Page 108 of Bonds of Pain
Ifollow Logan’s sisters deeper into the Spring Palace, their chattering voices forming a cheerful backdrop to my throbbing headache. The youngest—Lyra—loops her arm through mine with casual familiarity, as if we’ve known each other for years instead of minutes.
“You have to see the nursery,” she insists, tugging me along a sun-dappled corridor. “The babies are absolutely adorable, and Alexandra’s little boy is a terror in the most delightful way.”
The other sisters—Alexandra and Emilia—exchange knowing smiles as they lead me through a series of increasingly intimate family spaces. Unlike the formal areas of the main palace, everything here feels lived-in, comfortable, and decidedly feminine.
We enter a bright room painted in soft blues and greens, sunlight streaming through tall windows that overlook a private garden. The space is filled with toys, colorful rugs, and small-scale furniture. In one corner, a young woman—clearly a nanny—supervises three little girls playing with elaborate dollhouses.
“My twins,” Alexandra says proudly, nodding toward the identical girls with golden curls. “Sophia and Eliana, just turned four last month.”
The third child, slightly older with dark braids and a determined expression, looks up at our entrance. “Aunt Lyra!” she shouts, abandoning her dolls to race across the room.
Lyra scoops her up with practiced ease. “This little monster is Olivia, Emilia’s daughter.”
Emilia rolls her eyes fondly. “Six going on sixteen, I swear.”
The children regard me with unabashed curiosity, their eyes widening at my purple hair. I smile awkwardly, unsure how to interact with them. I’ve had so little experience with children.
“And where’s my little prince?” Alexandra asks the nanny, who gestures toward a connecting room.
“Napping, Your Highness. Finally.”
As if summoned by his mother’s voice, a cry erupts from the other room. Alexandra sighs dramatically. “Never fails. Excuse me.”
She returns moments later with a chubby baby boy in her arms, his face red from crying. He can’t be more than eight months old, with a shock of dark hair and pouty lips currently twisted in displeasure.
“This is James,” Alexandra says, bouncing him gently. “Would you like to hold him?”
Before I can respond, she’s transferring the baby into my arms. I take him reflexively, panic momentarily overriding my hangover. His tiny body feels alarmingly fragile, his weight surprisingly solid.
James stares up at me with Logan’s golden eyes, his cries quieting as he studies my face. A tiny hand reaches up to grab a strand of my purple hair, tugging with surprising strength.
“He likes you,” Emilia observes, looking pleased.
The baby gurgles, a string of drool escaping his mouth as he continues to clutch my hair. His tiny fingers grip with surprising strength, and I find myself reluctantly charmed by his stubborn determination.
“Hello, James,” I say softly, awkwardly shifting him in my arms to a more comfortable position. He responds with a toothless smile that transforms his entire face.
As I hold him, watching his expressions shift from curiosity to delight, I wait for the maternal instinct to kick in—that overwhelming surge of nurturing feelings the Enclaveinstructors insisted was natural to all Omegas. They’d lectured endlessly about our biological purpose, our innate drive to nurture and reproduce.
But what I feel isn’t the all-consuming maternal yearning they described. There’s tenderness, yes, and a certain protective instinct—but it’s distant, intellectual. I can recognize that James is adorable without feeling any desperate desire to have one of my own.
The thought of pregnancy—of my body swelling with Logan’s child, or even Cillian’s—fills me with dread rather than longing. It would be one more chain binding me to this gilded cage, one more aspect of my life I couldn’t control.
And what would happen to an Omega daughter born into this world? Would she be sent to the Enclave, taught the same lessons about submission and service that nearly broke me? Would she face the same violations, the same dismissal of her personhood? The same painful choices between terrible options?
I look down at James, now contentedly chewing on his own fist, blissfully unaware of the world he’ll inherit. As a male Alpha—and a royal one at that—his path is already paved with privilege.
An Omega daughter wouldn’t have the same protection. She might avoid the Enclave, but being mated to an Alpha would be her ultimate destiny whether she wanted it or not.
“He’s perfect,” I tell Alexandra, meaning it despite the tangled emotions beneath. “You must be very proud.”
She beams, maternal pride radiating from her. “He is a handful, but worth every sleepless night. Don’t you just want to eat him up?”
I smile noncommittally, grateful when Lyra distracts everyone by suggesting we show me the famous Spring Palace gardens. As I carefully hand James back to his mother, oureyes meet briefly, and I wonder if she can see the truth behind my polite façade—that beneath my perfect Omega exterior beats the heart of a defective specimen, one who doesn’t yearn for motherhood as nature supposedly intended.
The little girls clamor to join our garden tour, and as we file out of the nursery, I feel a weight lifting from my shoulders. The pressure to perform motherly instincts I don’t possess fades with each step away from the babies.
Perhaps someday, if I ever truly gain my freedom, I might choose to have children. But it would be my choice—not biology’s mandate, not Logan’s demand, not society’s expectation. And until that day comes, I’ll guard my body as fiercely as these palace women guard their sanctuary.
