Ravished, page 1
Contents
Title Page
Dedication
Copyright
Blank Page
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
About the Author
Prey
Omega Awakening
Bad Boss
Predictive
Ravished
L.V. Lane
Copyright © 2021 L.V. Lane
All rights reserved.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. This book or parts thereof may not be reproduced in any form, stored in any retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or otherwise—without prior written permission of the author.
Prologue
Rosalind
“DAUGHTER, MAY I present to you, Prince Aramis of Torvan.”
My father, the King, makes this announcement with a beaming smile, like I should be impressed with my suitor’s credentials.
I’m not impressed. This is the fourth noble I’ve suffered an introduction to within my father’s study. A parade forced upon me from the day my scent changed. I welcome the introduction as much as I welcome the ensuing pomp and ceremony.
Which is to say, I don’t welcome it at all.
I study Aramis through narrowed, jaundiced eyes. A little brutish, with storm-grey eyes and a military bearing, he cuts an imposing figure. His choice of attire is worthy of note. Leather pants molded to muscular thighs and leather jerkin armor, which, although spotless, lend further evidence to the tales of his barbaric life.
When my perusal of the male offering himself as a suitor returns to his face, I concede that he is handsome, in a rough, uncivilized sort of way.
My father clears his throat.
“A pleasure, Rosa,” Aramis says, performing a formal bow that is not swift enough to hide his smirk.
“Rosa?” I reply, voice ripe with incredulity. Only my closest family dare to call me as such. I hear my father’s soft, distressed groan, but I’m incensed by the presumptuousness of Aramis and don’t care to temper my response. My eyes narrow—Aramis raises a single brow. He’s not a man, I remind myself, he’s an Alpha, and my recent acquaintance with their kind has set a firm determination that they are all much enamored with their own importance and arrogant to the core.
“My name is Princess Rosalind.” My voice has a high, waspish quality that I do not recognize.
“I’ll leave you to get acquainted,” my father says, already making strides toward his study door.
“Rosa,” Aramis repeats as though savoring the word. He dares to wink at me as he takes my hand within his while I’m still wallowing in shock. “I believe it suits your sweet disposition so much better than Rosalind.”
CHAPTER ONE
Two months later…
Rosalind
CIVILIZED.
That is the word that comes to mind as I gaze out across the ballroom. Silken gowns in every color of the rainbow, dazzling jewels that sparkle in the lamplight, and dashing gentlemen in smart, dark suits.
A string quartet weaves a melody between the laughter and subtle din of conversation. Beyond the dance floor, the open balcony doors bring the balmy summer breeze and the sweet scent of honeysuckle to wrap around the swaying dancers. On the periphery, men talk, and fans flutter as ladies, old and young, cool faces heated as much from the attention of suitors as the dancing.
Civilized.
On the surface, at least.
I stand in the shadow of my mother, the Queen. Dark hair with a touch of pure white at her temples, she is the embodiment of regal. She is taller than me by a head and shoulders, as are most people within this room. I’m the third born of five, and my parents’ only Omega child. My whole life has been one of indulgence… until my scent changed.
Now every Beta woman sees me as a threat. Where once the castle women might have offered me a smile, now furtive glances and hushed whispers greet me daily.
Their superstitions make little sense. My scent may be enticing to a Beta male, but it will certainly not drive them mad with lust—unlike an Alpha.
It matters not that I’ve no interest in any male, be they Alpha or Beta. I have become a prisoner of our home, allowed out only under the watch of my parents’ most trusted escorts.
“Stephan is a good man,” my mother says, head inclining meaningfully toward the tall blond Alpha. She is fishing for an answer to the burning question that has been the talk of the castle. “But so is Brent?” She smiles brightly, like it might make the conversation more palatable.
Stephan is a good man, but he’s also a weak Alpha, and a part of me recoils. Brent is neither a good man nor a good Alpha, and I would sooner live with a pig.
Over the last two months it has become painfully apparent that my parents care not which Alpha I choose so long as I choose one.
“My dear, you need to pick a suitor,” my mother chides softly when I give no answer.
My fan is put to good use cooling my face heated from neither dancing nor the attention of a gallant man.
It is anger that brings a flush to my cheeks; the ever ticking clock never stops taking me forward in unavoidable increments toward my doom.
Across the sea lies the Imperium. There, I’ve been told, a single Omega is given over to the care of several Alphas—three or four is not uncommon.
I shudder.
Thank the Goddess that I do not live in such a barbarous kingdom. Here it’s only one Alpha to which I must submit.
One is more than enough.
“Why?” The word is a hiss passing my lips.
Her face softens as though in understanding. Yet she knows nothing of how I feel. My father, her one and only suitor, was her childhood love, and they were betrothed from the age of six. The Goddess smiled with kindness upon my mother’s life. She knew nothing of suitors then. Just as she knows nothing of suitors now.
“If you do not pick, my dear, your father will.” The same encouraging tone even though I’ve disobeyed them and taken far longer than is socially acceptable in this matter.
The tone does nothing to soften the blow delivered by those words: my fan stills, the fragile accessory straining under my fierce grip.
Civilized? No, there is nothing civilized about this grand ballroom, nor the many suitors who vie for my hand.
My eyes flash to meet my mother’s. They are the same eyes I see when I look in the mirror, just a few more lines gracing the corners. Laughter lines, for my mother smiles and laughs often, at least she used to. Of late, she has not laughed so much, and I know that I’m the cause.
I must choose.
Only words, yet they trap me as effectively as a vise, whiting out the lively tune and conversation and bringing a tightness to my chest. She has never spoken the words before, never admitted my dire fate.
I want the words taken back so that the ignorance might linger longer.
This will be my last all-summer party within my home and castle. The ticking clock tells me I’ll not make it to the autumn harvest.
As I meet my mother’s steady gaze, I realize that my time is counted in hours rather than days.
“I know.” I lower my lashes. “I will give my answer tomorrow.”
“My dear child,” she says, drawing me into her arms, filling my lungs with the scent of lilies. It comforts me, but it is a false comfort, for tomorrow, I must choose. “The Goddess made you an Omega. She has blessed you a thousand times, Rosa. I promise she will not abandon one so cherished. These nerves will pass once you are bound and mated.”
Mated, such an ugly, vulgar word that makes me sound no better than a beast. Omegas do not engage in marriage like a Beta couple might do. Omegas are a throwback to an era when all humans were shifters, and we lived like animals in caves.
Omegas.
They tell me I’m a coveted prize.
In truth, I’m a nuisance, and they cannot wait for me to leave.
I smile, projecting brightness that I do not feel. “Tomorrow,” I say. “Let me have this night.”
Her hand presses to my cheek. “Of course. Your father will be so pleased.”
She releases me, her joyful smile making me feel wretched to my core.
Choose? How can I choose?
I excuse myself under the pretext of some fresh air before I dance again, slipping from the bright lights onto the balcony where guests mingle with waitpersons offering sparkling wine.
I see him instantly—Aramis. His unnaturally pale eyes watch me. They’re always watching, waiting. The attractive dark suit cannot disguise what he is.
Ravishment.
That is the word that comes to mind when I think about Aramis.
Deep in the night, as I lay alone upon my bed, my thoughts turn toward what it might be like to be with such a man.
Where I am smaller, he is larger: an Alpha to an Omega in a room awash with Betas. A female Omega is not like an ordinary Beta woman, for we crave rough treatment—we have needs that only an Alpha can sate.
Or so I have been told.
He is one of many Alphas here. They come to vie for me with sweet words and the facade of humility.
They are neither sweet nor humble. They are monsters and beasts who watch with predatory intent.
He is the worst of them—Aramis. He is the one I’ll never choose.
And why would I? It’s well known he only petitions for my hand to facilitate his claim to a wealthy duchy. A childless uncle has died, and his widow, now past child-bearing age, must select an heir from their two nephews.
Aramis is the only claimant to be an Alpha. But his cousin has wedded a Beta and they already have three heirs.
The criteria with which the widow must decide upon an heir remains a mystery—so far she chooses neither.
And now Aramis pursues me in a quest to tip the scales in his favor.
I snort out my disdain, snatching a glass from a proffered tray. The bubbles tickle my throat, and I gulp more than savor the sweet, sparkling wine.
We are separated by a great distance, he on one side of the balcony in conversation with his companion, Edgar, and I on the other, alone. Yet, he knows my intent to choose another. I can see it in the tightening of his jaw and the narrowing of his eyes.
Who would ever pick such a dominant male, even were his intentions true? Not me. Thin lips that the ladies call rakish when he smiles, dark hair, and storm-grey eyes. His shoulders are broad and powerful, muscular thighs, broad, booted feet, and Goddess save me from the image of his tight ass filling his pants whenever I glimpse him from behind.
But there is more to Aramis than his striking appearance, for he has the heart of an Alpha and has fought in many distant wars.
And therein lies the crux of the matter—he is too much Alpha even ignoring his lack of virtue, and I would surely wilt under the influence of such a man.
I shiver under his inspection. I should move or turn away, yet I am caught, as I’ve been many times, by that unwavering gaze.
He is the antonym of civilized.
He is barely contained brutality.
He is basal and cruel in ways I cannot dare to comprehend, yet instinct tells me is true.
Tomorrow, I must choose.
Tonight is mine.
Aramis
She is plotting something, my little doe.
The tightening of the leash has brought the feral in her rising to the surface. I hide my smile, taking a sip from the tall, fluted glass.
“She’s plotting,” Edgar says, nudging his head at Princess Rosalind.
“I know,” I say. “The question is, what?”
“I’ve heard she’ll choose Stephan tomorrow,” he says.
I choke on my drink. He smirks, the bastard might be a Beta, but he has never been afraid to offer a jibe. “She will not pick Stephan. She’ll not pick anyone, and tomorrow her father will fulfill his promise to me.”
He raises a brow. “Have you not heard? Her father has issued her an ultimatum.”
“He has?” This news does not please me. I’ve given over a great deal of time and effort to ensure the King selects me as her mate. “I did not think the King had the balls to force her hand?”
“She must choose, or he will.” He gestures toward Rosa. “Does that look like a woman about to yield to you?”
No, it does not.
“She will not choose you,” Edgar continues. “She’ll pick Stephan—he is the weakest.”
“I will challenge him if she does.”
He sighs, drawing my brooding attention. “It will not end well if you do. And then your plans to rule your uncle’s duchy will be over.”
I raise my brows. “Are you telling me I should forfeit? Bow out?”
As the only Alpha in a Beta family, I’ve lived a troubled life. I am not firstborn and deference is not in my nature. Restless by circumstance, I’m never satisfied with any place or situation. I’ve traveled far, sailed seas, and fought in many wars. Edgar, my childhood friend, has been at my side through it all.
I do not fit in the civilized world.
I’m a throwback to an era when we were more beast than human.
At times I feel more like a beast when my darkness overtakes my humanity, and I succumb to urges for violence or debauchery.
My parents and extended family, all gentle Betas, are ever disappointed in me.
So it came as a surprise to everyone when my uncle named me in his will. The duchy is small in terms of land but includes several profitable mineral mines.
That profit comes at a cost, for late every autumn, Orc raiding parties come to harry the supply lines.
It needs a strong leader. I’d thought myself beyond such things, a wanderer doomed to die somewhere far away fighting a war for people I cared naught about. An Alpha was never meant to be a second son, but I find a new purpose in the chance to rule and protect a duchy.
I want this opportunity more than I’ve wanted anything in my life.
Unfortunately, my uncle’s will included two potential successors to the estate. Gerald, a distant cousin, is also named, and my widowed aunt was instructed to choose between us before summer’s end.
Gerald, a Beta, offers stability in that he has a wife and three children.
But I’m the Alpha.
My basal side rails that he should even be considered over me, and I pity the duchy residents should Gerald prevail given he has a reputation for bumbling every project his father has set him.
I cannot and will not let the lands go to him.
What better way to tip the scales toward my rightful success than to take an Omega and a princess as my mate?
So, here I came, seeking to secure a princess so that I might secure a duchy lest it be claimed by my sniveling cousin.
But everything changed after I met her.
My lips tug up as I recall the dressing down she gave me when I dared to call her Rosa the day we first met. Her eyes spitting fire at me like a heathen had entered her father’s study and not an Alpha and prince.
Her scent has captivated me, her beauty more so. And those haughty looks she throws my way whenever I engage her in conversation bring my dominant nature rearing to the surface. I don’t want a sweet Beta—I can think of nothing worse. Rather, I want to tame my little doe with the heart of a lioness. I want to put her over my lap and spank her until her bottom turns a fiery shade of red and she begs for mercy. And I want to watch that petulant mouth open on a breathy gasp as I fill her sweet pussy with my cock.
We are separated by a distance, yet I see rebellion in every tense line of her body.
I’m utterly beguiled by the willful Omega. And I will be the one who brings her to heel.
“I can no more bow out than I can cut off my own dick,” I say.
Edgar snorts a laugh. “What friend would I be counseling you in such a path, even supposing I believed you might abandon your desires? Your Aunt Grace is here, is she not?”
I nod. I admit to believing it a good sign when my aunt arrived last week and hoped it meant she looked favorably upon my actions.
“This is no coincidence,” Edgar continues. “I’m certain the wily widow is only holding back on a decision to force your hand in seeking a match—your sweet Omega is not the only female to engage in plotting. Grace is a close friend to the Queen; they have been meeting daily since her arrival. No, you must, if need be, eliminate the competition in a more civilized way before Rosa chooses tomorrow.”
“Civilized? Have we not been friends for many years? I’ve not been civilized a single day of my life.”
He smirks and claps a hand upon my shoulder. “It does not need to be civilized, only to seem civilized. You have faked it this far, have you not?”
I laugh. “Clearly, I’ve not faked it well enough… I believe I’m owed a dance with my sweet little doe,” I say, giving my empty glass to a passing waitperson. “After, I shall follow your wise counsel and dissuade her other suitors by whatever means is necessary.”
Rosalind
Aramis is walking straight toward me.
No, he is stalking straight toward me with a determined expression on his face that induces an instant and unwelcoming clouding of my thoughts.
I’m supposed to dance with my suitors. It’s my duty to dance with them, but damn my duty to hell, for I do not want to dance with him.
