Conan Moss

I'm an omega wolf and I fucking hate it.

I sighed, the sound louder than I expected in the cramped box I called a room—more like a closet someone shoved a mattress into. It wasn't being omega that I hated, exactly. It was what being omega meant.

In wolf society, omega equals no control. Over anything. Not my body, not my choices, not my damn life. Sure, sometimes I was thankful I didn't have to make tough calls like the alphas did, didn't have to fight for position or prove myself over and over. But deep down, a part of me screamed, Fuck that. I wanted to choose. My future, my mate, my damn breakfast if I wanted to. I wanted the freedom everyone else seemed to just be born with.

Wishing for more while living in my parents' house was beyond foolish, but what else could I do? All this time in solitude just left me with thoughts that clawed at me. I was trapped. Cornered with no way out.

And yeah, I've tried.

I once ran away. Made it five blocks before the pack found me. Surrounded me like prey and dragged me back like the disappointment I apparently was. Took only once to learn the truth—no one was ever going to be on my side.

Heavy footsteps above shook the ceiling. Dust filtered down in loose trails, tiny clouds falling through the dim light and into my face. I ducked my head, shielding my eyes. Still... I hoped. Foolishly. I always hoped someone—anyone—might open that damn door and say something nice.

But I knew better.

I was on "punishment" again. For what, I couldn't even say. Existing, probably. And if someone did open that door, it'd just be to bark at me to clean something disgusting.

My omega status had always been free labor. Exploited like I was born for it.

And honestly? Most days I didn't mind. I liked helping. I liked easing tension. And as long as I played the part of the silent little servant, they ignored me. Which was almost like peace. All I had to do was endure. Just survive long enough for a chance to escape.

The footsteps passed my door. I exhaled, grateful I wouldn't be handed a mountain of chores... but also pissed that meant I was stuck in here longer. I liked being alone, sure, but my legs were cramping, bent awkwardly in the too-small space. I'm seventeen and this room already felt like a shoebox. And I was small—always had been—which didn't help. Probably one more reason they treated me like crap. Too little, too weak. Barely worthy of the title omega.

My dad didn't bother with titles though. "Runt," "freak," "useless lump"—whatever insult he could creatively spit out at me, he did. He even joked, often, that he should've drowned me as a pup. And my mom? She only ever had eyes for my sister. A strong alpha girl, just like her. Just like dad.

Hell... maybe dad wasn't completely wrong. I didn't get my first heat until fifteen—late. Really late. In our world, that's practically a death sentence. Weak wolves bloomed late. Some said they shouldn't have bloomed at all. But in a twisted way, I was glad. At least I hadn't suffered with the others, not at the same time. It was lonely, sure. But I was already used to that.

When I presented as omega, it was over. They stopped pretending to love me. Pulled me from online school. Banished me to the basement. The shame was too much for them to even look at me.

I was the only omega in the family. And that? Was unacceptable.

"Boy!"

Dad's voice thundered down the stairs just before the lock clicked open. They didn't use my name anymore. If they even remembered it.

"We're having company! Get out here and get dinner started already! If you burn it, I'll kill you."

Same threat, different day. It didn't even scare me anymore.

I swallowed my reaction and stood. Rolled my shoulders. Tried hard not to roll my eyes. He stepped aside, just enough to let me through.

If only they could forget that one time I burned food...

I was eleven. Just trying to cook on my own without a damn stool, juggling six different chores at once. Burned the food, burned my arm too, but no one cared. Not about the injury, not about the effort. All they saw was the "proof" that I was a weak, pathetic omega.

"Yes, sir," I muttered, moving toward the kitchen.

Arguing was pointless.

——-

The doorbell rang but I didn't even flinch. I was too busy juggling boiling pots and chopping meat. Mom, with her perfect alpha-wife mask, would get it. No doubt with her fake-ass smile like we were the perfect little family.

Fake bitch.

By the time I had the meat in the oven, I could feel it—eyes on me. I didn't think much of it at first. But then came the scent.

Alpha.

Not my dad. Not anyone from the house. Someone new. Someone powerful.

I froze.

The scent hit hard—dominant, sharp, like it came with teeth and expectations. My body locked up under the pressure, the air thick like a thunderstorm before it breaks. I turned slowly, barely daring to breathe.

There he was.

Older man, about my dad's age, sitting like he owned the house. Like everything belonged to him. His presence filled the room, dragged it into submission. Even the light bent around him. He wasn't just an alpha.

He was Alpha.

"Hello there," he said, tone smooth and unreadable.

What the fuck was going on?

I nodded automatically, but my hand slipped on the counter and I nearly dropped the knife. His scent pressed heavier the longer he stayed.

"Haven't you learned to say hello back?" he asked, eyes sharpening. "Don't you know it's bad manners to not respond to a guest?"

Panic crawled up my throat. Was I in trouble? Was I about to be punished for this too?

I glanced toward the living room—but no. Getting mom, dad, or my sister involved would only make things worse. They'd just bark at me to shut up and finish dinner. Nothing more.

I swallowed, quietly bracing myself.

This night was going to change something.

I could feel it.

"I'm Frank Dunham," the older man said.

I didn't look up. "Sir," I said quietly, keeping my head down, unsure what else to say. He hadn't asked for my name, so I didn't offer it. No one ever did.

"And you are?" he asked.

That made me pause. I blinked. People stopped asking me that years ago. Just being noticed now felt like someone shining a flashlight in my face after I'd gotten used to the dark.

"Conan," I said under my breath, going back to slicing vegetables. It felt safer to just stay busy.

But I stopped again when I felt the pressure of his hand, a single finger beneath my chin, forcing me to look up at him.

"Is there a reason you're avoiding looking at me so desperately?"

I flinched. My face probably showed too much, because come on—he had to know why. He had to. Unless he lived in a damn cave, he knew exactly how omega wolves were treated. Like property. Like servants. Like walking wombs, if they were lucky. Or like sex toys if they weren't.

I needed to keep my guard up. I didn't trust alphas. Not even ones who smiled gently and asked questions with fake concern.

"No, sir," I said, steadying my tone as best I could.

"Sir?" he echoed, raising an eyebrow. "Am I correct in assuming you're not allowed to speak? They make sure you hold your tongue, don't they?"

I flicked a glance toward the living room. "Um..."

"The truth," Frank said, watching me closely. "Is it because I'm an alpha?"

Duh, idiot. I exhaled slowly. "I'm not allowed to speak to anyone."

Unless I was on an errand outside or had permission, opening my mouth to someone in the pack was forbidden. And the whole damn pack just nodded along like that made sense—like it was written law.

Didn't matter. Alphas didn't speak to omegas unless they wanted something. They didn't even see us unless we were useful.

Frank took a step closer. I jumped back instinctively, my muscles tensing. I wouldn't submit, not to this man. But if he tried anything—I wasn't sure I could stop him.

"I'd ask why," he said, "but I think I already know." His voice softened. "Are you uncomfortable? I'm not here for any other reason than to ask what you're making."

He reached out toward my shoulder like he wanted to reassure me but hesitated, pulling his hand back. I blinked. That... wasn't normal. Did he actually care? Or was this just some elaborate trick?

I couldn't afford to trust him.

"Beef Wellington," I said stiffly. "Is that acceptable?"

If he said no, I swear I'd throw the pan. Dad told me to make this—changing it now meant punishment. I'd take the alpha's judgment over dad's fury any day.

"It's fine," Frank said, smiling. "It smells absolutely wonderful."

Creep.

I turned back to the counter. Just let me finish this. Let me disappear again.

"Are you happy here?" Frank asked suddenly.

I paused, mid-reach. The question hit me wrong, like a slap. What kind of alpha asks that?

"Does that matter, sir?" I said flatly.

"Yes, it matters," Frank said, more stern this time.

God, this again? The pity act? I didn't need his sympathy. I'd get out of here on my own. I wasn't some helpless little lamb.

"Sorry," I said automatically, jaw tight.

He frowned. "By the moon, what have they been teaching you? There wasn't any need to apologize. I asked because it matters. I'm guessing even if you weren't happy, you'd be too proud to speak up."

"It's my business," I snapped. I didn't need a favor. Not from him. Not from any alpha.

"They don't deserve your protection, Conan," he said, voice low and sharp.

I clenched my jaw. Don't react.

"Things could be worse," I muttered.

"Does your sister even know how to make a meal?" he asked.

"No." And honestly, the idea of her even trying made me want to laugh. It'd be a disaster.

"I see..." Frank rubbed his chin like he was thinking hard about something.

And that's when mom came storming in, fire in her eyes and venom in her voice. "Boy! How dare you try seducing guests!" She looked only at me. Of course.

I stared at her, stunned. Seriously? Seduction? What the actual hell?

"I'm so sorry, Alpha Dunham! This boy—"

"I was the one who told him to speak to me about dinner," Frank said coolly, cutting her off. "No apologies are needed from him."

Wait. This was Frank Dunham? The Frank Dunham? The high-ranking, big-shot alpha of the whole damn pack?

Fantastic. Just fantastic.

And I still didn't like the way he looked at me.

⸻

Dinner came and went. I served the table silently, as expected, then made a slow, practiced retreat toward the kitchen. No one invited me to sit. They hadn't in years. Omegas didn't belong at the table.

"Where are you going, Conan?" Frank asked.

My sister, Esme, piped in before I could answer. "He eats in a separate room."

"I asked Conan, not you," Frank said, his scent spiking in dominance. The whole room seemed to flinch.

"I eat in another room," I said. Just let this night end. The further I stayed from them, the better. I didn't need a seat at their table—I needed a way out.

"As I thought," Frank said. "I don't like it."

Great. Add him to the list of people with opinions.

Then, casually, he said it. Like he was ordering wine at dinner.

"I'll take you up on your offer and buy your son."

Time stopped.

I froze. The room went silent. Even Esme stopped shoveling food in her mouth.

I felt sick.

And then my mother jumped to her feet, nearly knocking over her chair. "SOLD!!!"

What?!

What the actual fuck?!

I stood there, stunned, while Frank calmly pulled out his damn checkbook like this was just some business deal.

"I'll be bringing you home with me within the hour. Pack your things," he said, writing.

"Are you still standing there?! Go!" my dad barked.

I moved, numb, the floor tilting beneath me. My stomach twisted into knots.

I'd just been sold. Like livestock. Like property.

I was so fucked.

What a terrible day to be an omega wolf.