The ride to my castle feels excruciatingly long, each second a stretch of torment. The carriage finally grinds to a halt, and I stumble out, the weight of my thoughts heavier than the journey itself. My servants stand at a distance, knowing better than to touch me. I hate it, despise the sensation of anyone's hands on my skin—especially now.
As I move through the halls, my steps feel heavier, almost unsteady. The third floor looms in my mind, the place where Noelle waits, but I can't go there. Not like this. Not when I reek of another's pheromones—an omega's scent clinging to me like a vile, sickening perfume. It sticks, it festers, crawling under my skin, refusing to let go. How could I ever face Noelle, my beloved, while steeped in this shame?
