Chapter Text
Harry isn’t Dudley. He isn’t especially profound, nor does he try to be. There’s a certain freedom, after all, in fading into the background, in blending into the spaces where no one looks too closely. He’s learned to embrace it, to be just another obedient face in the crowd, not worth the effort of anyone’s scrutiny. It’s safer that way, easier to avoid the consequences of standing out.
Yet despite his best efforts, he isn’t entirely invisible.
When his uncle summons him to his office at midday, it’s enough to make his pulse stutter. He’s never called for like this—unless he’s done something wrong. The thick oak door looms ahead, a monolith of polished wood and quiet authority, and Harry hesitates for only a breath before stepping inside. The latch clicks shut behind him, too loud in the heavy silence.
“You called, Uncle?” His voice is even, carefully neutral. He knows better than to show irritation, even as a thread of it coils beneath his ribs. The room is warm, the scent of ink and wax mixing with something deeper—something heavy and cloying, pressing down on him with the weight of unspoken expectations. Instinctively, Harry bows his head, his hands clasping behind his back in a posture of submission.
Uncle Vernon doesn’t acknowledge him at first. The scratch of quill against parchment fills the space between them, each stroke deliberate, methodical. The seconds stretch, thick and uncomfortable, and Harry fights the urge to shift on his feet. Finally, Vernon leans back in his chair, the leather groaning under his weight. His scent—dense, dominant, oppressive—rolls outward, thickening the air like a physical force.
“I want you to meet an alpha this coming Sunday,” his uncle says, his tone clipped and businesslike. He steeples his fingers, peering at Harry over the rim of his glasses. There is no warmth in his gaze, only cold calculation.
Harry stills. His heartbeat stumbles.
His debut is a month away—just after his twenty-first birthday. It isn’t unheard of to introduce an omega to potential suitors before then, especially if their family is eager to secure a match. But he hadn’t expected it to happen so soon. Not with so little warning. His stomach twists, but he nods, schooling his expression into something obedient, something unreadable. “Yes, Uncle,” he murmurs.
He turns to leave, eager to escape the suffocating weight of his uncle’s presence, but Vernon’s voice halts him before he can reach the door.
“Make a good impression,” he says, sharper now. “I had to pull a lot of strings for this meeting. I won’t have you embarrass me.”
Harry swallows back the bitterness clawing its way up his throat. He keeps his voice steady. “May I ask who it is?”
Vernon’s eyes glint, assessing. “The Duke of Arbony.”
A pit opens in Harry’s stomach.
He doesn’t let it show—not fully—but his fingers curl into his palms, nails pressing half-moons into his skin. The Duke is a powerful man, old money and older influence, but he’s also old, full stop. Well into his sixties. It isn’t unheard of for omegas to be married off to alphas decades their senior, particularly if they’re pretty or their families are desperate. But this—it feels like a last-ditch effort, like his uncle is throwing him to the highest bidder and hoping he sticks.
“Arland Scott?” Harry asks, already knowing the answer.
Vernon nods. “If he likes you, you’ll be married within the month.” His lips curl in something that isn’t quite a smirk, more like a sneer dressed in civility. “Don’t disappoint me. I don’t care what you have to do—if spreading your legs is what it takes, then get it done.”
Heat rushes to Harry’s face, anger and humiliation curdling into something sharp and acrid. He doesn’t trust himself to speak, doesn’t trust himself to look his uncle in the eye. He turns on his heel and leaves, shutting the door behind him with more force than necessary.
The hallway outside is cool in comparison, the air thinner, freer without the oppressive weight of his uncle’s scent. He exhales slowly, trying to steady himself, but his hands still shake as he drags them through his hair.
He barely takes two steps before nearly colliding with Dudley.
His cousin is lounging against a marble pillar, arms crossed, a lazy smirk tugging at his mouth. “What did he want?” Dudley asks, tone dripping with false innocence. He tilts his head, studying Harry with that same smug look, always so sure of his place, always so certain he’s untouchable.
Harry clenches his jaw. “Fuck off, Dudley.”
Dudley only grins wider, but there’s something mean in it, something sharp. “That bad, huh?” He tuts, shaking his head. “Shame. Guess he finally got tired of waiting for you to be useful.”
Harry doesn’t rise to the bait. He exhales slowly, evenly. “You know exactly what he wanted.” Then, quieter, bitter, “Why couldn’t he just fake my designation like he did yours?”
The smirk flickers. A crack in the armor, gone as quickly as it appeared.
Dudley steps in closer, his scent spiking, synthetic and cloying, a poor imitation of a true alpha’s. “You shouldn’t talk about things you don’t understand,” he murmurs, voice low, dangerous. “I’ll kill you if you keep this up.”
Harry raises an eyebrow. “Will you?”
Dudley’s jaw tightens. His entire life is a carefully maintained lie, a secret stitched into his skin, a scent gland implanted where nature failed him. He was never meant to be an alpha—Vernon made him one, forced him into the role through science and desperation. But it’s never been quite right. The scent is wrong, the dominance forced, an illusion Harry has always seen through.
Harry hums, tilting his head. “I bet you’d like to take my place, wouldn’t you? The Duke of Arbony wouldn’t care if you were real or not. Not if you begged nicely enough.”
Dudley moves before Harry can react, his hand fisting in the front of his shirt as he slams him back against the wall. The impact knocks the breath from Harry’s lungs, but he doesn’t flinch, doesn’t look away. Instead, he smirks, something sharp and knowing curling at the edges of his mouth.
“Careful, Dudley,” he whispers, voice syrup-sweet. “Wouldn’t want to break your precious implant.”
Dudley’s grip tightens. For a moment, Harry wonders if he’ll actually follow through, if he’ll crack and let his temper win. But then Dudley makes a low, frustrated sound and shoves him away, storming off down the corridor, his entire frame thrumming with barely contained rage.
Harry watches him go. The smirk fades, leaving behind something cold, something tired. His hands tremble at his sides. He presses a palm to his chest, feeling the erratic pound of his heartbeat beneath his ribs.
The worst part is that he knows there’s no way out of this.
His uncle has made up his mind. The meeting is set. And unless Harry does something drastic, he will be married off before he even has the chance to breathe.
And no one—not his uncle, not Dudley, not anyone—is coming to save him.
***
Harry hadn’t expected to be nervous.
He’d spent all morning convincing himself it didn’t matter, that this was just dinner, just another task to complete. He’d been trained for this—lessons drilled into him since he was old enough to sit still, teachings on how to carry himself like a proper omega of a noble household. It shouldn’t have been nerve-wracking. And yet, as he steps into the aircar that evening, his heart beats an unsteady rhythm against his ribs.
Arland Scott isn’t ugly.
He tells himself that on repeat, because it should help. The Duke is tall, broad-shouldered, silver-haired, with aristocratic features that would be striking if they weren’t so cold. He looks exactly as a duke ought to, almost painfully so. But five minutes into the ride, when Scott’s hand settles on his knee—warm, deliberate—Harry realizes looks aren’t the problem.
He feels the weight of it, heavy and proprietary, and forces a smile. He can’t afford to offend the man, so he shifts, subtle, under the guise of adjusting himself. The Duke allows the movement but watches him too closely, like he’s cataloging every twitch of discomfort.
“You seem tense,” the Duke comments, voice smooth but edged, assessing.
“Just a bit nervous,” Harry admits, tucking his hands together in his lap, fingers locked tight. “I suppose I’m still getting used to all of this.”
The Duke nods, almost sympathetic. “Your debut is approaching quickly, isn’t it? Must be overwhelming.”
“Yes.” Harry keeps his tone light. Nonchalant. He’s feeling out the man, trying to gauge if this is a match worth considering or just another inevitable disappointment.
So far, he isn’t impressed.
Arland Scott isn’t funny, he realizes quickly. He’s about as far from it as possible, droning on about his political stances, especially regarding one of the inner core planets—a topic Harry couldn’t care less about.
He nods at the right moments, smiles when appropriate, but it’s mechanical. By the time they’re flying over the mountain range, the jagged peaks blanketed in snow, he’s already zoning out, watching the scenery blur past.
The Duke falls silent. When Harry glances over, he finds himself under sharp blue scrutiny.
“Are you the silent type?” the Duke asks, a note of amusement curling under his words. But there’s calculation too, lurking beneath the surface.
Harry meets his gaze directly. He knows he’s not supposed to—omegas are expected to avert their eyes, to submit to alpha authority—but he does it anyway. “I suppose I am,” he replies, tilting his head slightly. “But I’m more than happy to listen.”
The Duke’s smile is small but real. “You’re an interesting one. How old are you, Harry?”
“Twenty.”
“Rather late for a debut, isn’t it?”
Harry fights the urge to bristle. “It is,” he says simply. “I wasn’t too keen on marrying.”
It’s a dangerous admission, but he’s testing the waters.
The Duke doesn’t look offended. If anything, he looks intrigued. “And now you are?”
Harry hesitates only a fraction of a second. “Yes,” he lies smoothly. It’s what he’s supposed to say, what his uncle expects of him. He’s well aware that most omegas his age are already married, some with children. He’s behind, and they both know it.
“You’re very pretty,” the Duke says after a moment, voice dipping softer, brushing against something more intimate.
Harry inclines his head slightly. “Thank you.”
The Duke’s scent shifts, thickening the air between them—musky, dark, with something just sharp enough to make Harry’s stomach twist. It’s not unpleasant, but it’s not comforting either. He knows he’d have to get used to it if this match moves forward, but the thought makes his skin prickle.
“So, sweet-talking won’t work on you?” Arland laughs, a low, throaty sound.
Harry smiles just enough to be polite. “I’m afraid not.”
The aircar begins to descend, the glittering sprawl of Verdantia’s capital stretching beneath them. When they land, the Duke doesn’t move immediately. He watches Harry instead.
“What moon were you born under?” he asks abruptly.
Harry barely hesitates. “Velar.”
The Duke hums. “Velar omegas tend to bond for life.”
Harry nods. It’s not just a tendency for him. It’s fact. He wants permanence, something unbreakable. The idea of divorce feels foreign, revolting. He wants to be someone’s forever, and he wants someone to be his.
The Duke steps out first, circling around to open Harry’s door. His hand settles on the small of Harry’s back as they walk, guiding him inside. The restaurant is dimly lit, the kind of place where the elite make backroom deals over expensive wine. Harry recognizes a few politicians, their voices hushed as they discuss matters far more significant than his courtship.
He takes his seat without complaint, allowing the Duke to order for him. It’s another small test, one Harry passes effortlessly, playing the part of the compliant omega. When the wine arrives, the Duke pours them each a glass.
“Do you drink?”
Harry shakes his head. “No, but I can if you’d like.”
The Duke’s smile widens. “I’d like for you to try this. It’s quite sweet—I think you’ll enjoy it.”
Harry lifts the glass, his hands steady despite the tight coil in his stomach. He remembers the last time he drank. But the night will go easier if he’s at least a little tipsy. He takes a sip. It is sweet, cloyingly so.
“It’s very good,” he says, setting the glass down.
The Duke watches him, head slightly tilted. “Do you want children?”
Harry nods. “Yes.”
“As do I.” A slow smile. “How many?”
“Three, I think.”
“Three sounds perfect.”
Silence settles between them, filled only with the occasional clink of silverware. When their meals arrive, Harry starts eating, careful with his movements. Across from him, the Duke cuts into his steak, and Harry barely suppresses a grimace—it’s nearly raw.
“Do you want that cooked more?” he asks before thinking better of it. “I’m sure they wouldn’t mind.”
The Duke chuckles. “I prefer it this way.”
“That’s not rare, that’s raw,” Harry blurts, then flushes.
The Duke laughs, genuine this time. “You’re honest. I like that.”
The rest of the meal blurs—more wine, more small talk, more moments where Harry forces himself to appear engaged. By the end of the night, he’s borderline drunk. When he stands, he sways, and the Duke catches him, steady hands at his waist.
“I’m sorry,” Harry mumbles. “This is why I don’t drink.”
“You’re quite alright,” the Duke assures him, practically lifting him into the aircar. He buckles Harry’s seatbelt for him before settling in.
Harry leans back, eyes shutting. “I’m not usually like this.”
“What, charming?” the Duke teases.
Harry huffs, warmth creeping up his neck. “No, I mean—”
“You’re fine, Harry.” The Duke reaches out, fingers brushing over Harry’s scent gland. “May I?”
Harry hesitates but nods. The thought of wearing the Duke’s scent makes something in his chest curl tight, but this is expected. He tilts his head, bares his throat. It’s just another step. Another box to tick.
The rest of the ride is silent.
When they arrive, the Duke doesn’t move to stop him—but he does speak.
“We’re not compatible, are we?” he asks softly.
Harry shakes his head. “No, we’re not.”
The Duke exhales a quiet laugh. “I appreciate your honesty, Harry. I hope you still had a good evening.”
“I did,” Harry admits. And to his own surprise, he almost means it.
“I’ll see you at your debut,” the Duke says as Harry steps out. “Goodnight.”
“Goodnight,” Harry echoes.
As he walks away, the Duke’s scent lingers on his skin. He resists the urge to scrub it off.
He knows he can’t control his instincts.
But still, he wishes he could.
***
The heavy doors groan open, the hinges protesting as the warm glow of the entryway’s chandeliers spills across the polished marble floor. Alec, the butler, stands at attention near the threshold, his tall frame outlined sharply against the dim, cold night outside. His usual composed demeanor falters the moment Harry staggers through the doorway, his footsteps uneven, clumsy. One hand shoots out, bracing himself against a marble pillar before he can fall entirely.
“Hi,” Harry mumbles, his voice barely audible over the deep echo of the doors swinging shut behind him. His words are slurred, his breath unsteady, and the sharp scent of alcohol lingers in the air around him like a second skin.
Alec moves swiftly, years of training kicking in as he steps forward to steady him. His strong, gloved hands grip Harry’s shoulders—firm, but careful, keeping him upright. “Are you alright?” Alec’s voice is calm, clipped, designed to soothe while betraying nothing of the concern creeping into his expression. His sharp eyes flick over Harry’s face, noting the pallor of his skin, the unfocused haze in his glassy green eyes.
Harry nods weakly, but the motion is sluggish and unconvincing. His stomach churns violently, the sour taste of bile rising in his throat. “I’m fine,” he mutters, though the words are barely more than a whisper. His knees buckle slightly, his balance teetering, and he feels himself leaning further into Alec’s solid grip.
Alec frowns, adjusting his hold, steadying him with practiced ease. “Fine is not the word I would use,” he says dryly, skepticism cutting through his even tone. “Let’s get you to bed before you collapse entirely.”
His gaze flicks to a maid lingering nearby—a young omega with a soft, round face and wide, uncertain eyes darting between Alec and Harry. Alec gestures briskly in her direction. “Take him to his rooms.”
The maid hesitates, her hands clasped tightly in front of her. Then, mustering her courage, she steps forward, her delicate fingers reaching out to take Harry’s arm. The moment her scent drifts toward him—a warm, sugary sweetness with undertones of ripe peaches—Harry freezes.
The aroma hits him like a slap, thick and cloying, and his stomach twists violently. “No,” he croaks, recoiling so sharply he nearly collapses against the pillar. His reaction is immediate, almost primal, his body rejecting the scent before his mind can even process why.
“Harry?” the maid asks, her voice soft with concern. She steps back quickly, her hands drawing inward as if she’s been scalded. “Did I… do something wrong?”
“I’m sorry,” Harry manages, his voice strained and hoarse as he claps a hand over his nose, desperate to block out the overwhelming sweetness. “It’s not you—it’s just…” He trails off, unable to articulate the nausea curling inside him, pressing hot and sour against the back of his throat.
The maid’s cheeks flush with embarrassment, and she looks at Alec uncertainly. “Maybe you should take him?” she suggests tentatively, her voice barely above a whisper.
Alec stiffens, his posture straightening, his jaw tightening. “That would be inappropriate,” he says firmly, leaving no room for argument. He adjusts his gloves absently, a flicker of irritation flashing in his sharp gaze.
The maid glances back at Harry, who looks like he might crumple to the floor at any moment. “Then go find someone else,” she huffs, exasperation creeping into her tone. “He can’t walk on his own, and I’m clearly not helping.”
Alec exhales sharply, his composure slipping just enough to reveal a flicker of irritation. “Fine,” he mutters before disappearing into the shadows of the corridor.
Harry slumps against the pillar, his chest rising and falling in uneven breaths, nausea clawing at his insides. The sickly-sweet scent clings to him like a second skin, refusing to dissipate. He rubs at his wrist uselessly, as if that will somehow erase it. The silence in the grand hall stretches, broken only by the soft hum of the chandelier above. Then, the steady sound of footsteps echoes down the hallway, and Alec reappears—with a tall, broad-shouldered beta in tow.
The beta’s presence is commanding, even without the telltale aura of an alpha’s dominance. He has the sharp features and strong build of one at first glance, but there’s something neutral about him—an absence of pheromones that marks him distinctly as beta. His expression is one of mild annoyance, as though he’s been dragged away from something far more interesting than ferrying a drunk omega to bed.
“Alright,” the beta says briskly as he steps forward. Without waiting for explanation or permission, he bends down and hoists Harry up with practiced ease, slinging him over one shoulder like a sack of flour.
Harry lets out a weak grunt of protest, his head spinning from the sudden movement. “I feel like I’m going to throw up,” he groans, clutching at his stomach as the bile rises dangerously close to his throat.
The beta frowns, turning his head slightly. “Don’t do it on me,” he warns, shifting Harry’s weight slightly as he begins ascending the grand staircase.
The movement jostles Harry, and he groans again, burying his face against his own sleeve in a futile attempt to block out the lingering scent still clinging to his skin. It isn’t enough. The sweetness is overwhelming, suffocating, like it’s seeping into his very bones.
“Wait,” Harry says suddenly, his voice sharp and urgent. He pushes weakly against the beta’s shoulder. “Stop.”
The beta pauses mid-step, brows furrowing. “What now?” he asks, his tone edged with irritation.
“I need someone else,” Harry mutters, voice hoarse. His nose wrinkles as he sniffs at his wrist again, the cloying scent of Arland still clinging to him like a parasite. “To scent-mark me.”
The beta blinks, clearly baffled. “You need what?”
Before Harry can explain, his eyes land on a female alpha walking through the corridor ahead, her arms laden with a precarious stack of books. “You!” he calls out, his voice louder now. “Come here!”
The alpha pauses, arching an eyebrow as she sets her books down. She strides toward them with an air of casual confidence, her towering height and sharp features making her presence impossible to ignore. “What’s the problem?” she asks, mild amusement threading through her tone.
Harry extends his wrist toward her without hesitation. “Scent-mark me,” he demands, desperation tight in his voice. “Please. He smells disgusting.”
The alpha smirks, clearly entertained. “Your date didn’t go well, I take it?”
Harry scowls, cheeks flushing. “Just do it.”
With a sigh, the alpha reaches out, fingers brushing lightly over his wrist as she swipes her thumb across his scent gland. The gesture is efficient, almost clinical. “There,” she says simply, stepping back.
Harry raises his wrist to his nose and inhales deeply. The scent is light and floral, a clean blend of dew and lilies. It isn’t overpowering, but it’s enough to mask the sickly sweetness of Arland. Relief washes over him. “Thank you,” he mutters, exhaustion creeping into his tone.
“Anything else?” the alpha asks, glancing at her watch as if she has somewhere far more important to be.
Harry shakes his head, and the beta resumes carrying him up the stairs. As they climb, the beta glances down at him, skeptical. “Is it really that bad?”
Harry leans into him, energy drained. “I wish I was a beta,” he murmurs. “Then I wouldn’t have to smell them.”
The beta snorts. “Trust me, being a beta isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. We’re the majority, but we’re not exactly sought after like omegas and alphas.”
“I don’t care,” Harry says quietly, his voice firm. “I’d marry a beta if I could.”
The beta lets out a dry laugh, shaking his head. “Sure you would,” he says, amused. “You would if your uncle made you, but don’t pretend you’d actually want to.”
Harry doesn’t respond. His silence says enough. He closes his eyes as they continue upward, exhaustion washing over him in heavy waves. For now, it’s enough just to breathe.
Harry blushes, thinking of his heats - how he craves a knot even when he’s off his cycle. “I think I would.”
The scent-marking helps, but not enough. Harry still feels like there’s something clinging to him, something thick and sickly-sweet that sticks in the back of his throat. He leans his forehead against the beta’s shoulder, his whole body sagging as exhaustion overtakes him. His head spins from the movement, from the climb up the stairs, from the general wrongness of everything.
He’s tired. Bone-deep tired. And not just in the way that comes from being out too late and drinking too much.
The beta shifts him slightly, keeping his hold firm but not exactly gentle. It’s a practical grip, not an affectionate one, and Harry can’t decide if that makes it better or worse. “Almost there,” the beta mutters, though it’s not exactly reassuring.
Harry doesn’t respond. He just closes his eyes and lets himself be carried the rest of the way.
The walk to his rooms takes longer than it should. Maybe because his body is heavy in the beta’s arms, or maybe because his mind is even heavier. The grand hallways stretch out endlessly, the high ceilings and towering windows making everything feel cavernous, too open and too empty at the same time.
They reach his bedroom doors, and the beta kicks them open unceremoniously. The impact echoes through the chamber, a sharp contrast to the otherwise muffled quiet of the estate at this hour. Alec is already inside, standing stiffly near the fireplace, his gaze sharp and unreadable as he watches them enter.
The beta strides straight to the bed, then unceremoniously deposits Harry onto the mattress. The sudden loss of warmth makes Harry shiver, and he groans, burying his face into the pillow.
“You owe me,” the beta announces, brushing off his hands as though he’s just finished moving a particularly unruly piece of furniture.
Harry grunts something unintelligible into the pillow.
“Lovely,” the beta says dryly. “Goodnight, then.”
Harry doesn’t watch him leave, but he hears the door shut behind him.
Silence settles over the room, thick and heavy. The only sound is the quiet crackling of the fireplace, the slow, steady burn of logs turning to embers.
Alec doesn’t move. He stands near the fireplace, his hands clasped behind his back, his expression composed but sharp. Watching. Always watching.
“You’ll have a hangover in the morning,” Alec finally says, his tone matter-of-fact. “Shall I have something prepared?”
Harry groans, rolling onto his back. His head pounds at the movement. “You sound like my uncle.”
Alec’s lips twitch in something that might be amusement, though his posture remains stiff and professional. “I imagine Lord Dursley would be significantly less accommodating.”
Harry lets out a humorless laugh, draping an arm over his eyes. “Yeah. He’d let me suffer through it as some sort of lesson.”
Alec says nothing to that. He doesn’t need to. They both know it’s true.
A beat of silence passes before Alec steps forward. “I’ll have water brought up. And something for the headache.”
Harry lifts his arm just enough to squint at him. “I thought you said I’d have a hangover in the morning.”
“You will,” Alec says smoothly. “But you already have a headache now.”
Harry huffs, but doesn’t argue. He lets his arm fall back over his eyes. His body feels heavy, his limbs sluggish, like he’s sinking into the mattress. He knows Alec is still watching him, standing somewhere just out of sight, still poised like the ever-efficient butler he is.
The problem with Alec is that he’s always so… contained. It makes it impossible to tell what he actually thinks of Harry. Whether he thinks Harry is a disappointment, a mess, a spoiled and useless little omega who squanders his family name.
Harry exhales slowly. He doesn’t want to think about that now. He doesn’t want to think about anything.
“Do you need help changing?” Alec asks, a little too neutral, a little too carefully polite.
Harry shakes his head. “I’ll do it.”
Alec lingers for a moment longer, as if debating whether or not to insist. But then he simply nods and turns toward the door. “I’ll return shortly.”
The door clicks shut behind him.
Harry breathes out heavily, then forces himself upright. His head spins, his stomach twists, and he grips the edge of the mattress until it settles. He needs to get out of these clothes. They smell wrong. He still smells wrong.
He tugs off his jacket first, letting it crumple onto the floor. His shirt follows, and he peels it off with unsteady fingers, discarding it as though it’s something vile. The faint scent of Arland still clings to his skin, and he scowls, rubbing his wrists furiously against the sheets, trying to rid himself of it. It doesn’t work. It never works.
He needs a shower.
Slowly, he pushes himself to his feet, swaying slightly. His balance is off, but he forces himself forward, staggering toward the adjoining bathroom. The lights are too bright when he flicks them on, and he squints against the glare, stepping toward the large, marble-inlaid shower. He turns the knobs until steam begins to billow out, curling around the edges of the glass like ghostly tendrils.
Stripping out of the rest of his clothes, he steps inside, bracing his hands against the cool tile as the water pounds down on him.
The heat is scalding, but he doesn’t turn it down.
He stands there for a long time, head bowed, letting the water rush over him. His thoughts churn sluggishly, tangled and unsteady. His uncle’s voice echoes distantly in his mind, sharp and biting. An omega’s worth is in the advantage they bring. You’ll do what’s necessary.
Harry’s fingers clench against the tile.
The scent-marking helped, but not enough. Not nearly enough.
He scrubs at his wrists, his neck, his chest, but it doesn’t change anything. The ghost of Arland’s scent is still there, clinging to him like a stain he can’t wash out.
He wonders if this will always be his life—being paraded around as a prize, as something to be bought and traded. A commodity in his uncle’s game of survival.
His jaw tightens.
No.
He won’t let that happen.
Steam curls around him, thick and suffocating, but he stays under the water, letting it scald away the cold, the nausea, the lingering sense of wrongness.
He’ll find a way out of this.
Somehow.