REJECTED BY FATE, CLAIMED BY THE ALPHA KING

The scent of blood was thick in the air.

Aria pressed a cloth against the gash running down the young warrior’s shoulder, her small hands steady even though his body trembled beneath her touch. She could feel the way his pulse raced, the heat of his fevered skin, the roughness of his breathing as though each inhale was a battle he was losing.

“Hold still,” she whispered, not unkindly. Her voice carried a quiet authority born from practice, though it never carried far enough for anyone to truly listen. “If you move, you’ll tear it open again.”

The warrior groaned, biting down on his lip. He couldn’t be more than nineteen, barely out of training, yet already he had been thrown into the chaos of the border skirmishes. The pack was stretched thin, and every able-bodied wolf had been forced to fight.

Aria reached for her pouch, pulling out the stitched leather case where she kept her herbs and tools. She had organized them herself, memorizing each small bundle of leaves and dried roots, because she couldn’t afford to waste time searching when lives depended on her. With swift fingers, she crushed dried comfrey, mixing it with water in a small clay bowl until it formed a thick paste.

“Apply this twice a day,” she instructed, smoothing the cool mixture over his wound. “It will fight infection and help the skin knit faster.”

He gave a faint nod, though his eyes darted away as though ashamed to even acknowledge her help. When she was done bandaging him, he stood quickly, muttered a gruff, “Thanks,” and left the tent before she could say more.

Aria exhaled slowly, her gaze dropping to the bloodied cloths scattered across the wooden table. She gathered them with careful hands, dropping them into a pail of water already stained dark red. Around her, the healer’s tent bustled with chaos—warriors staggered in with slashed arms, broken bones, and torn flesh. Groans and cries filled the air, mingling with the smell of sweat, blood, and smoke.

“Move aside, Omega,” a harsh voice barked.

Aria barely had time to step back before a burly she-wolf shouldered past her, carrying her younger brother with one arm slung over her shoulder. His leg was bent at an unnatural angle, blood dripping down his calf.

Her heart clenched at the sight, but the warrior glared at her before she could speak.

“You’d better not mess this up,” the she-wolf growled. “He’s worth more to this pack than you’ll ever be.”

The words sliced deeper than any blade. Aria swallowed them down, biting the inside of her cheek until the metallic taste of blood filled her mouth. She had heard it all before. Weak. Useless. Rejected. The words clung to her like a second skin, no matter how hard she worked to prove them wrong.

She bent to her brother’s side, forcing her hands to remain calm. “You’ll be okay,” she murmured softly.

His eyes—so much like hers—met hers for the briefest moment. But then he turned his face away, refusing her comfort, refusing her presence. That rejection, that small, silent dismissal, hurt more than the angry insults of strangers.

Because he was her blood. And even he could not bear to be tied to her.

By the time the sun dipped low on the horizon, Aria’s hands were stained with blood and herbs, her body aching from hours on her feet. She had reset broken bones, stitched wounds, mixed poultices, and wrapped more injuries than she could count.

She stepped outside the tent for a breath of fresh air, her chest heaving as she drew in the cool night air. The moonlight washed over the camp, silver and cold, casting shadows that seemed to whisper of the lives lost on the battlefield.

Laughter drifted from a group of warriors gathered near the fire. They sat with mugs of ale, boasting about their kills and scars, their voices loud and careless.

“She patched me up earlier,” one of them sneered. “You should’ve seen her hands shake. I thought I’d bleed out before the Omega got her act together.”

The others roared with laughter.

Another added, “If it weren’t for her herbs, half of us would already be dead—but I suppose that’s the only reason they keep her around. Even a weak Omega can learn to boil leaves.”

Aria turned away quickly, pretending she hadn’t heard. But their words sank into her bones, heavy and sharp, until she felt them digging into her chest.

She wasn’t weak. She wasn’t useless. She worked harder than any of them, stayed up longer, sacrificed more. But no matter what she did, she would always be the Omega who was rejected.

She remembered that day too well.

The day her mate looked at her with cold eyes and said the words that shattered her heart: I don’t want you. You’re not good enough for me.

The rejection had burned her soul, cutting her off from the bond she had once dreamed of, leaving behind an emptiness that no amount of healing could ever fill.

Even now, years later, the sting of it clung to her. Every insult was just a reminder of that day, every sneer a confirmation of what she had already been told: that she was worthless, that she would never be chosen, never be loved.

Aria clenched her fists, nails digging into her palms. She refused to cry. Not here, not where they could see her weakness and laugh even harder.

Instead, she lifted her chin and returned to the tent. There were still wounds to tend, still lives to save. And if the only way she could find worth was in her work, then she would give everything she had until there was nothing left of her.

Hours later, when the camp had grown quiet and most had fallen asleep, Aria sat alone by the dim glow of a lantern. She cleaned her tools meticulously, her movements mechanical, her mind drifting.

Her reflection glimmered faintly in the water-filled basin before her. Pale skin, dark shadows beneath her eyes, lips pressed tightly together. She looked tired. Fragile. Forgettable.

And yet… there was something in her gaze. A flicker of defiance, a stubborn spark that had not been extinguished despite everything.

Let them mock her. Let them reject her. One day, she would prove them wrong.

But that day still felt impossibly far away.