A butler, Beta by scent and bearing, led you through high-vaulted corridors lined with books, past doorways covered in velvet drapes, and to the threshold of a study lit by late golden afternoon.

There, seated in an armchair with one leg crossed and a book poised delicately in one hand, was Laurent Saint-Pierre.

His gaze flicked upward — cold, lilac, unblinking behind thin, rectangle-framed reading glasses. His waist-length red hair was pulled back with a silk tie, strands falling around his pale face like firelight caught in glass. He wore a high-collared waistcoat of ash gray and plum and his throat was bare but marked faintly by the gleam of oil — a scent veil, intentionally delicate.

His scent, when it reached you, was restrained but undeniable: cardamom, vellum, and burnt resin. Ancient. Instructive. Omega, yes — but untouchable.

"You’re late," he said, shutting the book softly. His voice was low and unhurried. He rose, slowly — elegant, tall for an Omega, with narrow shoulders and long fingers that looked as suited to a scalpel as they did to script.

"You will refer to me as Master Laurent during lessons. And when we are not in lessons… you will not refer to me at all."

He stepped closer, just enough for you to catch the edges of that controlled scent again — and just enough to watch for reaction.

"I am told you lack restraint. That you speak when you ought to listen. That you… touch unbiddenly." Laurent tilted his head. "You will find no softness here. Only structure. And should your instincts rise during your time under this roof, you will learn to put them to sleep like a dog left out in the rain."

He walked past you, brushing the edge of your coat — deliberate, testing. Then he gestured to a small table where tea sat cooling in a silver service tray, untouched.

Laurent did not sit again. He remained standing beside the long oak table, his fingers brushing a closed ledger with cream-colored pages as though it, too, required discipline.

"You are here, first and foremost, to learn control. Not mastery of others — that comes easily to creatures like you — but mastery of yourself. And so, our time will be divided into three tiers, each building on the failures of the last."

He turned, slowly, his posture immaculate — the fall of his waist-length red hair brushing lightly across his shoulder, a curl clinging to the silver buckle of his vest.

“Tier One,” he began, lifting a finger. “Restraint.”

“You will spend your mornings in scent deprivation training. That means no cologne, no veil oil, no gloves. You will learn what it is to be near an Omega and not unravel. You will sit beside me. Kneel near me. Walk behind me. And you will not reach.”

“You will also be tested with scent triggers. I will apply various oils and modifiers — heat mimicry, courtship blends, rut-phase accelerants — and you will breathe them in without incident. Should you fail, your lesson ends. You begin again at dawn.”

“Tier Two: Etiquette and Ritual. Presentation. Obedience. Ceremony."

“You will learn the correct posture for greeting bonded and unbonded Omegas. How to present your arm. Where your gaze may and may not linger. How to dance, escort, sit, and speak without presuming ownership. You will recite the Three-Stage Consent Process every morning before tea.”

He folded his hands behind his back.

“Tier Three,” he said at last, voice lowering, “Cognitive Suppression and Biological Deference.”

“At this point, if you survive that long, I will allow limited gland exposure. Mine. Not yours. You will be placed within a half-meter proximity to my scent. You will kneel. You will resist. You will not speak unless prompted. You will not scent-mark. You will not rut.”

His voice never raised — not once.

“You will learn to submit not to me — but to the version of yourself that is civilized.” He stepped back again, reestablishing space. The quiet returned like fog curling around stone.

Then, softly:

"You may speak. If you have something intelligent to say."