Rejected Omega, claimed by the Ruthless Alpha

The blood on the marble never really went away.

No matter how hard I scrubbed, some part of it stayed—staining the stone, staining my hands, staining the air with that iron, sick‑sweet scent.

“Faster, omega.”

The command cracked across the grand hall like a whip.

I was on my knees in the center of it, fingers numb from cold and lye, rag clenched between raw knuckles as I worked at a stubborn, rust‑brown smear. Drops of dirty water slid down my wrists and soaked the threadbare sleeves of my dress.

A boot scuffed closer.

Before I could shift away, someone kicked the wooden bucket beside me.

It tipped. Sludgy water—faintly purple from ground wolfsbane—splashed across my bare hands and forearms.

The burn hit a heartbeat later.

Wolfsbane felt like a thousand tiny needles being driven under the skin, then set on fire. Blisters rose instantly along the backs of my fingers, white and angry against the red.

I sucked in a sharp breath.

Behind me, Beta‑rank warriors laughed.

“Look at that,” one drawled. “She cleans up nice ,and* she cleans up blood. Versatile.”

“Careful, Roderic,” another snickered. “If you melt the omega, the steward will have your hide. They’re short on hands for tonight.”

I bowed my head lower, hair falling forward to hide my face.

Don’t speak. Don’t react. Don’t give them a reason.

I dipped the rag back into the bucket—because the floor still needed to shine, even if my skin peeled off with it—and went back to scrubbing. Every movement sent fresh flares of pain up my arms.

I was an omega. Lowest rank in the Moonfang Pack. The girl who scrubbed the prince’s blood off the floors after his “justice” was done.

Property. Nothing more.

A bell tolled somewhere high above, deep and solemn.

One, two, three times—and then a fourth, brighter peal.

The Moon Choosing Bell.

The Beta warriors lost interest in me immediately. Roderic’s boot shoved my bucket back with a splash.

“Don’t smear it everywhere,” he said lazily. “The prince will be walking through here soon. Wouldn’t want him slipping in peasant blood.”

They strode off, armor clanking, voices already rising with speculation.

“At last. Took the Goddess long enough.”

“Have you seen Lady Mirelle’s gown? She’s practically sewn herself into it.”

“Waste of silk. Everyone knows Selene Hale will be chosen.”

I swallowed, throat tight, and kept my head down.

A side door banged open. A palace crier in red and gold livery marched in, unfurling a scroll.

“By decree of His Majesty King Rowan Nightbane,” he boomed, “all loyal subjects are reminded that tonight, under the full moon, Prince Lucian Nightbane will enter the sacred circle to receive the mate chosen for him by the Moon Goddess. All preparations must be complete by sundown. All halls cleared. All packs in attendance will bear witness.”

Servants paused to bow their heads, and then the hall exploded into faster movement. Polishing, dusting, hauling. Under it all, constant, sharp whispers:

“Selene will be chosen. She’s perfect.”

“The Moon would be blind not to. Beta‑blood, trained, beautiful…”

“Certainly not an omega. The Moon wouldn’t waste a prince on someone like Aria.”

Their eyes slid over me like I was a piece of furniture.

Selene Hale.

Even *I* knew that name.

She was the Beta’s eldest daughter and the shining star of our pack. Tall and willowy, hair the color of summer wheat, eyes like polished amber. She moved through the palace like she owned it already.

I’d seen her that morning on a balcony, seamstresses fussing around her as pale gold silk was pinned to her body. Even from a distance, the dress had shimmered—a waterfall of fabric and tiny silver moons. She’d laughed easily at something a maid said.

I’d ducked my head and walked past with my bucket.

She looked like a future Luna.

I looked like what I was: Aria. Orphan omega. Scarred knuckles, rag‑burned fingers. A girl useful only for cleaning up other people’s messes.

For Selene, tonight would be the culmination of a dream.

For me, it was just another night making sure the floors were clean enough for her to walk on.

The bells hadn’t finished echoing when another sound rolled in from beyond the great doors—the deep thunder of hooves, the sharper clatter of carriage wheels.

The prince’s arrival.

“Clear the center!” the steward snapped. “To the walls. Heads bowed. Do *not* meet His Highness’s eyes unless addressed.”

I grabbed the bucket, dragging it and my sore knees out of the main path. My hands shook as I set the water against a column and pressed my back to the cold stone.

The doors boomed open.

Winter wind swept in, carrying the smells of the outer courtyard—horse, leather, cold iron—and under it, a richer, sharper scent that made my lungs forget how to work

Alpha.

Not the stale power of old court alphas. Something bigger. Brighter. Coiled and leashed, but dangerous.

“His Highness, Prince Lucian Nightbane!” the herald cried.

Boots hit stone, and he strode into the hall as if it belonged to him.

He walked at the head of a small procession, cloak snapping around his heels, pale hair tied back. Light from the high windows caught silver filigree on his breastplate and the polished hilt of his sword.

His scent hit me like a wave: cedar smoke and cold air, threaded with something sweet and electric. My wolf, usually so small and quiet, lifted her head in a daze.

My heart stuttered.

I kept my gaze down. Omegas didn’t look princes in the eyes.

But as his boots drew level with me, some traitorous part of me betrayed years of training.

Just a glance.

My head came up the smallest fraction.

Our eyes met.

It was only a heartbeat.

His gaze skimmed the hall—banners, nobles, candles—and snagged on me. Blue. Shockingly bright, rimmed in dark, framed by lashes that looked too soft for a man rumored to spill blood as easily as wine.

Something twisted in my chest.

Then his gaze dropped to the bucket, my burnt hands, the damp hem of my cheap dress.

Disgust flickered in his eyes.

“Get the filthy omega out of my path,” he said coolly, not even speaking to me.

A guard’s hand clamped around my neck. Pain flared as he yanked me forward and flung me aside.

My knees scraped stone. My palms landed in cold mud where earlier scrub water had mixed with dirt. My cheek hit next, smearing into grit.

Laughter rippled from nearby warriors. A few servants looked away quickly, as if not seeing equaled safety.

I lay there a second, the metallic taste of dirty water and old blood on my tongue.

Prince Lucian kept walking.

He didn’t look back. Didn’t apologize. Didn’t hesitate.

I could have been a stain on the floor.

My wolf whimpered once, then went very, very still.

Another presence followed in his wake, heavier and darker.

I felt him before I saw him.

The air seemed to thicken, growing heavier in my lungs. Power—older, rougher—rolled into the hall like a storm front.

“Alpha Kael Draven,” the herald announced, suddenly less loud. “Commander of the Blackthorn War Pack.”

Whispers hissed along the servant line.

*The Bastard Alpha.*

*The Butcher of Blackthorn.*

*He rips rogues apart for sport—bare‑handed.*

He was taller than Lucian, broader through the shoulders, built like the mountains surrounding our lands. His armor was a matte black that drank in the light, scarred and dented, not decorative. No jewels. Just hard, worn metal and leather that had seen real war.

His hair was long and black, tied loosely, a few strands brushing a scarred jaw. Another scar cut across his cheekbone, pale against sun‑browned skin.

But his eyes—

Grey. Sharp, like fresh‑honed steel.

They swept the hall in one fast, assessing pass. Counting doors, exits, threats.

They slid over nobles in embroidered cloaks, over betas in gleaming mail, over servants pressed to the walls.

Then snagged on me.

For a heartbeat, those storm‑grey eyes locked with mine.

Everything else—the ache in my hands, the sting of wolfsbane, the humiliation—fell away.

No pity. No obvious cruelty. Just calculation.

Heat crawled up my neck.

I dropped my gaze fast, heart racing. I was suddenly, painfully aware of the mud on my face, the state of my dress, the way my burned hands shook.

The guard who had thrown me earlier, noticing my flinch, gave me a sharp kick with his boot.

“On your feet, omega. You’re an eyesore.”

Pain flared along my thigh. I bit my cheek to smother a sound.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Kael’s gaze flick back. A brief flash—his jaw tightened, eyes darkening for a second.

He didn’t speak.

He just watched.

Then he turned his head away and followed the prince, a silent storm moving in Lucian’s shadow.

By the time the sun bled out behind the mountains, the palace had transformed.

Torches burned along every balcony and archway. Lanterns hung from trees in the inner courtyard, light reflecting off polished armor and jewels as pack members and visiting nobles drifted toward the sacred grove beyond the walls.

The Moon Choosing.