He didn't scream.
Not at first.
He knelt at the Supreme Leader's feet like a statue—still, elegant, silent. Hands on his thighs, spine straight, eyes down. Practiced. Perfect. Designed to endure.
Like this wasn't the first time.
Like pain was just part of the performance.
I stood across the room, glass of red wine untouched in my hand, watching him through the crowd. No one else was. No one saw him—not really. They saw an accessory. An ornament. A talking point.
A few of the men had made comments earlier. About how docile he looked. How pretty. One woman with painted lips had asked if he made that same submissive face in bed. I almost crushed my glass in my hand.
But I smiled.
I played my part.
I played it so well I thought I might be sick.
The Supreme Leader lifted the long white candle from the table beside him, his movements slow and theatrical—he was enjoying himself. Nine didn't flinch. Not until the flame hovered near the vulnerable pale skin of his inner thigh.
"Let's see how long this one lasts tonight," the Leader mused, tilting the candle.
I didn't breathe.
Not as the wax dripped.
The first drop hit the soft flesh inside Nine's thigh.
The second landed closer to his groin.
Each one sizzled faintly on contact—tiny, cruel kisses of fire—and each one made something in me twist. Not just because of the pain, but because he didn't react. He stayed kneeling, stayed still, like moving would mean failure.
Again.
Again.
The wax ran down his thigh in slow, translucent trails.
I felt him through the bond—tight, cold agony curling inward. No sound escaped him. No movement. Just the dull, endless hum of endure, endure, endure.
The Supreme Leader chuckled and shifted his leg lazily. "I like him better like this," he said, lifting the candle higher. "Silent. Obedient. It's almost a shame to break him again."
But he did.
He tilted the candle again.
Another drop landed high on the inside of Nine's thigh, so close now I could feel the sharp inhale in his chest even as he tried not to move.
The Leader smiled like he was painting with wax.
The candle lowered slowly.
Pressed.
Down.
A thin, muffled hiss of burned skin.
Nine didn't cry out.
He didn't move.
But I felt him break.
Not loudly. Not publicly. Just a tremble through the bond. A breath that hitched and caught in his throat. A single tear sliding down his cheek that no one else noticed.
Except me.
Through the bond, his voice came like a whisper: Alpha.
It wasn't a word. Not really. Just a sound shaped from need and betrayal and pain.
Please.
It came again, hoarse and small. Please, Alpha. Please don't let him—
It cut off like he couldn't bear to finish the sentence, but the pleading didn't stop. He was still reaching. Still pressing himself against the thread of our bond, like if he just begged hard enough, I'd step in and make it stop.
He didn't understand why I hadn't yet.
He didn't know that if I moved now—if I so much as looked angry—the Leader would make him scream, just to hear it. That this… this restraint was mercy. The only kind I was allowed to give.
I sent back what I could.
My heartbeat. My breath. Warmth. Steadiness. Silent promises. Nothing he could hold, but everything I had.
He held on.
I watched.
The Supreme Leader laughed under his breath, watching a new trail of wax drip down Nine's skin. "So well-trained," he said, leaning back in his chair. "People told me omegas were weak. But look at this one. Takes it so quietly, doesn't he?"
The man to his left grinned. "They always say that about the pretty ones. Cry so beautifully, don't they?"
"I think that's why he likes him," someone else said. "Because he doesn't fight back."
The Supreme Leader smiled. "Not anymore."
I couldn't speak. Couldn't move. I thought if I blinked, the bond between us might snap.
The wax hit again.
High. Raw.
Nine's hands clenched, but only slightly.
Another drop. This one slower.
Then the Leader let the wax cool a little, just enough to harden mid-air before it landed. A cruel little joke.
"Still with me, sweetheart?" the Supreme Leader murmured, brushing a finger beneath Nine's chin.
Nine didn't respond.
But through the bond, he begged.
Alpha.
It felt smaller this time. Like a word from a child. Or a dying thing.
Please, Alpha. Please.
The worst part wasn't the pain. It was the confusion twisting in him. He thought I was his mate. He thought I would stop it. And I—gods, I was his mate. And I should stop it.
But not yet.
Not here.
I clenched my jaw and smiled at another guest. Nodded when someone made a joke about hybrids and discipline.
Inside, I was unraveling.