The Dust of Memories
The attic was a graveyard of family secrets, thick with the scent of old paper, dust, and cedarwood. Twenty-year-old Aster Sinclair sat cross-legged on the floor, the oversized sleeves of his cream sweater completely swallowing his hands as he idly turned the pages of an old, leather-bound album. He was an ethereal contrast to the gloom around him—fair-skinned, with raven-black hair that fell into striking, vivid green eyes. He was an Omega, but he possessed a quiet, intense curiosity that often led him into places he shouldn’t be.
His fingers paused at the very back of the album, catching on a loose seam in the velvet lining. Peeking out was the corner of a glossy, unmounted photograph. Frowning slightly, Aster slid his fingers into the gap and pulled it out.
The breath caught instantly in his throat.
It was a picture of a man, taken decades ago. The youth in the photo looked to be exactly Aster’s age—twenty—but he possessed an aura that was entirely, devastatingly overwhelming. He was impossibly broad-shouldered, with sharp, aristocratic features and a jawline that looked carved from marble. But it was his coloring that made Aster’s heart skip a beat: hair the color of spun moonlight, a striking silver that caught the light, and eyes of a piercing, cold grey. Even through the faded, grainy gloss of a twenty-year-old print, those grey eyes seemed to stare directly into Aster’s soul, asserting an effortless, primal dominance.
“Aster? Sweetheart, what are you doing up there in the dark?”
Aster jumped, his green eyes widening as his mother’s voice cut through the silence. He tried to slide the photo back into the lining, but Eleanor Sinclair was already stepping into the attic light. The moment her eyes fell on the vintage print in his hand, the breath left her body in a sharp, ragged gasp. Her hand flew to her throat, and all the color drained from her face.
“Where did you get that?” Eleanor whispered, her voice trembling. “Give that to me, Aster.”
“Mom, wait,” Aster said, holding the photo just out of her reach, his gaze snapping back down to the silver-haired Alpha. A strange, magnetic pull was already coiling deep within his belly, a warmth that defied reason. “Who is he? He’s... he’s beautiful. I’ve never seen anyone look like this.”
Eleanor sank onto an old wooden trunk, looking as though she had just seen a ghost. “Put it away, Aster. You shouldn’t be looking at him.”
“But who is he?” Aster pressed, stepping closer, his green eyes burning with sudden intensity. “He was with you, wasn’t he? In the photo, you’re holding his hand like... like he’s your whole world.”
“He was,” Eleanor admitted, her voice cracking as she stared at the floor. “For a time, he was. That is Lucian. Lucian Blackwood.”
“Lucian Blackwood,” Aster repeated. The name tasted heavy on his tongue, dark and intoxicating. “If he was your world, why are you married to Dad? Dad is... well, he’s plain. He’s just a normal, quiet Alpha. But this man...” Aster traced the edge of the photo, his finger lingering over Lucian’s sharp jawline. “This man looks like a king.”
Eleanor snapped her head up, her eyes wide with a sudden, fierce panic. “Do not say that, Aster! Your father is a good, safe man. He gave me a peaceful life. I left Lucian because I had to. I ran from him.”
“Why would anyone run from this?” Aster murmured, completely captivated by the raw power radiating from the youthful image.
“Because you don’t understand what he is,” Eleanor said, grabbing Aster’s wrist. Her grip was tight, desperate. “Lucian was twenty in that photo, yes. But even then, he was the literal definition of danger. He doesn’t love, Aster. He takes. He dominates. He wanted to control the way I breathed, the clothes I wore, the thoughts in my head. His Alpha pheromones were so suffocatingly possessive that I felt like I was drowning. If I had stayed, he would have broken me into a perfect, mindless submissive. I chose safety. I chose to survive.”
Aster looked down at his mother’s trembling hands, then back at the silver-haired man. Instead of feeling the horror his mother expected, a thrill shot straight down Aster’s spine. His Omega nature, usually so quiet and compliant, flared to life, practically purring at the thought of such absolute, crushing dominance.
“And where is he now?” Aster asked, his voice dropping to a soft, breathless whisper. “How old would he be?”
“He would be forty-two now,” Eleanor said, a visible shudder writhing through her frame. “And God help anyone who crosses his path today. If he was dangerous at twenty, he is a monster now. He took over the Blackwood empire, Aster. He has money, blood, and the kind of power that makes governments look away. He is older, colder, and entirely unyielding. Promise me, Aster. Promise me you will never look his name up. Men like Lucian Blackwood destroy fragile things like you.”
“I promise, Mom,” Aster lied smoothly, his voice sweet and reassuring as he handed the photograph over to her.
Eleanor took it with a sigh of relief, tucking it away to destroy it later, completely missing the dark, obsessive gleam in her son’s vivid green eyes. Aster stood up and walked out of the attic, but his mind remained trapped in the dark. Forty-two. A mature, fully realized Alpha with silver hair, grey eyes, and a soul made of pure, unadulterated danger. As Aster walked down the stairs, his heart beat a frantic, eager rhythm against his ribs. His mother had run from the beast, but Aster could feel it in his very bones—if he ever crossed paths with Lucian Blackwood, he wouldn’t run. He would walk right into the cage.
