Page 93 of Unmarked

(…Also because I was legally advised not to bust down another wall on private property.)

But we’re past that now.

I turn on my heel and leave the gallery without any further hesitation. I don’t storm back through the corridors, though - Istalk.

There’s a difference.

Storming implies recklessness. A tantrum. Rage without aim.

But this?

This is focus. This is fury in a tailored suit.

This is every sharp corner of me honed by decades of lessons in silence, strategy, and suppression.

Lessons from a man who could ruin you with a glance.

I pass the west atrium, ignoring the enormous oil painting of my great-great-grandfather posed beside a lion he probably didn’t kill himself. Another Vale tradition: posture like a god, perform like a myth, feel absolutely nothing.

At least until your omega picks another alpha to crawl into bed with.

My jaw tics.

When I was six, I cried during a piano lesson. My left hand wasn’t coordinating with the right, the time signature made no sense, and my tutor said I was distracted by emotion.

That night, my father made me stand barefoot on the marble balcony for two hours.

“If you want warmth,”he said,“earn it.”

I stopped crying after that.

I still don’t know how to play that piece.

I turn down a narrower hallway, one most people don’t notice. Staff wing. Service corridor. Less polished, more practical.

Unlike the rest of the estate, this part of the house isn’t designed to impress; just control.

Exactly how he likes it.

Funny thing, control. You spend your whole life mastering it, only to get undone by the sound of your omega moaning someone else’s name.

God, if I had a dollar for every time I held back while someone else got the credit - actually, never mind. Ido.

I have several million dollars, and a vault full of weapons-grade restraint.

And tonight, I used every last ounce of it not to snap Ash’s neck like a glowstick.

You’d think the war vet would have some chill.

I pass a mirror. Stop.

I look good. Objectively.

Sharp cheekbones, black-on-black tailored perfection, five o’clock shadow carved like it was sculpted by vindictive gods.

If I weren’t me, I’d fuck me. Probably thank me afterward, too.

But the man staring back doesn’t look impressed. Or satisfied.

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