To heal a Rogue

BONNIE

The words hung in the air—sacrificial lamb—uttered with such offhand detachment that, for a moment, I could have mistaken them for a scheduling note, some triviality tossed between wardrobe changes. Yet hearing them spoken with that flat, businesslike tone forced the truth into focus, sharp and unwelcome. For the past hour, I had rehearsed my lines for Lysander, insisting I wanted to clear my name honestly, that I would endure any ceremony, all in the name of finding out the truth, and that I not be made an even bigger enemy number one. I had tried to make each declaration sound steady, as if conviction alone might shield me.

But as dusk pressed against the windows, my practiced composure began to unravel. Beneath the stillness I wore for Lysander, anxiety trembled like a current I could not quiet. Fear settled low in my chest, icy and insistent, refusing to be banished by willpower or pride.

Lysander’s gaze flicked toward me. I felt it, the weight of his scrutiny, and forced my features into blandness before he could decipher anything raw beneath the surface.

"Let’s just get this over with," he said, his voice clipped, as if efficiency might spare us both. "She has to use here, though."

A flicker of disbelief crossed the elder’s face as Lysander named his mother’s old quarters. The silence that followed was not empty but taut as wire. When the realization settled, the elder’s jaw clenched, and a choked sound escaped him—an inelegant, wounded protest that barely broke the surface before he mastered himself.

"And you would have us defile her memory?" His voice carried the weight of years, eyebrows arching in silent censure, as if the very air between them might fracture under the pressure of his disappointment."

I don’t mind," Lysander replied, unflinching.

A muscle worked in the elder’s cheek, mouth compressed to a bloodless line. At last, he inclined his head—a gesture that held no deference, only resignation. "If that is your wish, we will oblige."

With a sharp snap of his fingers, the elder summoned the Omegas. They materialized in the doorway, their arrival so swift it seemed they had been holding their breath just beyond the threshold. Lysander’s nod permitted them entry, and they moved inside—silent, practiced, the air shifting with the scent of soap and starch. The elder’s attention returned to Lysander, his eyes unreadable.

"This way, Your Majesty." The words emerged measured, each syllable placed with the care of someone reluctant to accept what he could not refuse.

At the threshold, Lysander paused. His eyes found mine, unspoken words threading the space between us, and his voice dropped to a murmur meant only for me. "You know how to reach me if you need to."

The elder’s gaze sharpened as Lysander spoke, quick calculation flickering across his features before he smoothed them into impassivity. Lysander’s words had been careful, ambiguous, hinting at the mate bond without naming it outright. I watched the elder, willing him not to see too much, unsettled by how little escaped his notice.

I inclined my head in silent assent. Lysander lingered an instant, as if caught between duty and something more fragile, then slipped out, the door closing with a muted finality that left the room altered in his absence.

The Omegas exchanged a look among themselves the moment he was gone. One stepped forward, older than the rest, carrying herself with the particular authority of someone used to being obeyed.

"We’ll start with a bath," she said.

"I can do that myself, actually," I said.

She stepped closer, her smile thin and unmoved. "I’m sure you could do plenty of things, rogue. But we were tasked with this, and we will do it. It’s our part. We know justice will prevail. So do not worry. We will do it well and with a smile on our face."

I swallowed whatever argument I had left. There was no point wasting it on people who believed, genuinely and completely, that they were doing something righteous.

The bath came next.

The water was too hot.

Their hands were too rough, scrubbing until my skin stung and glowed pink beneath their relentless attention. Every pass of the brush through my hair caught on another knot, and every snag earned an impatient tug instead of any attempt at gentleness.

"Hold still," one of them muttered. "You’re making it worse."

"I am holding still," I replied.

"Could’ve fooled me."

The younger Omega working on my hair leaned closer, squinting as another lock slipped through her fingers.

"Huh."

"What?"

She smirked.

"The carpet matches the drapes."

A few of the others snorted.

"I’ve been wondering that since she got exposed," another chimed in. "How come her hair’s practically white, but her eyelashes and eyebrows are dark? Shouldn’t they match?"

"Maybe she paints them."

"With what?" the first girl laughed. "Ash?"

"I’ve seen stranger."

She gave another sharp yank with the comb.

"Ow," someone mocked under their breath before giggling.

"Honestly, it’s a shame," the younger Omega went on. "The platinum thing is striking, but the dark lashes almost make it look... fake."

"I think it makes her look odd."

"I think it makes her look expensive," another countered. "Like one of those fancy Lunas who always seem too pretty to be real."

"Pretty doesn’t do her much good now."

More laughter followed.

I let every word drift past me without catching on anything.

They thought they were clever. Thought they’d discovered some irresistible little mystery, some harmless joke at my expense.

I didn’t have enough left in me to care.

They dried me off next.

Warm towels chased away the water, though not the chill that had settled somewhere beneath my skin. They brushed my hair until every knot surrendered, until the platinum strands fell in a smooth, gleaming curtain down my back.

Then came the dress.

One of the Omegas held it up while another helped me into it. The fabric slipped over my skin like liquid, crimson and almost weightless. It clung to every curve without resistance, technically concealing me while revealing far too much beneath its sheer layers. There was no modesty in its design. Only intention.

They fastened the last clasp and stepped back.

"It fits perfectly."

"I told you red was the right choice."

"It brings out her sinister eyes."

The comments passed between them with quiet satisfaction, like artisans admiring a finished commission rather than women dressing another woman for judgment.

Shoes followed.

Delicate things with impossibly thin straps that wrapped around my ankles, beautiful enough to display and impractical enough to remind me they hadn’t been chosen for comfort.

The head Omega circled me once before clicking her tongue.

"Something’s missing."

She crossed the room, opened a lacquered case, and withdrew a tube of deep crimson lipstick.

"Lift your chin."

I did.

She applied it with practiced precision, taking her time as though every stroke mattered.

As she painted it on, I said, "I’m apparently about to be handed a rank supposedly worthy of whatever crime they think I committed. So why does this feel like I’m being dressed up to be sold instead?"

"A breeder has to look the part," she said, without even glancing up from my mouth.

"Bring the jewelry," she added, and the room erupted into soft laughter, several of the younger women covering their mouths as they giggled among themselves.

It grated against something raw in me, that laughter, but I reminded myself it was performance. All of it. A show staged for an audience that wanted to see the crown handle its scandal with strength. I watched them continue, jaw tight, as a sack was carried in and set down near my feet.

From it came restraints. Metal, cold and heavy, shaped for wrists. And a collar, thinner, meant for a neck.

I stood so fast the chair scraped hard against the floor.

"In what world..." I said, my voice cracking sharp through the room, "does that belong on a person?"

The head Omega looked at me like I’d asked something faintly amusing.

"Surely you didn’t think you’d look like a bride," she said.

She reached for the collar herself, turning it over once in her hands before offering it toward me with something almost like satisfaction.

"A slave has to look like a slave."

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