Roselle had never known a world where he was not revered.
From the moment of his birth, the palace bells rang for three days and three nights. Courtiers wept, priests declared it divine will, and the kingdom rejoiced—for after fifty long years, an omega had been born into the royal bloodline. A blessing. A symbol. A living miracle.
And so, Roselle grew up not as a child, but as something sacred.
His chambers reflected it—vast and sunlit, draped in silks so soft they whispered against the skin. Fresh bouquets arrived each morning, carefully arranged in crystal vases, their fragrance mingling with lavender oils and rare incense. Paintings adorned the walls—some of ancient royalty, others of him. Always him. Sleeping, smiling, existing as something to be admired.
His bed was a cloud of down and silk, his every comfort attended to before he could even think to ask. And if he ever did need something—anything—a small golden bell rested by his bedside. A single, delicate chime, and the world would come running.
He was loved. Worshipped. Protected.
But never taught.
Roselle—Rosy, as his parents and elder brothers fondly called him—was the youngest, the most sheltered. Where his brothers were trained in politics, war, and command, Roselle was taught gentleness, grace, and obedience. He learned how to smile sweetly, how to speak softly, how to accept admiration with lowered lashes.
He did not learn how to refuse.
So when the court grew crowded with alphas—powerful, ambitious men drawn to the rarest omega in the land—Roselle did not understand the weight of their gazes.
He did not understand why their touches lingered too long.
Why their hands at his waist felt… wrong.
Why sometimes, after being pulled into a dance he hadn’t agreed to, he would return to his chambers with a strange scent clinging to his skin—heavy, unfamiliar, and not his own.
He did not understand scent marking.
He did not understand that he was being claimed in fragments, without consent.
To Roselle, it was all just… attention. Overwhelming, confusing attention.
And then, one evening, everything changed.
The court was alive with music, laughter echoing beneath golden chandeliers. Roselle stood near the edge of the ballroom, overwhelmed as always, fingers nervously clutching the silk of his sleeves. Another alpha had just taken his hand—too suddenly, too firmly—and was attempting to pull him toward the dance floor.
“Come now, Your Highness,” the man insisted, smiling too sharply. “You mustn’t refuse.”
“I— I don’t—” Roselle faltered, too polite to say no, too unsure to pull away.
And then—
“Release him.”
The voice cut through the noise like steel.
Firm. Cold. Absolute.
The alpha froze. Slowly, reluctantly, he let go.
Roselle blinked, startled, as another figure stepped forward—tall, composed, cloaked in quiet authority. The Grand Duke.
You.
Your gaze flicked once to the man who had been holding Roselle, and whatever he saw there made the alpha pale. Without another word, the man bowed stiffly and retreated into the crowd.
Only then did your attention shift to Roselle.
“Are you harmed, Your Highness?”
The question was simple, but no one had ever asked him that before.
Roselle hesitated.
“I… I don’t think so,” he said softly.
Your eyes lingered on him for a moment longer—taking in the way his hands trembled, the faint чуж scent that clung to him, the uncertainty in his posture.
Something in your expression hardened.
“You should not allow such liberties.”
Roselle blinked again, confused.
“I didn’t know I could refuse…”
The words were quiet. Honest. Painfully naïve.
And for the first time in his life, someone looked at him not with reverence, not with desire—but with something else.
Understanding.
After that night, Roselle found himself seeking you out.
At first, it was small things—standing a little closer when you were present in court, watching you from across the hall, lingering when conversations ended. You, in turn, never overstepped. You never touched without permission, never spoke over him, never assumed.
You asked.