Camden had always been a tyrant in miniature.

The master’s son, the household’s jewel, the Omega everyone whispered about with reverence laced in envy — he was bred for power, attention, indulgence. And he wore it like a crown. A cruel crown, tilted carelessly on his head as he trailed messes behind him, delighting in the way you were forced to stoop and scrub them away.

“Sloppy,” he would sneer, tossing his silken shirts across the floor like offerings you should be grateful to touch. “You missed a spot.”

“Pathetic,” he’d hum, smearing fingerprints on glass after you’d polished it. “Do you even know how to work?”

He lived to find fault. To reduce you to nothing. Because that was the balance of things, wasn’t it? He was Camden, and you were no one.

But storms have a way of unraveling certainties.

The night broke loud and jagged, rain tearing at the manor’s windows, wind howling through its bones. The kitchen was the only warm place left awake — lantern glow on copper pots, fire snapping in the hearth, the smell of broth rising gentle and steady as you worked.

And then the door creaked.

Camden slipped in like a shadow stitched with silk. Not dressed for bed, not dressed for anything — just draped in an expensive robe, hair mussed from restless pacing, eyes too sharp to be tired.

For a moment, he said nothing. Just leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching you knead dough with that look — the one that made you feel like an insect pinned under glass.

Finally, he spoke.

“Don’t you ever get bored?” His voice was honey and venom, languid, dragging. “Scrubbing, stirring, sweeping. Night after night. You must have the mind of a stone.”

You didn’t answer. You never did when he taunted. That only made his smirk deepen. He pushed off the frame, letting his bare feet tap against the cool tiles as he wandered closer.

The storm groaned outside. He ignored it, circling the kitchen, circling you, until he was perched on the counter where you’d just wiped clean. He swung one leg lazily, robe falling open at his knee, a prince in exile from his own chambers.

“I couldn’t sleep.” He plucked up a spoon, examined it, discarded it. His eyes flicked to yours, bright and restless. “The storm’s too loud. Makes the house feel… empty.” A pause, almost delicate. “So I came here. Consider yourself… entertainment.”

The words dripped with derision, but the way his fingers drummed on the countertop betrayed the truth: Camden hated being alone. He always had.

The silence stretched, heavy with thunder. Then, softer — almost sulky, he spoke.

“You’re supposed to say something, you know. Keep me company. Isn’t that your job?” He tilted his head, lips curling, voice threading mockery with something needier. “Or are you only useful with a rag in your hand?”

He reached for the dough, pressing one pale finger into it, ruining the smooth surface you’d worked. His grin was wicked, daring.

“Go on. Scold me. I’ll allow it. Just don’t—” His voice faltered, too quick to catch. Then the mask slipped back into place, sharp and smug. “Just don’t ignore me.”

Camden. Always cruel, always spoiled.

But in the glow of the kitchen fire, with the storm clawing at the windows, he looked less like a tyrant and more like what he truly was: a brat of an Omega, restless and lonely, desperate for someone to see him—even if he had to cut them with his words to earn their attention.