A Mother’s Lessons

The bruises on Elias’s small body faded with time, but the shadows in his eyes never left. Where once there had been sparks of curiosity, now there was only watchfulness. He no longer asked about the world outside. He no longer pressed his palms to the glass to watch the other children run. He sat quietly at his mother’s side, his lips sealed, his wide eyes following her every move as though the smallest gesture she made contained an answer to survival.

Jane noticed the change and her heart splintered.

She had hoped that childhood might shield him, at least for a few more years. That he might remain soft, innocent, untainted by the weight of the laws that bound their kind. But Kevin had shattered that hope with his fists, and now Elias knew fear—too young, far too young.

Jane could not undo Kevin’s cruelty, but she could prepare Elias for the world that awaited him.

She hated it. She despised every law, every tradition, every unspoken rule that chained omegas to obedience. She raged against them in silence, her fists curling in the dark when she was alone, her prayers bitter as ash on her tongue. But rage could not protect her child. Dreams of freedom could not keep him alive.

Kevin’s house was a prison, yes. But the world outside was a battlefield—and Elias, her tender, innocent boy, would one day be thrown into it whether he was ready or not.

So she taught him.

---

It began in the early mornings, when Kevin had not yet stirred from bed. The house was quiet then, the air still heavy with the coolness of dawn. Jane would take Elias’s small hands in hers, smoothing his tiny fingers as though she could wipe away the memory of pain with her touch. Her voice was soft, barely above a whisper.

“Keep your head lowered, my love. Omegas are not meant to look alphas in the eye. If they think you’re defiant, they’ll hurt you.”

Elias would nod solemnly, his thin neck bowing as he practiced lowering his head until his chin brushed his chest. His dark hair fell forward to cover his eyes, and Jane felt her stomach twist. He looked so small, so fragile, yet already burdened by rules meant to strip him of dignity.

“Good,” she murmured, though the word caught in her throat. She brushed his hair back gently, forcing a smile. “Just like that. Always remember.”

At night, she taught him how to serve.

The lessons were quiet, hidden in the dim glow of a single candle, the curtains drawn tightly. Jane would place a cup before him, her voice steady despite the ache in her chest. “Kneel first. Back straight, but not too straight. Graceful, not proud. Show respect.”

Elias knelt, his small knees pressing against the rough wooden floor. His hands trembled as he lifted the cup, but Jane guided him, her fingers warm over his. “Slowly. Carefully. Not a drop spilled.”

Again and again, she made him practice until his movements were fluid, almost beautiful. She taught him how to bow, how to place his hands, how to move through a room without drawing notice. His feet learned to fall softly, his voice to speak in careful tones.

“Good evening, master. How may I serve you?”

The words were small and uncertain at first, but repetition carved them into his tongue. Each time they passed his lips, Jane’s heart cracked a little more. She would turn away, pressing her hand to her mouth, hiding the tears that threatened.

The hardest lesson, however, came with tears.

One evening, as the sky outside deepened into indigo, Jane sat Elias before her, his face framed by her trembling hands. His eyes searched hers, trusting, too trusting.

“Elias,” she whispered, her voice breaking though she forced it steady, “sometimes… omegas are safer when they cry. Alphas like it when you look fragile, when you look as though you need them. If you can’t cry, they might grow angry.”

Confusion flickered in his eyes. “But Mama… what if I’m not sad?”

Jane swallowed hard, her chest tightening. “Then you must pretend.”

She showed him how to bite the inside of his cheek, how to let the pain well tears in his eyes. How to quicken his breathing, let his voice tremble, let his lower lip quiver. Elias tried, clumsy at first, but patient under her guidance.

The first time he succeeded—his small shoulders shaking, tears spilling down his cheeks on command—Jane broke. She turned away swiftly, her hands covering her face to stifle the sob that rose in her throat. He was only a child. Her child. And she was teaching him how to break himself before anyone else could.

Elias crept to her side, tugging at her sleeve with his small hand. “Mama? Did I do it right?”

Jane dropped to her knees, pulling him into her arms. She pressed her lips to his temple, her tears falling silently into his hair. “Yes, my love,” she whispered. “You did perfectly.”

---

The lessons continued.

Some days, Jane would make games of them, trying to soften the weight Elias carried. She would sit on the floor and declare herself the “great alpha king,” and Elias would practice bowing to her, his lips twitching with shy laughter at her silly stern face. Other times, she would whisper stories between lessons, weaving in secret truths.

“Kindness is a strength, not a weakness,” she told him as he learned to serve tea.

“Obedience can keep you alive, but never forget you are worth more than their commands,” she murmured as he practiced kneeling.

“Love is your light, Elias. Hold onto it, even when the world tries to put it out.”

He absorbed every word, his young mind soaking in the lessons both spoken and unspoken. He grew quieter, yes, but sharper too. His hands learned grace, his voice learned softness, his tears learned to fall on cue—but behind his wide eyes, something watched, something remembered.

---

“Why, Mama?” Elias asked softly one night, tugging at her sleeve as she tucked him into bed. His voice was small, fragile as a bird. “Why do I have to learn all this?”

Jane froze, the question striking her like a blade. She sat on the edge of the bed, gathering him into her arms. His head rested against her chest, his heartbeat quick beneath her palm.

“Because one day, an alpha will come for you, Elias,” she whispered, her voice steady though her heart bled with every word. “And if you don’t know how to survive… they’ll destroy you.”

His small fingers curled into the fabric of her dress. His body trembled. “Will you be there?” he whispered.

Jane shut her eyes. She wanted to promise him yes—that she would protect him, that she would fight the world for him, that no alpha would ever touch him while she lived. But she knew the truth. She was only an omega too. Her strength was not enough to shield him forever.

So she kissed his hair and lied. “Yes, my love. I’ll always be here.”

Elias sighed softly, his breath evening as sleep took him. Jane sat there long after, listening to the gentle rhythm of his breathing.

And when at last she lay down beside him, her body curling protectively around his small frame, her tears came silently. Every lesson she gave him was a chain she placed around his neck. But better her hands—gentle and trembling—than the merciless grip of an alpha who would one day claim him.

Her heart broke, piece by piece, with every bow of his head, every whispered yes, master, every tear he learned to summon. But she bore the pain.

Because Elias was her miracle.

Elias was her light.

And she would do whatever it took to keep that light burning, even if it meant teaching him how to survive in a world that wanted him in chains.

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