Shadows of the Omega

The first time she bled, she was only eight years old.

The winters had been growing harsher in the mountains, and the pack needed firewood—so they sent her to gather it alone.

Her hands were red by the time she dragged the logs back to the clearing, skin cracked, her lips chapped and split from the wind. She was too slow. Too clumsy.

And when the Beta overseeing the task—Marcus, the Alpha’s second-in-command—found her struggling to carry the weight, he laughed.

"Pathetic," he sneered, watching as she stumbled, dropping the bundle of wood. "Even pups half your age can do better."

Selene swallowed thickly, bending down, reaching for the logs again, even though her fingers felt like ice, her wrists aching from exhaustion.

She knew what was coming.

She braced herself.

And still—the kick landed harder than she expected.

Sharp. Brutal. Tearing through the numbness in her body and sending her sprawling into the dirt, gasping for breath.

Pain exploded across her ribs, but she didn’t cry. Because Omega wolves never cried.

Instead, she bit her tongue until she tasted iron, forced herself onto shaking hands, and picked up the firewood.

Because she had no choice.

By the time Selene was fifteen, she understood that the pack would never see her as anything more than a nuisance—barely worth keeping, barely worth feeding, only good for servitude.

The other wolves ignored her until they needed something.

Then, they didn’t ask.

They demanded.

One evening, during a gathering at the main hall, Selene was instructed to serve—refill goblets, carry platters, clean spills before the Alphas even noticed them.

She had been wiping the remnants of spilled wine from the floor when Damien, the current Alpha, stepped past her.

She had learned not to look directly at him.

But that night, he was watching her.

The heat of his gaze settled over her like a storm, and she barely had time to register the shift before his boot pressed down against her wrist, pinning her to the floor.

"Slow," he muttered, voice edged with cruel amusement.

Selene didn’t move, didn’t react, didn’t challenge.

She simply waited.

Damien exhaled sharply, shaking his head, removing his foot, stepping away.

But not before his Beta—Liam—landed a kick against her side, sending her sprawling across the cold stone floor, breath stolen from her lungs.

And above her, the laughter continued.

Selene didn’t expect kindness. She didn’t expect warmth.

She certainly didn’t expect a mate.

Fated mates were a rarity, whispered about with reverence—an unbreakable bond, a cosmic pull, an undeniable force that not even rank could supersede.

So when the pain struck—sharp, agonizing, stretching through her body in a way she had never felt before—she knew.

Somewhere in the pack, he was feeling it too.

Her mate.

Her fate.

And then?

She saw him.

Killian.

Tall, broad-shouldered, a warrior, an Alpha wolf destined for leadership.

And the way his gaze settled on her—sharp, unreadable, calculating—made something shift in her chest.

For the first time, hope flickered.

And then?

It was gone.

Because Killian laughed.

"No," he murmured, shaking his head, amusement cutting through the rejection before he even spoke the words aloud. "Never."

Selene felt it—felt the mate bond scream as he pushed it away, felt her heart fracture before she even understood how deep it ran.

And when he turned his back, walking away without another glance, she knew.

She would never belong.

She would never be anything more than what they made her.

Unless she left.

Unless she changed.

And that night, with nothing but the taste of rejection in her mouth and years of scars on her skin, she ran.

She ran into the depths of the forest, past the borders of the Bloodmoon Pack, past the safety of familiarity.

She ran until she collapsed against the cold, damp earth.

And then?

The voice came.

"You were never meant to be weak."