My name is Soren

My name is Soren.

I am twenty-one years old, legally adult, pack-registered, and carrying a bloodline that has made my life inconvenient since the day I was born.

My mother is remarrying today.

For the fifth time.

That fact alone usually earns a look. Pity, curiosity, judgment. People like to assume it is about love, or instability, or desperation. The truth is simpler and uglier.

My mother does not marry for romance.

She marries to survive and for the money too.

Her laughter floats out of the bridal suite, high and polished, the same sound she perfected years ago. It is not joy. It is performance. I have heard it used to charm council elders, soothe angry Alphas, and convince men with too much power that she is exactly what they need.

“You may now kiss the bride,” the officiating priest announces.

“Before Elsbridge Pack and the Moon Goddess, I pronounce you mates.”

Applause swells across the ballroom. Champagne flutes clink, Betas in silk gowns beam as if this is a fairy tale instead of a carefully negotiated alliance.

Alpha Donovan Dimitri pulls my mother close, his hand firm at her waist. He looks pleased, so composed and in control.

He should.

This marriage gives him everything he wants.

My mother carries one of the oldest Beta bloodlines still recognized by council law. Land rights, voting weight, historical legitimacy.

Donovan does not need an heir. He already has a son and what he needs is stability in Elsbridge, council favor, and a wife whose lineage shuts people up when they question his authority.

My mother needed protection, status and so much good things that life and money can offer.

A shield powerful enough to keep certain truths buried.

So they married.

This is not her first strategic union. Each of her previous marriages bought her what she wanted and sadly, each ended the moment the protection expired or she decided the man was no longer useful.

And me, I get dragged through every one of them.

Crystal chandeliers shaped like crescent moons glow above marble floors. The scent of roasted pheasant, heavy perfume, and wolf musk hangs thick in the air.

I edge backward, tugging my hoodie lower. My fashion taste is really bad but wearing the hoodie helps hide the mark on my left shoulder.

A waiter offers me caviar toast. I shake my head and sidestep, pulse ticking faster each time someone leans too close.

I am an omega.

Not by rank, but by blood and way different from Mom and from the moment, I was born, I became a disappoinment to her. She wanted a son and a beta but she got an omega for a daughter.

My father’s bloodline carries a recessive omega trait, one that suppresses secondary wolf markers until maturity. It is rare, quiet and easy to miss unless you know what to scent for. My mother hoped marrying into stronger packs would drown it out.

It didn’t.

One wrong step and every Alpha here will know exactly what I am.

Footsteps approach behind me.

The side exit is close. If I reach it, I can breathe. If I do not, I am trapped smiling through another hour of being evaluated like a resource.

“Watch where you’re going before you kiss me.”

Something taps the back of my head.

I spin, irritation already flaring, ready to snap at whichever pack idiot thought that was funny.

Then I stop.

He is tall. Broad-shouldered, perfectly still. His black suit fits him like armor. His face is sharp, controlled, and unreadable.

And his eyes are on me.

Dark, Intense and assessing.

“Sorry,” I say, rubbing the spot he hit.

His nostrils flare.

He leans closer and inhales again, slower this time. His body tightens.

Something flickers across his face. Confusion, shock and flash of irritation that looks dangerously close to anger.

“Omega?” he says, the word edged with disdain.

I straighten. “Congratulations,” I reply evenly. “You can smell.”

His brow lifts, clearly unused to being answered like that.

“The name is Soren,” I add. “Not omega.”

For a moment, something sharp passes through his gaze.

“Felix,” he says. His voice is low and controlled, the kind that commands attention without effort.

Felix.

“You’re in the way,” he continues.

I step aside and move past him, refusing to rush. I do not look back until I reach the side exit.

He is still watching me.

The ballroom noise fades as I step into the gardens. Cool night air bites my skin. Gravel crunches beneath my sneakers and the torchlight casts long shadows across hedges and white roses lining the path.

Then branches snap behind me.

I turn too fast, heart slamming.

His footsteps are deliberate and unhurried. His scent reaches me before he does.

I duck beneath a rose arbor, thorns catching briefly in my hair. The moon hangs low overhead and the estate’s east wing looms behind him, windows dark and watchful.

He stops several feet away.

Felix stands there with his hands in his pockets. Calm on the surface, tension rolling off him in waves.

“What?” I ask.

“He’s losing control,” he says.

His voice is rough now, strained. His eyes flash gold, then blue, then gold again.

I swallow. “And you’re telling me because…?”

He steps closer. Heat radiates from him. My wolf stirs, confused, restless.

That is when it hits me.

I cannot smell him.

No pull, no bond and no instinct, screaming mate.

Because my omega bloodline suppresses recognition until the bond is claimed. Because my wolf was taught to stay quiet. Because my mother spent years making sure no Alpha ever noticed what I was.

“Soren,” he says, my name slow and careful.

“You smell like—”

He stops.

My spine locks.

“Say it,” I warn softly. “And I will bite you.”

His gaze darkens.

“Mate.”

The word lands like a curse.

The moon goddess has a cruel sense of timing.