Caged - Signed Paperback

A captive Omega.
Two fated Alphas.
A prophecy that will topple a kingdom.

Aveline has been locked in the Thorn Tower for more than a century—awake, aware, and trapped in a nightmare of vine-bindings, suppression runes, and a father determined to erase her destiny. Her first heat was stolen. Her magic muted. Her life reduced to a cage of thorns.

Until the day two warriors enter the forest looking for a secret weapon.

Malric and Thane are bonded Alphas—brothers not by blood, but by battle, vow, and scent. Sent by the rebellion to find a force strong enough to kill the Unseelie King, they expect a spell, a relic, a monster.

They don’t expect her.

One breath of her scent shatters their control.
One brush of their magic awakens her heat.
One heartbeat binds them toward a destiny none of them can escape.

As the tower collapses beneath the pulse of their triad bond, the King strikes back, determined to take the daughter he once concealed—and kill the mates fate sent to protect her.

But Aveline is done being powerless.
Done being hidden.
Done being his.

If the prophecy is true, then three hearts bound as one can break any curse…
and end any tyrant.

Dark fae magic.
MFM fated mates.
Explosive heat-cycle bonding.
A tower that falls.
A kingdom that rises.
And a love powerful enough to rewrite the realm.

Aveline

The trees beyond my window had changed while I had lingered in a haze.
Orange and rust decorated the branches, some of the leaves deepening into bruised purples that caught the lowering light. I rested my palm against the glass, trying to remember when the leaves had last been green. Yesterday, perhaps. Or longer. Time in the tower passed differently, or so it seemed. It softened at the edges, bled into itself, slipped quietly away no matter how carefully I tried to mark its passing. I often felt carried along in the drifts, helpless, as if I slept through days, weeks, months at a time. And then I saw signs that reaffirmed this feeling, and it only distressed me further.
The glass warmed beneath my hand, a warmth that spread throughout my body. For a moment, I thought maybe it was the sun that streamed through the window that heated my spot. But when I shifted into the shadows, I realized that my entire body was warm, almost feverish. My stomach ached, and lower, in the area that I often ignored, I felt a heavy throbbing that was unusual.
I had never been sick since I came to the tower. But when I was younger, I remember fevers, coughs, and cool hands soothing me. This felt different somehow. But I didn’t know what it meant.
I curled deeper into the cushioned seat, the stone at my back cool even through the layers of fabric, easing the heat simmering in me. The air drifting through the narrow crack in the window carried the scent of earth and decay. Autumn had a richness to it—damp soil, dying leaves, something faintly sweet beneath the rot.
I wanted to be down there.
I hadn’t been out of the tower in years but I was growing tired of watching the world and being removed from it. It was not a passing wish, not idle curiosity. I wanted to feel the leaves break beneath my boots. I wanted wind against my throat. I wanted dirt beneath my nails. I hadn’t seen another person, except my father, since I had been here. But I yearned to speak with someone, to have a friend. But I had to remain alone. Isolated.
It was not safe beyond the tower. Not safe for anyone. Least of all for me.
That was what Father said.
It could have been true. It could have been a lie repeated so often that it no longer felt like one.
He had told me that since I was placed here, young enough to listen without question. I didn’t know exactly what danger I posed. Only that I did. Only that if something terrible happened, it would be my fault.
I had tried to leave. Once. I dared challenge the story I had been told.
Father had been gone for so long, not visiting, and I had waited for him, patiently watching the leaves bloom and fill the canopy around me. Then slowly, the edges changed color and they faded. I feared that I had been forgotten and I determined to leave. I followed the spiral staircase downward, Beyond my bedchamber and cozy nest, past the library shelves filled with books that recycled with new books all the time, the dining hall with its polished table and empty chairs that had space for so many people when I only ever needed two spots. At the bottom, I had found a room of bare stone.
No doors. No windows. Only cold stone walls.
I had pressed my palms against them until my skin froze, waiting for something—anything—to yield. Nothing did. And when I searched for that room again, the staircase never seemed to end in the same place twice, as if the tower itself was conspiring to keep me prisoner.
Most days, I remained above. In the nest, with its furs and cushions, dozing in the warm sunlight. In the garden that bloomed at the tower’s peak regardless of frost. In the library, with its endless shelves and careful silence.
Meals appeared when the bell rang. Baths were always hot. Clean dresses replaced the soiled ones in the wardrobe.
I never saw who tended to these things.
Magic, Father said. The tower took care of me. Protected me. It was linked to me and my needs.
If that were true, it had never answered when I tried to coax it into answering me. I even tried learning magic from several books in the library, hoping to gain control over my powers and connect with the tower. I had copied every gesture from the spell books. Spoken the words precisely as written. I had traced sigils with steady hands and careful words.
Nothing stirred. No spark. No ripple.
When I asked Father about training, telling him about my efforts, he called my failures a blessing.
Power without discipline destroyed what it touched. And the only way to control my power is to suppress it with the tower.
The sunlight shifted across my lap, and the warmth seeped into me more deeply than it should have. It didn't rest on my skin—it settled beneath it, loosening something low and slow beneath my ribs. The sensation was not painful, but it was not entirely comfortable either. It made me aware of my body in a way I had not been before.
Restless.
That was the word for it.
My pulse felt closer to the surface. My skin more sensitive to the movement of air. Even the birdsong drifting through the window seemed sharper, each note distinct and lingering.
Then the tower changed. It was a subtle sensation. A change in the atmosphere, in pressure. A subtle tightening through the stone, as though the walls themselves had drawn a breath and were holding it.
Father had arrived. My stomach clenched. I typically had more notice. A special dress hanging prominently in the wardrobe. Some sign that I should prepare. Instead, I was wearing a casual cotton light green dress and my blonde hair hung loose down my back.
A gong sounded, formally announcing his arrival and requesting my presence in the dining hall. I rose at once, smoothing my skirts, gathering my hair with fingers that shook lightly. My body still burned and ached, but I took a deep breath and steadied my racing pulse. Each step down the stairs echoed in my chest.
He stood stiffly before the fireplace when I entered, hands clasped behind his back.
He looked as he always did—untouched by time. His posture was flawless; his bearing precise. Silver threaded through his dark hair like frost. The crown upon his head caught the candlelight, gold and gemstones gleaming.
A king. The Unseelie king. Which made me a princess, though I had no court. Was I still a princess if I had no one around me and no one knew I existed?
“Hello, Father,” I said, lowering into a deep curtsy. I kept my gaze lowered until he turned and gestured for me to rise.
His eyes moved over me, assessing me coolly, lingering on my hair, my dress, while I waited for his verdict. His gaze sharpened in a way I didn't entirely understand.
“Your hair is untidy,” he said at last. “And the dress is not appropriate for dinner.”
“I apologize.” Even though I didn’t know you were coming, I almost added, but I bit my tongue. The words would not be welcome.
“Do better.”
He took his seat at the head of the table. A benevolent smile settled across his features, and he waved his hand to the chair next to him. “Sit. Dine with me.”
A creamy soup appeared between us, steam curling upward. Hunger flared fast and sharp. I couldn’t remember when I had last eaten.
He lifted his spoon. I followed, savoring the delicious soup.
“How have you been?” he asked. “Any fever? Any discomfort?”
I hesitated.
“I feel warm,” I admitted carefully. “Restless. As though something is building.”
He paused, the spoon halfway to his mouth, and frowned, studying me carefully. I squirmed under his severe gaze, wishing I had said nothing. After a long, painful moment, he waved a hand, and the bowls vanished, though I had not finished. “You imagine it.”
The next course appeared. Roast pork, potatoes glistening with butter and herbs. My stomach was unsettled but I was still hungry, so I forced myself to eat slowly, hoping to ease the symptoms that plagued me. We ate quietly for several minutes.
“Father,” I said quietly, “how do we know I'm still dangerous?”
His fork froze above his plate but he avoided my gaze.
“You have always been dangerous.” He resumed eating, slowly, deliberately.
“But I was a child,” I pressed. “You said I panicked. That I didn't understand what I was doing. I’m older now. What if I could learn? What if we tried?”
His gaze lifted fully to mine.
“You drained your mother,” he said. “You didn’t mean it, but the result was the same. Your powers awakened unexpectedly and you were scared. She tried to soothe you when she should have waited for someone to shield you. Instead, you lashed out, killed her.”
My throat tightened. “I don’t remember.”
“That is because I protected you from it.” His voice remained calm. Reasonable, but there was a hint of anger, of frustration that threaded through his words. “She weakened over days. She grew frail and weak while you grew stronger.”
A flicker of confusion brushed the edges of my thoughts.
“You said she died quickly.”
“That is what I told you to spare you the pain. She lingered,” he replied. “Long enough to suffer. Long enough for me to end it.”
The detail unsettled me in a way I couldn't fully articulate.
“You are an omega,” he continued. “Your power seeks. It binds. It consumes what it touches if it is not properly directed. Without guidance, you would tear through anyone who came too close.”
The word omega settled heavily inside me.
“If I left this tower?” I asked softly.
“If you met with anyone weaker than you, you would destroy them. And if there is someone strong enough to control you besides myself, they could use you to destroy everything.”
I struggled to breathe against the sudden pressure in the room.
“I locked you away because I love you,” he said, finally looking at me.
He rose and crossed the space between us. His hand cupped my cheek and he lifted me to my feet. His skin was warm and I leaned into the touch before I could stop myself, closing my eyes, seeking the solace of his touch, the only touch I had been allowed in years.
His other hand settled at my waist. The warmth beneath my ribs surged—then shifted. It didn't settle but shifted outward, sharply. Almost painfully. As though something within me had narrowed and was being drawn through an invisible thread. My knees weakened. Dizziness washed over me, soft and disorienting.
He pressed his nose to my throat and inhaled, holding his breath for a moment, then he exhaled, the breath tickling the strands of my hair.
His fingers flexed once at my waist. When he stepped back, he looked troubled, unsettled, as if I were a puzzle he had not seen before and could not solve.
“That is enough,” he murmured. “You are tired. Possibly a little feverish. You need rest. Go to your nest tonight. You’ll feel better tomorrow.”
He released me, and the room dimmed as he vanished.
I stood there for a moment, gripping the back of the chair to steady myself. My limbs felt heavy, my pulse thready and rapid. It was always like this after he left. As though I had run a great distance without ever moving.
I meant to return directly to my chamber, to stubbornly ignore his suggestion. Instead, my feet carried me upward into the nest. I collapsed into the furs and pillows, too weary to question it. I needed the comfort that my nest provided. The softness eased the weight pressing down on me, but it didn't fill the space that felt newly empty.
Moonlight spilled silver across the low table beside me.
A book lay there, one that I was certain had not been before.
A History of Omegas.
The word stirred something quiet and buried. Recognition. Unease. Curiosity.
My fingers brushed the cover.
Sleep claimed me before I could read the first line.