My muscles tighten at the compliment. With Carson, praise always precedes demands. And, he’s used this one so much that it’s lost its shine, if it ever had any.
“Actually, I wanted to discuss the winter faculty function next Friday,” he continues, confirming my suspicion. “The board considers it an essential community-building event. All senior staff are expected to attend.”
I school my features as my heart rate picks up. “I’m aware of the function. But I’m not staff.”
“Semantics at this point.” He waves a dismissive hand. “But one to be corrected.”
The room temperature seems to drop several degrees despite the heating system humming in the background.
“The function serves multiple purposes beyond mere celebration,” Carson continues, slipping into the cadence he uses when addressing faculty meetings. “It’s an opportunity to demonstrate the academy’s values of tradition and proper hierarchies.”
“I’m not sure I follow,” I say, though ice forms in my stomach because I understand where this is heading.
Carson picks up an expensive pen, rolling it between his fingers as he speaks. “The Roberts family continues to express concerns about Sprinkles’s presence in their daughter’s classroom. And the whispers about Quinn receiving preferential treatment due to her uncle’s donation to the school have escalated with end-of-year reports revealing how much they’ve given to the Academy.”
The threats come couched in neutral reporting, facts presented without an obvious connection to the faculty function. I wait, letting him reach his point without my assistance.
“Community reassurance requires visible commitment to institutional values,” he continues, setting the pen down so that it aligns with his notepad. “Which is why you’ll be attending the function with me. Not as staff, but as my Omega.”
My fingers curl on my thighs, hidden beneath the desk where he can’t see my physical reaction.
“Your Omega,” I repeat flatly.
“Precisely. It’s time we both settle down.” He leans back with a satisfied smirk at having reached his point. “The school board believes that stability in personal arrangements reflects on stability within the workforce.”
My throat tightens as he continues, each sentence another brick in the wall he’s building around me.
“Your size and demeanor already challenge certain expectations about Omega presentation.” Carson’s gaze sweeps down my body, and his nostrils flare, taking in my pheromones. “A formal appearance with an established Alpha provides reassurance about your understanding of appropriate boundaries.”
His cherries-and-iron pheromones flood the office, growing stronger as he speaks, crawling up my nostrils to cling to the back of my throat, choking me.
“The board has expressed particular interest in stable relationship structures among staff who work with children,” he continues. “Leadership optics matter, Leif. We set examples whether we intend to or not.”
My skin crawls with understanding. This isn’t a request. It’s not even a demand disguised as a request. In Carson’s mind, my consent is a mere formality, a box to check before proceeding with what he’s already decided will happen.
“The Morgans will be there,” he adds, naming board members with significant influence. “They asked if I’d be bringing a companion this year. I assured them I would.”
The walls of the office press closer, the air growing thick with his pheromones. Outside the window, winter darkness has fallen early, turning the glass into a mirror that reflects Carson enthroned behind his desk and me perched on my seat like a supplicant.
“I’ve already registered my intentions for courtship. Really, I should have done this back in October, but I was enjoying our little game of cat and mouse. You will need to confirm it on your end before the party. We can discuss the details later,” Carson says, as if the matter is already decided. “What color will you be wearing? I’d prefer we complement each other.”
Blood rushes in my ears, drowning out the subtle hum of the heating system. He speaks of my attendance, my appearance as his courted Omega, as a foregone conclusion, as if I haven’t already rejected that position once in the past.
“The event begins at seven,” Carson continues, typing a note into his calendar. “I’ll pick you up at six-thirty. We’ll want to arrive ahead of time to greet the board president.”
Carson looks up from his screen, waiting for my response, his expectation of agreement hanging in the air along with his suffocating pheromones.
“No.” The word hangs between us, simple and unadorned.
NotI’m sorry, orI can’t, or evenI’d rather not, and the absence of a qualification renders the refusal absolute.
Carson’s fingers freeze mid-tap on his keyboard, and his focus drops to my unmarked throat, a growl building in his throat before he smothers it. “Excuse me? I don’t think I heard you right.”
My cedar scent sharpens with adrenaline, like a forest after lightning strikes. My heartbeat accelerates, but I keep my breathing measured, my composure intact.
“No,” I repeat, clearer this time despite my racing pulse. “I won’t attend as your Omega. My personal relationships aren’t yours to manage.”
Carson’s mouth opens, then closes, and his eyes narrow a fraction, not enough to read as anger, but enough that I recognize the calculation happening behind them. I’ve gone offscript, and his mind races to adjust, to find the path back to his expected outcome.