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The Rejected Omega's Bastard Heir

The Rejected Omega's Bastard Heir

Werewolf
last updateLast Updated : 2026-09-21
By:  Jubilee MooresUpdated just now
Language: English
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Synopsis

Dark Romance

Drama

Omega

Slave

Brave

Hate to Love

Love-Triangle

Pregnant

For fifteen years, Trishelle has been nothing more than “Trash” to the Bloodmoon Pack. Born without a wolf, abandoned as a pup, and forced to live as a servant in the pack house, she learned long ago that omegas like her are meant to suffer quietly. The worst of her tormentors was Alpha James, the powerful Alpha who gave her the cruel nickname that everyone still uses. But something changes. Suddenly, the Alpha can’t stop watching her. He notices the smile he never cared to see, the curves hidden beneath her oversized clothes, and the scent that drives his wolf mad. The more he tries to ignore her, the more obsessed he becomes. Then one reckless night changes everything. When Trishelle discovers she’s carrying a child, the pack brands her unborn baby a bastard heir. Humiliated, betrayed, and rejected once again, she walks away from the only home she has ever known. Years later, she returns no longer as the broken omega they mocked, but as a woman who has risen from the ashes with a son powerful enough to shake the werewolf world. And Alpha James is about to learn a devastating truth: the child he cast aside is his heir… and the omega he never claimed may be the mate he can never win back.

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Chapter 1

Rise and Shine, Trash

POV: Trishelle

The water hit me like a goddamn ice bath.

I came up sputtering, blanket glued to my skin, and for one dizzy second I thought I was drowning. My lungs seized before my brain caught up, some animal part still screaming fight or run. Then I heard the laugh.

Of course. There was always a laugh.

"Get up, Trash. Breakfast won't make itself."

The bucket dangled from Jack's fist, dripping the last of its contents onto my mattress. He grinned like he'd just won something. Maybe he had. Making me flinch seemed to be a full-contact sport around here, and Jack played like he wanted a fucking trophy.

I wiped my face with my soaked sleeve and caught a whiff of it before I could stop myself. Clean. Small mercies. Last month they'd used water from the mop bucket, and I'd smelled like bleach and old socks for two days, no matter how hard I scrubbed. I'd take ice water over that humiliation any morning.

Could be worse. I peeled myself off the mattress, stiff from three hours of sleep on concrete. Could always be worse. That's the pack motto around here, isn't it. I'd stopped counting the mornings I woke like this, cold and aching, because counting made it feel endless. Endless wasn't a thought I could afford before dawn.

I still had the scar on my hip from the last time someone decided my "room" needed livening up. Oil, a match, a few warriors who thought it was hilarious to watch an omega dance to put herself out. I remembered the heat before the pain, the laughter drowning my screams, how no one moved until the fire nearly reached my ribs. Omegas healed slow. I'd worn that mark two years now, silver and puckered, proof that entertainment in Bloodmoon pack came at my expense.

I got up. I always got up.

The basement was still black with night when I climbed the stairs, hair dripping, teeth chattering hard enough to hurt. The huge kitchen swallowed me in cold tile and steel. I paused just long enough to glance out the window. Not even a hint of dawn. The world outside looked hushed and indifferent, stars fading against a sky that hadn't decided to lighten.

They want breakfast before sunrise. Fantastic.

I twisted my wet hair into a bun with fingers gone clumsy from the cold and lit the ovens. Footsteps behind me made every muscle lock tight, an old reflex I'd never managed to unlearn no matter how many years passed. I bowed my head before I even turned around, the way I'd been taught. The way that had been beaten into me. Literally, more than once.

"Further instructions?" I asked the floor.

Jack's boots stopped a few feet away. Coffee already on his breath, which meant somebody had beaten me to the pot, which meant I'd hear about it later. Probably with a fist instead of words.

"Alpha wants French toast. Bacon, eggs, sausage. Fresh squeezed orange juice." He said it like he was reading a grocery list to the help, because that was exactly what he thought I was. "And don't forget the coffee, Trash. Guys'll be up soon for training."

He turned to go, then paused, glancing back with something that might have almost been curiosity if it weren't wrapped in contempt.

"You ever get tired of this?"

I looked up, startled he'd bothered to ask at all. In three years, no one had asked me anything that wasn't an order.

"Every day," I said quietly.

Something flickered across his face, gone before I could name it. A crack in the armor he wore like a second skin. Then he shrugged and walked off like the question had cost him nothing and meant less.

Don't get used to being seen, I reminded myself, turning back to the stove. It never lasts. I'd learned that lesson early and paid for every relapse into hope.

I started the list in my head the way I always did, a litany that steadied me better than any prayer. French toast for the Alpha, made from bread I'd have to bake first. White and whole wheat both, because James liked options even when he never said thank you for having them, never once acknowledged the effort of keeping two kinds of dough rising at once. Eggs a dozen different ways, because half the pack had opinions and the other half had allergies, and God help me if I mixed up whose plate needed what. Bacon, sausage, coffee, juice I'd already squeezed and chilled the night before, the way I'd learned to after the first time I forgot and got backhanded across the kitchen for it. The sting of that memory still lived in my cheekbone, phantom pain flaring whenever I smelled citrus.

I knew this recipe of pain by heart now. Burn the eggs, get burned yourself. Forget the coffee, go without dinner. I'd learned the pack's appetite the way other girls learned dance steps, one bruise at a time, each mistake mapped onto my body like sheet music only I could read.

The dough went in to rest. The ovens roared to life, four of them, more heat than any kitchen should need, and I moved through it like a ghost who'd already died once and just kept working out of habit, my hands remembering what my mind had long since gone numb to.

Sometimes I wonder if this is all there is. The thought came unbidden, dangerous as a lit match near a gas can. If I'll die in this kitchen, my hands permanently smelling of bacon and bleach, my body a roadmap of their cruelty. I pushed the thought away, same as always. Hope was a luxury I couldn't afford. Neither was self-pity. They were both weaknesses, and around here, weaknesses got you hurt.

The first rays of dawn started creeping through the windows as I cracked eggs into a bowl. The yolk was bright orange, almost like blood. I stared at it for a second, mesmerized by the color, by how something so simple could look so violent.

He asked if I was tired. The memory of Jack's question surfaced again, unexpected. What would he do if I said yes? If I said I was so tired I could barely stand, that I dreamed of fire and waking up somewhere else, anywhere else? Probably laugh. Probably tell the Alpha I was getting ideas above my station. Probably use it as an excuse to remind me of my place.

My place was here. In this kitchen. With these ovens. Making their food. Cleaning their messes. Taking their punishments.

The pack would be up soon. I could hear them stirring, the low rumble of their voices carrying down the hall. Some of them would be kind today. Some of them wouldn't. It was always a gamble, like Russian roulette with six bullets in the gun instead of one.

I poured the egg mixture over the bread, watching it soak in. The Alpha liked his French toast soft in the middle, crispy on the edges. I knew this. I knew how he liked his bacon (extra crispy), his eggs (scrambled but still wet), his coffee (black as sin and twice as bitter). I knew things about these men that their own mates probably didn't know. I knew which ones snored, which ones had nightmares, which ones snuck midnight snacks and blamed it on the ghosts.

I was their keeper of secrets, their repository of preferences. And in return, they called me Trash and threw cold water on me in the morning.

Some trade. I flipped the bread, watching it turn golden in the pan. The smell filled the kitchen, rich and sweet. For a second, I let myself pretend I was making this for myself. That I'd sit down at the big table and eat until I was full, that I'd drink coffee until my hands stopped shaking, that I'd walk out the front door and just keep walking.

The fantasy lasted exactly three seconds before reality crashed back in. The first of the warriors entered the kitchen, his heavy footsteps announcing him like a drum. I bowed my head, focused on the stove, and prepared for another day of being invisible in plain sight.

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57 Chapters
Rise and Shine, Trash
POV: Trishelle The water hit me like a goddamn ice bath. I came up sputtering, blanket glued to my skin, and for one dizzy second I thought I was drowning. My lungs seized before my brain caught up, some animal part still screaming fight or run. Then I heard the laugh. Of course. There was always a laugh. "Get up, Trash. Breakfast won't make itself." The bucket dangled from Jack's fist, dripping the last of its contents onto my mattress. He grinned like he'd just won something. Maybe he had. Making me flinch seemed to be a full-contact sport around here, and Jack played like he wanted a fucking trophy. I wiped my face with my soaked sleeve and caught a whiff of it before I could stop myself. Clean. Small mercies. Last month they'd used water from the mop bucket, and I'd smelled like bleach and old socks for two days, no matter how hard I scrubbed. I'd take ice water over that humiliation any morning. Could be worse. I peeled myself off the mattress, stiff from three hours
last updateLast Updated : 2026-07-09
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The Smell of Trash
POV: Trishelle The stink hit her first, same as always. James Black had a way of announcing himself that crawled up your nose before you even saw his sorry ass. Cedar, always that damn cedar, then something colder underneath, like frost creeping over a tombstone. That smell used to make her panties wet in a way that made her hate herself. Eighteen years later, her body still hadn't learned its lesson about poison. Don't. Don't you dare let him get to you again. "Well," he drawled from the doorway, voice like gravel and whiskey in a way that made her back straighten before her brain could tell it not to. He let the silence hang there, thick and heavy, like he always did when he knew it cost her something, savoring the way she stiffened without even having to look at her. "Was hoping for coffee this morning. Instead all I smell is Trash." Heat crawled up her neck like a damn rash, spreading into her ears until they burned. She kept her eyes glued to the eggs in the pan, because l
last updateLast Updated : 2026-07-09
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Stolen Minutes
POV: Trishelle With the dough resting and the counters wiped down, Trishelle let herself have the one good thing about her damn day. She went to the back of the fridge, past trays of orange juice and bowls of cut fruit, and pulled out the container she'd stashed the night before. Mashed potatoes gone stiff, gravy crusted at the edges, a fistful of salad greens starting to wilt. She'd learned to hide food the way other people hid their dirty secrets, tucked in spots nobody would bother checking, insurance for the days when there just wasn't enough to fill the hollow ache in her gut. Best meal she'd get all day. No fucking contest. She ate standing at the counter, fast, the way you eat when you've learned meals get interrupted or taken away without warning. Her shoulders stayed locked even as she chewed, some primal part of her brain listening for footsteps, for voices, for anything that might end this five minutes of peace. Nobody came. Small mercy number two, and the sun hadn't e
last updateLast Updated : 2026-07-09
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Blood and Mud
POV: James James headed for the training grounds, hands shoved in his pockets, jaw still tight from the kitchen. Jack fell into step beside him a few seconds later, already running his mouth about something one of the younger warriors had said at breakfast. "You should've seen his face when Marcus told him the bacon was gone." Jack grinned ear to ear like it was the funniest thing he'd seen all week. "Man looked like someone kicked his dog." "Should've woken up earlier." James wasn't really listening. His head hadn't left the kitchen at all. He kept replaying the way Trash's head had dropped the second he walked in. Quick. Automatic. Like a reflex she didn't even have to think about anymore. Years of training had done that to her. He tried not to think too hard about who'd done the training. He remembered the way she'd flinched when he said something about her smell, how her shoulders had curled in like she was bracing for a hit that never came. Not that it was true. He almos
last updateLast Updated : 2026-07-09
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Complacent Wolves
POV: James The whistle blew, and the pack dropped into their laps around the training yard, running the same fifty they always ran, though nobody actually pushed themselves to finish anymore. Not since Bloodmoon doubled its territory back in his father's time. The last real fight this pack saw had wiped out two neighboring packs completely, their survivors scattering to whatever scraps of land would take them in. Nobody dared test Bloodmoon's borders after that, and the peace had settled into something almost stagnant, a comfort nobody questioned anymore. Which means we've gotten soft. Somebody's going to figure that out eventually, and it won't be pretty when they do. He watched his warriors jog at half effort, chatting instead of running, and made a mental note to fix that before it became a real problem. Not today, though. Today his mind kept drifting somewhere it had no business going, circling back no matter how many times he tried to drag it elsewhere. The smell of fresh
last updateLast Updated : 2026-07-09
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Watched
POV: Trishelle Something changed that day in the kitchen. Trishelle didn't know what, exactly, but it had been eating at her ever since. She kept replaying the moment, hunting for the misstep, the wrong word, some careless look that set all this in motion. She found nothing. And that blank space where an answer should be scared her worse than any explanation could. It started small. A shadow lingering too long by the garden gate. Footsteps outside the shed while she counted tools, pausing just long enough to make her heart stutter before moving on. She told herself she was imagining it, that exhaustion was screwing with her head. Then it stopped being small. A week now, and Alpha James kept turning up wherever she went, like stalking her chores had become his second job. Kitchen. Garden. The tool shed out back. She couldn't scrub a pot or weed a row of carrots without feeling those pale eyes crawl over her skin, patient, unblinking, like he had all the time in the world to wait her
last updateLast Updated : 2026-07-09
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Cookies and Denim
POV: JamesRosie had been the daughter of some abandoned Omega who'd wandered too close to Bloodmoon's borders once, human enough in scent that the pack let her stay and put her to work in the kitchen. That skill with an oven kept her fed and housed for the rest of her life. Turned out she'd passed every bit of it down to Trishelle, since Rosie herself never had kids of her own. Maybe that's why she poured so much into the girl instead. All that pent-up mothering with nowhere else to go.She's the one who patched Trash up after the compost heap. The one who actually gave a damn.Rosie had been tall too, he remembered now. Tall like his warriors despite never once shifting in her life, with a sense of smell sharper than most full wolves. He could still picture her hunched over the big stone ovens, flour dusting her forearms, humming some tune nobody else seemed to know. That settled it. Those were Rosie's old clothes Trish wore, cut for a different kind of tall, baggy in all the wrong
last updateLast Updated : 2026-08-07
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Breathing Room
POV: TrishelleTrishelle dragged herself down the basement stairs, bone tired in the way that came from days that never let up. James had backed off, at least. No more shadows in the garden, no more footsteps outside the shed. Whatever twisted thing had crawled into him seemed to have burned itself out, and she sure as hell wasn't going to poke at it and find out why. She'd learned a long time ago that peace in this house came in scraps, little windows that slammed shut as fast as they cracked open. The only smart move was to climb through while she still could.She shook out her thin blanket, and the old irritation came roaring back anyway. The fabric smelled like the basement, damp stone and dust, and she wrinkled her nose before spreading it over the mattress.Bark at me to bake cookies in a rush, vanish for a day, then strut back in reeking of sex and God knows how many she-wolves, and have the balls to demand a fresh batch like I've got an endless supply hiding up my sleeve.Good
last updateLast Updated : 2026-08-07
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Waiting on the Crescent Moon
POV: JamesThe crescent moon hung thin over Bloodmoon territory, just enough light to take the edge off the dark without killing it completely. James had done his homework this time. Two weeks of quiet questions, careful ones, had confirmed what he needed to know. Trishelle came to the lake on crescent moon nights. Every time. Like clockwork.He'd made sure her day stayed easy so she'd have no excuse to skip it, and he'd pulled every patrol from the area until he said otherwise. Pack security, he told himself. Nothing more than that. The lie sat wrong in his chest even as he thought it. Whatever this was—curiosity, obsession, something he wasn't ready to put a name to—he wanted it to himself. No interruptions.He crouched behind a wide tree near the shoreline, damp earth soaking through his pants, the mineral smell of the lake curling toward him on the night air.This is insane. I'm the Alpha of this pack and I'm hiding in the bushes like a damn pervert.Still, he stayed. Some part of
last updateLast Updated : 2026-08-07
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A Pack on Edge
POV: The PackSomething had happened to the Alpha of Bloodmoon pack. Everyone felt it, the way one feels a storm coming before the sky even changes color, a pressure in the air that settled over the pack house and refused to lift.He moped around like a kicked dog. He sighed like the world had personally handed him its problems to carry, shoulders bowed under some invisible weight he refused to name. He skipped training more than he showed up, choosing instead to brood alone somewhere nobody dared follow, disappearing for hours at a stretch and returning with the same hollow look in his eyes. Even his closest warriors kept their distance, trading uneasy looks whenever his name came up, like saying it too loud might call down whatever darkness had wrapped itself around him. A few of the younger wolves whispered that he'd been cursed. The older ones just shook their heads and said nothing, which somehow felt worse. Nobody knew exactly what had shifted in the last few days. Just that it
last updateLast Updated : 2026-08-07
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