ABO; Marked by Destiny

The air in the Blackwood mansion was as cold as Damian’s gaze, a glacial temperature that seemed to penetrate the bones and freeze the soul. The dining room, immense and decorated with a somber ostentation, lay in absolute silence, broken only by the rhythmic ticking of an antique clock on the wall. Upon the polished mahogany table, the contract seemed to burn my eyes. The fine print danced before my blurred vision as my parents and Damian’s sealed our fate with elegant signatures, as if negotiating the sale of cattle rather than the lives of two human beings. The main clause, written in bold, was a sentence:if one was an Alpha and the other an Omega, the marriage would be inevitable to preserve the lineage.

I knew he hated me. Contempt emanated from him in silent waves, so dense I could almost touch them—an invisible barrier of repulsion. But my heart... ah, my stupid, traitorous heart still beat faster when he was near, a primitive biological reaction that betrayed my own dignity and wounded pride.

He didn’t look at me as I picked up the heavy silver pen. His scent, a complex mix of woody sandalwood and stormy ozone, invaded my senses, making my Omega instinct want to bow, lower my head, and expose my neck in submission, even as my mind screamed to flee, to run for the hills. I straightened my back, locking my knees, showing that although I was an Omega, I was not weak; I would not be broken easily. Damian frowned, surprised by my defensive posture, a fleeting glint of curiosity passing quickly through his cold, dark eyes before being extinguished by the mask of indifference he wore like armor.

“Excellent,” he said, his voice grave and emotionless, cutting the silence like a blade. “Your rooms are in the east wing. Mine are in the west. Do not cross my path unless strictly necessary. Do not expect shared dinners, nor idle chatter. You are a spouse on paper, nothing more.”

He left the room without looking back, his boots echoing on the marble, leaving me alone with the echo of his footsteps and the suffocating promise of a gilded hell. He said “rooms.” Plural. We wouldn’t even share the same roof under the same conjugal ceiling. I was a piece of furniture, an accessory in the Blackwood mansion.

That initial coldness was merely a harbinger of what our ceremony would become weeks later. The wedding was a media spectacle for high society, broadcast in magazines and newspapers, but to me, it felt like a slow, painful funeral. The cathedral was crowded with white flowers exuding a cloying perfume, mixed with the acrid scent of hundreds of whispering guests.

“Look how beautiful he is, so young and innocent...” an elderly lady whispered, her fan covering her mouth, but her eyes sharp as blades. “But Mr. Blackwood looks like he’s at a funeral, not a wedding. Did you see his expression?”

“They say it was forced by the contract,” another replied, a younger woman in a silk dress that rustled with every movement. “Poor Omega. Married to the ‘Ice King.’ He will never be happy. I bet Damian already has a line of lovers waiting in the wings.”

“Shh, they’ll hear...” the first warned, looking around nervously.

“Let them hear. It’s the truth,” the younger one retorted with a corner smile.

They didn’t know. They saw the Supreme Alpha, powerful and untouchable, and the lucky Omega who had conquered the heart of iron, blind to the invisible, heavy chains binding us. I touched Damian’s face during the official photos, feeling the muscles of his jaw lock under my fingertips, hard as stone. He didn’t pull away publicly, but his eyes burned with contained rage, a silent warning not to dare again. The photo came out perfect, on the cover of every magazine the next day, but the tension in the air was so palpable it could be cut with a knife. The guests sighed, thinking it was romantic love, contained passion. What blind fools.

During the vows, before the golden altar, Damian’s voice was mechanical, devoid of any warmth, any promise, any soul. “I do,” he said, dry and brief. Not “I promise,” not “I love.” Just “I do.” As if accepting a traffic ticket, an unwanted package, or a bad business contract. Before the officiant, an elderly man with trembling hands, could even close his mouth or declare the union sealed, Damian was already murmuring, checking his expensive wristwatch: “Is it over? I have an important meeting in an hour. The stock market waits for no nuptials.”

He didn’t even wait for the traditional “you may kiss the groom.” He turned his back on me, on the altar, on God, and on the guests, marching down the central aisle, leaving me alone at the altar, holding a bouquet of lilies that was beginning to wilt under the heat of the lights, just like my hopes and my naivety. That moment should have been the end, but the loneliness that followed was a cruel training for what was to come.

Three months dragged on like a gray eternity. Damian kept his promise to the letter: he never crossed my path. He arrived late at night, often at dawn, smelling of cheap whiskey and, at times, the cloying, artificial sweetness of other Omegas—scents that clung to my memories like poison. I spent sleepless nights sitting on the porch or wandering the halls, listening to his footsteps in the entryway, silently praying, like a fool, for him to stop at my door, to knock, to look at me. He never stopped. His bedroom door would close with a finalclick, sealing my exclusion.

Why did I still wait? He had made it clear, in a thousand subtle and brutal ways, that he found me repulsive, a biological and social mistake. Perhaps I should focus on myself, try to find some purpose beyond being the rejected ornament, “Mr. Blackwood” only on paper.

One sleepless night, I decided to spend the hours exploring the forbidden mansion. I walked the hallways Damian had implicitly vetoed, my steps muffled by the expensive Persian carpet that swallowed every sound. Dust danced in the beams of silvery moonlight streaming through the tall, arched windows, illuminating portraits of stern ancestors. Every shadow seemed to hide a dark secret of the Blackwood family, and my Omega instinct vibrated with a dangerous mix of fear and forbidden excitement, a chill running down my spine.

Hours later, I was on the back porch, savoring the night silence, when the air changed drastically. The scent of whiskey and foreign perfumes that permeated the house was suddenly swept away, replaced by something primal. It was theRut. Not just a biological signal, but an overwhelming wave of Alpha pheromones, dense, electrifying, and aggressive, that made my knees instantly weak, my legs turn to water, and my breath catch in my throat in a gasp. My body reacted before my mind, pupils dilating, heat rising up my neck.

The sound of shattering glass echoed violently downstairs, followed by a roar that didn’t sound human, but like a trapped, pain-stricken beast. His control... had shattered. The glass was the last coherent sound I heard before he disappeared from my logical perception. Instead of coming up the stairs toward me, as my body begged in every cell, Damian roared again, an animalistic sound of pain and internal struggle, and ran out of the mansion, bursting through the front door. I stood paralyzed on the porch, the scent of his Rut still burning the air, intoxicating and dangerous, but his physical presence had vanished into the night.

He fled. He preferred to face the Rut alone on the streets, exposed to the elements, the danger of other Alphas, and madness itself, rather than stay near me. Or had he gone to find... another? Someone he didn’t despise, someone he truly desired? The hours dragged on like centuries. The silence of the mansion returned, but now it seemed to watch every shadow, every dark corner. I couldn’t sleep, curled up in bed, waiting for the return of the beast or the man, not knowing which of the two would be more dangerous for my already broken heart and my sanity.