A sleek black luxury car rolled to a silent stop in front of the grand, time-worn estate. The house stood proud and tall, an old Victorian manor with white painted railings and delicate, lace-like eaves. A wrap-around porch encircled both the first and second floors, while a small circular tower crowned the third, watching solemnly over the expansive backyard and formal courtyard below. Trellises clung to the walls, blooming with red and white roses that bled their fragrance into the cooling evening air.

This was Rosales Manor, the heart of the Desrosiers legacy and once the culmination of Ivy Desrosiers’ greatest dream.

Born into poverty, Ivy had poured her soul into this home. Every detail, from the carved wood bannisters to the custom window mouldings, had been chosen by her hand. The manor had once been her pride, a monument to what hard work, sacrifice, and love could build. But after her children were born, that pride quietly shifted. The roses still bloomed, the chandeliers still gleamed, but her gaze rarely lingered on them. Her time, her heart, belonged to her children.

She had expected her bond with her youngest, Acheron, to be the deepest. Though she was a Female and he a Male, they shared a secondary gender, something she had thought would draw them together. In a household full of Alphas, she had hoped their shared biology would be a lifeline between them.

But the connection never quite formed.

Acheron had always been small, delicate and doll-like. Even now, he stood well below average height for an Omega male, shorter than many Beta females. His fragility inspired a strange kind of reverence in others, an instinct to protect, to carry, to possess. Since infancy, he'd been more often cradled than left to walk. In school, it was no different; his friends had picked up where she left off.

At first, Ivy had found it endearing, but everything changed when Acheron presented as an Omega.

Suddenly, too many Alpha eyes turned toward him. Too curious, too possessive. Ivy, worried and unsure, decided to send him to the same elite boarding school as her third-born son. At the time, it had felt like the safest path. In hindsight, she questioned everything.

Now, as they sat in the quiet hum of the parked car, she turned to look at the boy she could never quite hold the right way.

Acheron was asleep in the back seat, his small, heart-shaped face pressed gently against the window. Long silver lashes cast soft shadows against his cheeks, and his breathing came slow and even, peaceful for the first time since he’d come home from school. The faint sound of his snoring filled the cabin, delicate and childlike.

Ivy’s throat tightened.

Beside her, Oaklen reached across the console, taking her hand in his. His thumb moved slowly over her skin, a silent offering. Words trembled behind his lips but never made it past. What comfort could he offer? As an Alpha… as a father… he had failed. Failed to protect his child and failed to protect his Omega from this grief. No apology would ever be enough.

The car engine ticked quietly as it cooled, the sky outside dimming to twilight.

Neither of them moved to open their doors.

Instead, they sat there, frozen in that fragile moment, watching their son sleep, afraid that if they disturbed him now, the peace he’d finally found would vanish like mist.

The manor had not changed, and yet everything felt different.

Acheron hadn’t stirred when his father lifted him from the back seat and carried him through the grand front doors, up the winding staircase, and into the room that had always belonged to him. His old things were still there: the pale-blue walls, the shelf of books untouched since before he left for school, the glass wind chime above his window that never made a sound. Even his favourite blanket lay folded at the edge of the bed, just where his mother always left it. But none of this reached him.

He slept for two days. Not deeply, his body twitched often, breath catching as if memories chased him through dreams, but without waking.

By the third morning, he opened his eyes.

He didn’t speak much. Barely ate and avoided mirrors.

When the appointment with the court-assigned trauma psychologist was mentioned, he didn’t protest. He only nodded once, slowly and unreadably.

And so, on a grey Monday afternoon, Acheron found himself seated once more in the back of his father’s car, dressed quietly in his own chosen clothes, hair brushed, and hands bandaged. The drive was long but silent. Ivy sat beside him, hands knotted in her lap, while Oaklen focused on the road with a jaw so tight it looked carved from stone.

No one asked if he was ready.

No one said the words they all carried like lead in their chests: rape, trauma, failure, guilt.

Maybe that was for the best.

By the time they pulled into the discreet, tree-lined complex where the trauma specialist held his practice, Acheron had grown still again. His hand hovered near the door handle for a moment before he pushed it open and stepped out on his own.

Dr Cloe Pace sat behind his meticulously organised desk, fingers steepled, gaze fixed on the file resting before him. Behind him, a tall bookcase loomed, filled with research materials, well-thumbed volumes on psychology from around the world. Every item in his office had been chosen with care: soft couches draped in neutral-toned blankets, cushions in soothing earth tones, and plush rugs muffling the sound of footsteps. A subtle scent of cinnamon lingered in the air, warm and grounding. Usually, this space was enough to calm anyone who stepped inside.

But not today.

Today, even the cinnamon seemed too sharp.

The file in front of him belonged to his newest client and his first, whose case was tied to an open, brutal criminal investigation. Paper-clipped to the folder was a photograph of a young Omega, no older than eighteen. The boy stared back with distant eyes and an expression far too still for someone his age. Freshly graduated, his life was supposed to be beginning. Instead, it would now be spent fighting for justice in a system that would demand more from him than it ever should have.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

A soft knock at the door pulled Cloe from his thoughts. Right on time.

The door creaked loudly as it opened, the one relic the landlord had refused to let him replace when renovating the office. Everything else had been redone; he installed new hardwood floors, repainted walls, and custom shelving, but the old wooden door remained, groaning like a tired guardian with every visitor.

Acheron Desrosiers stepped inside.

He moved quietly, his sharp phoenix-like eyes sweeping the room with quiet calculation. His face, pale and heart-shaped, betrayed no emotion, though it bore the faint traces of violence; a fading bruise ghosted the corner of his mouth. His silver hair, loosely tied half-up, allowed thick bangs to frame his soft, slightly swollen cheeks.

The oversized knit sweater swallowed his slight frame, sleeves falling past his wrists, where white bandages coiled up both forearms. His tight black jeans were torn at the knees, a delicate silver chain dangling from one pocket. As he bent to remove his scuffed black tennis shoes, neatly placing them into the shoe cabinet near the door, Dr Pace noticed the bright pink fuzzy socks underneath. The contrast was startling, but what drew his attention most was the boy’s neck.

Where there should have been a legally required Omega collar, standard for anyone post-first heat and unclaimed, there was instead a thick layer of clean, sterile bandages wrapped tightly around the snowy skin of his throat. No collar. No mark.

Just injury.

Cloe had worked with dozens of Omegas, many with unique stories and varied expressions of trauma. Some wore their pain like armour, others like perfume. But none had carried such quiet, aching fragility as Acheron.

And none had ever left him so stunned by the sheer adorableness of their presence. It felt surreal, almost cruel, that someone so soft and small had been chosen as a target for such a violent act.

Acheron took in the office, eyes flitting briefly to the wall lined with certificates and framed accolades. Every inch of the space signalled that Dr Pace was not just qualified, but deeply invested in his work, something that comforted him more than he expected. His last therapist had worked in an office that looked like it hadn’t been touched since the late '70s: cracked leather couches, yellowing walls, and outdated views that treated Omegas like they were something broken to be corrected.

This was different.

Then, he looked to the doctor himself.

Cloe Pace, taller than most Omegas, stood beside his desk, having already shed his white coat. He wore a crisp button-up shirt, the top two buttons undone, revealing a bare, Collarless neck. A mated Omega. He carried a softbound notebook in one hand and gestured gently toward a single-seat couch near the window.

Acheron didn’t miss the way the doctor’s golden-framed glasses flashed under the light, or how his dark eyes, calm but alert, tracked every movement he made. Unlike most Omegas Acheron had met, Dr Pace didn’t radiate softness or submission. He had a composed strength about him, quiet and grounding. Although he didn't seem threatening, he was also someone to be underestimated.

There was something oddly comforting in that.

For the first time since the attack, Acheron didn’t feel like prey.

“Good afternoon, Mr Desrosiers.”

Dr Cloe Pace’s voice was calm and even, his tone respectful but unforced. He gestured toward the single leather couch across from his own seat. Some might consider the lack of a handshake impolite, but over the years, Cloe had learned that, for many survivors, physical contact, even the most well-meaning kind, could feel invasive.

Acheron sat down quietly, saying nothing. His sharp eyes flicked around the room only once before he sank into the plush cushions. A soft, grey throw was draped over the armrest, and without thinking, his fingers sought out the tassels, absent-mindedly twisting them around and around.

“Eron,” Cloe said gently, “before we begin, I want to set a few ground rules.”

He hadn’t sat yet; he stood just behind his chair, voice warm but clear.

“First, I’d like you to choose a safe word, something you can say any time the conversation becomes too overwhelming. I’ll always encourage you to stay with the discomfort when you can, but you get to set the pace. You’ll never be pushed beyond what feels safe.”

Acheron’s gaze didn’t lift, but his fingers paused in their fidgeting.

“Second,” Cloe added, motioning to a sleek wooden cabinet to the right, “there’s a mini fridge with drinks and snacks in there. Tea, coffee, water, juice. And on the counter, you’ll find a coffee machine, a tea maker, sugar, syrups, and even cinnamon sticks. That space is yours—whenever you need it.”

“Mm.”

The sound was soft, almost a sigh, but Cloe noticed the brief spark of light in Acheron’s eyes as he glanced toward the snack corner. It was the smallest flicker of interest, but enough to mean something.

Cloe smiled to himself and made a quiet note in his file.

He only ever took a few clients at a time. The intimacy of his practice allowed him to work deeply, personally, without burnout. And with Eron, he had done his research thoroughly, from medical records and public details to preferences in food, scent, and even the textures of blankets he gravitated toward. Every element in the room was curated for safety. For comfort. It mattered more than any medication ever could.

“To start,” Cloe said, moving toward the kitchenette, “why don’t you tell me a little about how things have been at home lately?”

He prepared two cappuccinos, one for himself, the other for his new patient, setting them carefully on a tray beside a small assortment of miniature cakes and tarts. Sugar, milk, cream, caramel syrup, and cinnamon sticks were all neatly arranged. He didn’t have much of a sweet tooth himself, but he knew this boy did. Knew that, beneath the silence and scars, was still someone who sought softness in sugar.

Behind him, Acheron spoke at last, his voice quiet, hesitant, like he wasn’t sure he should be talking at all.

“It’s okay. My third-oldest brother isn’t home. He’s studying media at Aurelia  University.” A pause. “He calls me twice a day.”

“Sounds like he cares a great deal.”

“I guess so,” Eron murmured, reaching for a tart and avoiding eye contact. “I think he feels guilty.”

“Guilty?”

He nodded, chewing slowly. “Mmm.”

There was another pause. His gaze drifted down to the edge of the blanket in his lap again.

“My dad’s been coming home early. Every night. He’s started cooking… weird stuff.” Acheron gave a faint, almost surprised laugh. “Some of it’s really good. Some of it tastes like poison.”

Cloe chuckled softly but didn’t interrupt.

Acheron’s smile faded almost instantly. His voice grew quieter. “I’ve been avoiding my mom.”

Cloe leaned slightly forward. “Avoiding?”

“I feel bad. But every time she looks at me, it’s like she’s going to cry. Like… just the sight of me hurts her.”

“That’s a lot to carry.”

“Yeah,” he whispered. “We were never super close. But now… It’s like we don’t know how to talk. She’s so focused on court dates and doctors. I feel like a schedule, not a person.”

Cloe let the silence sit for a moment before asking, “And how are those appointments going?”

“They’re fine. My ribs are healing. I can move more easily. The cuts on my arms are almost gone. But…” His hand lifted unconsciously toward the bandages on his throat. “My Glands… They’ll scar permanently.”

Cloe didn’t write that down. He didn’t need to. He looked at the boy curled up, voice distant and simply asked:

“How does that make you feel?”

Eron’s eyes flicked up briefly, expression unreadable. Then he answered.

“Damaged.”