CHAPTER 2

**********

The air inside the small, secluded hut hangs heavy with the steam of boiling stew and the sharp, medicinal stench of crushed herbs. Aiden stands over the iron pot, stirring the thick broth with a wooden spoon, the heat from the fire prickling his skin. At the age of seventeen years his body lean and lithe, but beneath the layers of worn clothing, his biology betrays him. A dull, persistent ache throbs in his lower belly, a reminder of the omega nature he must hide. To the pack outside, he is nothing more than a quiet beta, but here, in the safety of his mother’s domain, the truth simmers.

He shifts his weight, feeling the uncomfortable slickness of his hole clenching around nothing. The suppressants his mother brews are strong, masking the sweet, intoxicating scent that would normally drive any alpha into a rutting frenzy, but they cannot fully silence the needy whine of his body. His cock gives a traitorous twitch against his thigh, sensitive and swollen, desperate for a knot that isn’t there. Aiden grits his teeth and focuses on the vegetables floating in the pot, forcing the arousal down.

His mother, the pack’s healer, moves beside him, her hands stained with green juices as she chops wild onions. She glances at him, her eyes sharp with a worry that never quite leaves. She knows the risks. Omegas in this pack are not cherished; they are fuck-toys, slaves, or worse, corpses if they outlive their usefulness. She has spent years perfecting the bitter paste Aiden swallows every morning, burning his scent from the air and locking his heat deep inside his womb.

A sudden, heavy banging rattles the wooden door frame, shaking the dust from the rafters.

Aiden freezes, his spoon hovering over the pot. The rhythm of the hut shatters.

"Stay here," his mother whispers, her voice low and tight. She wipes her hands on her apron, smoothing her expression into a mask of calm indifference. "I will see who it is."

She moves to the door, her back straight, blocking the view into the room. Aiden stands still for a heartbeat, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. The scent of an alpha—musky, aggressive, and distinct—seeps through the cracks in the wood. It makes his knees weak and his hole flutter, a visceral reaction he fights to suppress.

Curiosity, that dangerous trait, gets the better of him. Aiden creeps forward, staying in the shadows, and peeks around the heavy curtain separating the cooking area from the entrance.

A guard stands on the threshold, his broad shoulders filling the doorway. He wears the leather armor of the pack’s enforcers, his hand resting casually on the hilt of his sword. He is looking past Aiden’s mother, scanning the interior of the hut.

"I am looking for the Beta lance," the guard grunts, his voice deep and commanding. "Is he here?"

Aiden’s mother tilts her head, her posture relaxed but her eyes guarded. "He is out. Is there an emergency?"

The guard shakes his head, stepping slightly to the side to get a better angle into the room. "No emergency. Just need him at the packhouse. The Alpha is calling a meeting."

Then, the guard’s eyes snap to the side, locking onto Aiden’s hiding spot. Aiden flinches, caught in the act of peeking. The guard’s gaze rakes over him, assessing, lingering for a second too long on the curve of Aiden’s neck. Aiden holds his breath, terrified the man will smell the omega underneath the layers of herbal stench.

"Who is that?" the guard asks, nodding toward the curtain.

Before Aiden can retreat, his mother moves with surprising speed. She reaches back, her fingers clamping tight around Aiden’s ear, and drags him out into the open. The sting is sharp, making Aiden wince, but he knows better than to pull away.

"This," she says, her voice firm, "is my stubborn son. He never listens when I tell him to stay in the back."

The guard looks Aiden up and down, his brow furrowing slightly as if he’s trying to place a scent that doesn’t quite add up. Aiden keeps his eyes lowered, submissive, praying the suppressants hold.

"Right," the guard says, his attention shifting back to Aiden’s mother. "Well, if you see the Beta, tell him to get to the packhouse immediately. It’s urgent."

With a final, curt nod, the guard turns and marches away, the heavy thud of his boots fading into the distance.

The silence that follows is thick and tense. Aiden’s mother releases his ear, only to grab a handful of his hair and give it a rough shake. She doesn’t pull hard enough to hurt, but enough to scold.

"I told you to stay," she snaps, though the fear in her eyes betrays her anger. "You cannot be seen, Aiden. Not like this. Not when they are restless."

"I’m sorry," Aiden mumbles, rubbing his sore ear. "I just wanted to know who it was."

"You are too reckless," she sighs, turning back to the pot of stew. She stirs it vigorously, her knuckles white. "I don’t know what your father has done now, having guards hunt for him at this hour. It puts us all at risk."

"It’s okay, Mom," Aiden says softly, stepping up beside her. He reaches out, stilling her hand on the spoon. "He’s the Beta. They probably just need him for pack meetings or territory disputes. It’s his job."

His mother looks at him, her shoulders slumping as the adrenaline fades. She reaches up, brushing a stray lock of hair from his forehead, her touch gentle now. "You always see the best in people, my precious child. That is your strength, and your danger."

She looks tired, the lines around her mouth deepened by years of secrecy. Aiden takes the spoon from her hand.

"Go," he says, nodding toward the small bedroom suite at the back of the hut. "Go rest. I can finish this. You’ve been up since dawn mixing those awful pastes for me."

She hesitates for a moment, looking from the pot to his face, then finally nods. A small, tired smile touches her lips.

"You are a good boy, Aiden," she says, ruffling his hair one last time. "Too good for this world."

She turns and walks away, the curtain swaying behind her. Aiden listens to her footsteps fade, then turns back to the stew. The hut is quiet again, save for the bubbling of the broth. He stirs the pot, the ache in his gut flaring up again, a reminder that while the danger outside has passed, the war inside his own body is far from over. He adjusts the front of his pants, his cock hard and leaking against the fabric, and breathes in the scent of herbs, alone with his secrets.