opened violently. Closed just as quickly.
A silence so complete that the clock upon the mantel suddenly sounded indecently loud.
Tick.
Tick.
Tick.
Anatole remained where he had fallen. Still seated upon the carpet. One hand braced behind him.
The other resting lightly against the shoulder where M/n’s grip had left pressure still lingering. His cane lay beside him, forgotten.
Anatole Blanchard simply stared.
His calm did not return at once. Because what had occurred did not fit expectation neatly enough to allow immediate categorization.
He had expected loss of control. That much had been inevitable. He had expected instinct to seize the body before thought could recover.
But that...That interruption. That sudden violent return.
An alpha deep enough in instinct to pin an omega, yet conscious enough to tear himself free before true damage began.
Before command from another was even given. Before force had been required. His brow drew slightly.
How curious.
Most curious.
Because such interruption should not have come naturally in a case as severe as M/n’s. Not under direct scent provocation, especially not when this was his first exposure to an Omega's scent.
His fingers finally closed around the cane, though he did not yet rise. His thoughts sharpened.
The file had spoken of confinement. Of isolation. Of overwhelming scent. Of failure around previous omega exposure.
But not this.
No paper had suggested that beneath all that disorder lay instinct strong enough to halt itself at the edge.
A knock came. Three light taps against the still half-open door.
Then a maid entered carefully, only enough to peer within. The sight of Anatole still seated upon the floor visibly startled her.
“Mister Blanchard—” She hesitated.
“Are you quite well, sir?” Only then did Anatole rise. As though the position had been entirely intentional.
He dusted invisible disturbance from his sleeve before reclaiming full posture.
“It is nothing.” The words came easily enough now, though colder than usual. The maid lowered her eyes at once.
“Draw me a bath,” he said. “Immediately.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And no one is to disturb me for the next quarter hour.”
“At once, sir.” She curtsied and withdrew.
The door closed. At last Anatole stood alone again.
Yet now another discomfort announced itself—one he had not immediately allowed himself to examine.
He lifted the discarded handkerchief from the floor. Held it loosely between gloved fingers. Then frowned. Because beneath the room’s fading disorder, beneath his own omega scent still lingering—
another scent remained.
M/n’s. Distinctly alpha.
And it clung more sharply than it ought to.
Not merely present. It had entered too deeply.
Enough that Anatole became aware—belatedly, unwillingly—of the way his own pulse had not entirely steadied.
His jaw tightened. That, more than being pinned, offended him.
Because never, not once in all his years of instruction, had an alpha scent unsettled him beyond professional irritation.
He had stood before arrogant heirs who weaponized pheromones deliberately.
He had dismissed them all with equal indifference. None reached further than that.
None.
Yet now— This one lingered unpleasantly close.
Not because it was crude. Not because it was overpowering. But because his own body had noticed it too clearly.
And that fact irritated him far more than the fall. His fingers tightened around the handkerchief. A faint crease appeared between his brows.
“How deeply troublesome,” he murmured aloud.
Not to M/n. To himself. Because curiosity he tolerated. But bodily interference—
That he despised.
And what angered him most was not that M/n had lost control. It was that for one fleeting moment. his own composure had not remained entirely untouched by it.
༶•┈┈⛧┈♛ ＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊♛┈⛧┈┈•༶
༶•┈┈⛧┈♛ ＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊♛┈⛧┈┈•༶
𝗧𝗛𝗘 journey back from the Blanchard estate passed in a blur M/n scarcely remembered.
He recalled only fragments
The hurried opening of the carriage door. The startled expression of the coachman when he entered too abruptly.
The way his own hands would not stop trembling no matter how tightly he clenched them upon his knees.
Outside the carriage windows, the city rolled past in muted shapes, iron gates, stone facades, narrow roads slick with pale afternoon light, but none of it truly entered him.
All he could still feel was the weight of what had happened. Anatole beneath him.
The pressure of his own hands on another’s shoulders. That terrible instant where thought had vanished and instinct had become stronger than shame.
And worse, how close he had come.
By the time the carriage reached Levine estate, he did not wait for the footman to assist him.
He descended before the door had properly settled, boots striking gravel with unsteady haste.
Then ran. Across the front steps. Through the grand entrance hall. A startled maid carrying folded linens nearly dropped them as he passed.
“Master M/n—!"He did not answer. Another servant stepping aside too late nearly collided with him. Still he did not stop.
His feet carried him up the staircase two steps at a time, through corridors he knew too well, past portraits that blurred upon the walls until at last he reached the sanctuary and prison that had been his whole life.
His room.
The door shut behind him with such force the frame shook. Only then did the strength leave him. He staggered toward the bed and collapsed forward upon it, hands clutching the coverlet as though the fabric itself might hold him together.
The first sound that escaped him was not elegant. It was broken.
A sharp, wounded breath that turned quickly into helpless sobbing. His face buried into the sheets. His shoulders shook violently. He had lost control again.
Again...
The word struck harder each time it repeated itself in his mind. All morning he had allowed himself one dangerous thought—
That perhaps this time would be different.
That perhaps Anatole Blanchard, who had stood before him without fear, who had looked at him directly and spoken without trembling, might truly be someone capable of remaining.
Someone who would not faint.
Someone who would not recoil.
Someone who could withstand him.
And what had he done? Pinned him to the floor like some creature without breeding.
Like every ugly fear whispered behind closed doors about what ungoverned alphas became when left too long to themselves.
He pressed a hand hard over his mouth, as though to silence his own thoughts. His breathing came unevenly.
“I nearly…” The words refused completion. naming it made it unbearable. He had nearly done the unthinkable.
To the very man entrusted to help him.
A harsh sound escaped him again. He sat upright abruptly. The coat upon his shoulders suddenly felt suffocating.
He tore it off and hurled it across the room with more force than intended; it struck the chair by the hearth and fell crumpled to the floor.
His fingers fumbled at buttons. One button snapped free. He pulled at the collar so violently the fabric strained. By the time the waistcoat followed, it too landed discarded beside the coat.
The shirt beneath clung uncomfortably to skin damp with sweat. He dragged it over his head with shaking hands and threw it aside as well.
His chest rose sharply. Still not enough. Still the heat remained. Still shame clung like a second skin.
He turned and struck the mattress once with the heel of his palm, anger finally surfacing clearer now.
“I hate this…” The words came low, almost swallowed by the room.
“I hate this!” His fingers knotted in the sheets. His face twisted with fresh tears. He hated this body.
Hated how every lesson became proof of failure before it even properly began. Hated how control seemed forever one breath beyond reach. Hated that he could read law, history, diplomacy, poetry,
yet not command the simplest obedience from his own blood.
And beneath all of it, The worst humiliation remained impossible to ignore.
Because even now, hidden only partly by loosened garments and tangled sheets, his own body betrayed him.
His arousal had not entirely faded.
His breath caught sharply at the realization, shame surging fresh and brutal. He looked away from himself as though disgusted by what he saw.
Because even while horrified, even while frightened, his body had answered instinct all the same.
As though terror and desire had become indistinguishable. He clenched his eyes shut.
“I am vile…” The whisper barely reached the room.
Sometimes, more often lately than he admitted even to himself, he wondered whether life might have been simpler had fate made him otherwise.
Not an heir. Not an alpha. Not whatever this was.
But someone ordinary, Something that did not send servants reeling or turn every meeting into danger. Something that could sit beside another person and not fear what instinct might do.
His breathing slowly weakened into exhausted tremors. He lay back at last, staring upward through blurred vision. The ceiling above him had not changed in years.
The carved plaster roses along its edge. The heavy curtains. The same walls that had guarded him from the world.
or perhaps guarded the world from him.
At least here, he thought bitterly, no one need fear him. No one fainted. No one trembled.
Perhaps isolation truly remained the only mercy he had to offer others. Perhaps his parents had been wrong to hope.
Perhaps Anatole himself, after today, would send word refusing further instruction.
And if he did...
M/n could not even resent him.
Because after what happened, who would willingly return? The tears came quieter now.
He turned onto his side, drawing part of the blanket over himself though no comfort came from it.
The room smelled faintly still of his own unsettled pheromones. Even that disgusted him.
He closed his eyes. Crying himself till slumber takes his pain temporarily.
What a day...
༶•┈┈⛧┈♛ ＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊♛┈⛧┈┈•༶
༶
•┈┈⛧┈♛ ＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊♛┈⛧┈┈•༶
𝗦𝗧𝗘𝗔𝗠 curled thickly through the bathing chamber, blurring the marble walls until the room seemed almost shapeless. Only the sharp rhythm of water disturbed the silence.
And Anatole Blanchard’s breathing.
He stood beneath the heat with one hand braced against the tiled wall, the other dragging soap harshly across his skin with far more force than necessary.
His shoulder had already reddened, yet still he scrubbed as though determined to erase something deeper than scent. His jaw tightened.
He was furious.
Not at the incident itself, though the memory of being forced onto the floor remained vivid enough to sharpen his mood,
but at the betrayal of his own body.
That anger burned hotter than the bathwater. For years, he had perfected composure until it became inseparable from his name.
He had built an entire reputation upon what others considered improbable for an omega:
control.
Absolute, measured, unwavering control.
He had stood before alphas twice M/n’s age, men swollen with pride and old dominance, men who believed their scent alone could bend a room. He had corrected them. Disciplined them.
Watched them falter beneath his gaze while he himself remained untouched. That had been his triumph. A quiet one, but no less significant.
Because for an omega, mastery over reaction was not merely etiquette, it was armor. And Anatole wore that armor better than most.
Or so he had believed.
The cloth dragged harder across his shoulder.
His skin stung. Yet still, faint beneath soap and heated water, he imagined he could detect it—
that lingering trace of M/n.
Overwhelmingly male in a way he found almost offensive. His nostrils flared with irritation.
“How absurd.”
The words came low, nearly lost beneath the sound of water. A mere alpha.
Young, untrained, undisciplined enough to lose himself before the first true lesson had even ended.
And yet...
Anatole’s fingers tightened against the cloth. His own body had responded. That was the offense he could not pardon.
Beneath the water, beneath every deliberate effort at indifference, his body had betrayed him with humiliating honesty.
Heat gathered low in his stomach despite himself. His breath shortened faintly.
He looked downward with visible irritation, expression sharpening further. Underneath the water and lather, his own arousal remained undeniable.
A response he neither invited nor appreciated. His lips flattened. The cloth scraped harder.
How could a mere alpha disturb him this thoroughly?
He had endured stronger scents. Older scents. Crueler scents.
None had made his footing feel uncertain when standing too near. None had made his pulse alter simply because the air had thickened.
M/n’s scent had not forced collapse.
No, Anatole would never allow such exaggeration.
But it had reached him. That alone was intolerable enough.
When M/n had leaned close earlier, when instinct had overtaken reason, the scent had changed entirely. It had deepened.
Dominant enough that for one brief, infuriating instant Anatole had felt his own body hesitate. Not from fear, But from something more primitive,
that omega instinct he had spent years disciplining into silence.
His hand stopped moving.
Water streamed down his shoulders. And despite irritation, his thoughts returned unwillingly to the moment that followed.
Because that, more than the loss of control, had unsettled him.
M/n had stopped. He had stopped himself. Three hard slaps across his own face. Enough force to leave red across his skin. Enough force that even Anatole had frozen.
Cause It had been panic.
Real panic.
The expression M/n wore after. frightened not of consequence, but of himself.
Anatole closed his eyes briefly.
That was unusual. Most alphas, once overtaken, justified themselves after.
Blamed the phermones, blamed omega for provocation, blamed biology itself.
But M/n had looked horrified.
As though he had committed an unforgivable thing before it had even occurred. That meant discipline existed.
Though unrefined, poorly built—it was present.
And if instinct that violent could still be interrupted, then there was structure worth studying.
His eyes opened slowly. The anger did not vanish, but it sharpened into thought.
Perhaps the lesson today had not failed entirely. Perhaps it had revealed exactly where fracture lay.
And more importantly, it revealed something about himself as well.
Because if M/n could disturb even his own carefully cultivated composure, then Anatole’s mastery still possessed weakness.
That truth offended him almost as much as the arousal itself.
He had spent too many years becoming untouchable to discover now that one untrained heir could unsettle his breathing.
No.
That could not remain unanswered. If M/n learned control, Anatole gained equally.
The boy would learn restraint, scent discipline, emotional regulation.
And Anatole...
Anatole would refine resistance further. He would force his own body to cease reacting. He would study that scent until it no longer reached him.
Until even M/n’s strongest release became no more disruptive than perfume in passing air.
A challenge...yes. That was what this truly was.
And Anatole had never disliked challenge. The cloth finally lowered. His scrubbing slowed.
The scent had faded as much as it would tonight. No amount of force would erase what memory still retained.
He stepped from the bath and reached for a towel with calm returning piece by piece. By the time he dressed, his expression had settled once more into its usual precision. A servant waiting outside straightened when called.
“Prepare writing materials.” The maid blinked.
“Now, sir?”
“Now.” Moments later, seated at his desk in fresh evening clothes, Anatole dipped his pen into ink.
He did not hesitate. The letter formed in elegant strokes.
Not asking for an apology. Not filing for a complaint. And certainly not resignation.
_________________________________________
𝕿𝖔 𝕷𝖆𝖉𝖞 𝕷𝖊𝖛𝖎𝖓𝖊
𝕴 write to inform you that today’s lesson, while eventful, has not altered my professional judgment regarding your son’s instruction.
His present condition confirms not impossibility, but necessity.
There are clear fractures in discipline, but there is also evidence that restraint exists where many would possess none at all. This, in itself, is worth continuing.
I therefore request that lessons proceed as agreed. However, beginning next session, conditions shall be adjusted. The exercises must intensify.
Your son requires not gentleness, but precision under pressure.
If he is to function within society, his control must survive discomfort, provocation, and humiliation alike.
I will prepare accordingly.
—𝕬𝖓𝖆𝖙𝖔𝖑𝖊 𝕭𝖑𝖆𝖓𝖈𝖍𝖆𝖗𝖉
_________________________________________
He sanded the ink lightly, folded the letter, sealed it. Then handed it to the waiting servant.
“Deliver this tonight.” The servant bowed and departed. Only when the door shut did Anatole lean back slightly in his chair.
His fingers tapped once against the desk. A faint thought surfaced.
Next time, he thought, we begin where today broke.
And if M/n believed today was unbearable,
then he had not yet seen what true discipline he could provide.
༶•┈┈⛧┈♛ ＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊♛┈⛧┈┈•༶
༶•┈┈⛧┈♛ ＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊♛┈⛧┈┈•༶
Lol, I'm thinking if I should give this a sad ending or not (.❛ᴗ❛.)
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