All Chapters of The Rejected Omega's Redemption : Chapter 181 - Chapter 190

The heavy, rusted gates of the dungeon groaned open with a reluctant creak, the echoes bouncing off the stone walls like whispers of long-forgotten prisoners. The place was carved to break spirits. No soul came in here and left the same. Alpha Eugene descended the stone steps with purpose in his stride, the tension in his shoulders giving away the storm he carried within. Behind him, Max followed in silence, though his eyes burned with curiosity and calculated fury. "He’s in Cell Four," one of the guards said as they turned the corner. "And he hasn’t said a word since?" "Not a word, sir." Max scoffed lightly, his voice dripping sarcasm. "Then maybe he’s saving his last words for the Moon Goddess." Eugene didn’t reply. As they approached Cell Four, the stench of sweat and urine hit them. Behind the thick iron bars sat a man in torn guard uniform, bruised and bloodied. He looked like he had taken a few blows trying to resist capture. Max stepped forward, gripping the ba

The fire in Alpha Eugene’s study had burned low, leaving the room bathed in amber shadows. The smell of old leather, smoldering cedarwood, and ink filled the air, a familiar scent that should have brought Eugene comfort. Instead, it only deepened the ache in his chest. He stood near the bookshelves, his arms crossed tightly as he stared down into the flickering fire. The weight of the day clung to his shoulders like chains. Max paced behind him, his boots thudding against the dark wood floor with every restless step. “We’ve been down there for hours,” Max said, exasperated. “From mid-afternoon till just before moonrise. He hasn’t uttered a damn word. Not even a lie. He just stares at us like we’re the enemy.” Eugene said nothing. Max turned to face him, arms spread wide in frustration. “I hate to say this, Eugene… truly, I do. But I think Desmond was right.” Eugene’s brow furrowed. He turned, slowly. Max met his gaze, serious. “We need to use force or torture. Something.

The silence in Becca’s room was loud. It. She sat on the edge of her bed, arms crossed tightly across her chest, her brows drawn into a pensive frown. The conversation with Kaelyn had gone well—at least on the surface. Still... something gnawed at Becca’s gut. Something felt off. Becca bit the inside of her cheek and closed her eyes, breathing out slowly. What if Kaelyn wasn’t being honest? She shook her head. No, Kaelyn wouldn't lie. Not to her. Not after everything. And yet, she couldn’t shake the tight knot that had taken residence in her chest. A gentle knock rapped at her door. Before she could even answer, the door cracked open and Mira peeked her head in, her eyes already scanning Becca’s face for signs. “Hey. Can I come in?” Becca nodded, grateful for the distraction. “You look like you’re about to explode,” Mira muttered as she made her way to the bed and sat beside her. Becca let out a humorless chuckle. “Do I?” “You’re doing that thing where your jaw clen

The morning sun clung lazily to the edge of the stone courtyard, casting golden light over the pale tiles that stretched across the space like a still sea. The wind carried with it the faint scent of dew and steel—metal being sharpened in preparation, stone grinding under footfalls. Eugene stood near the outer training post, the rigid line of his back a clear sign of the weight resting on his shoulders. He wasn’t dressed like an imposing Alpha today. He wore a simple dark leather tunic, sleeves rolled up to the elbows, revealing the veins of a man who had known the sword before he knew the crown. Strapped to his side was not his ceremonial blade, but a dagger—quick, practical, and lethal. His eyes, usually steady, held a storm behind them this morning. The spy. The man who had dared enter into the heart of their pack, who had almost succeeded in sabotaging the heart of their peace, was currently rotting in the bowels of the dungeon beneath the packhouse. And Eugene intended to

The sound of screams echoed off the damp, stone walls. A man’s voice—raw and choked with agony—rang out like a siren in the dungeon’s shadowed corridors, followed by the metallic clink of bloodied tools and the scent of iron and fear. Becca’s heart thundered in her chest as she ran, the hem of her long robe catching on uneven stones. Eugene’s hand was tight around her wrist, practically dragging her as Jack took the lead, his claws already drawn and his rage simmering. “Desmond!” Eugene’s voice thundered before they even reached the chamber. Another scream. This one cut short. They burst into the torch-lit chamber just as Desmond reached forward with a pair of rusted pliers, gloved hands bloodied and unwavering. The prisoner was strapped to an iron chair, his face battered, a stream of blood pooling beneath him as he cried in agony. “No!” Becca’s cry shattered the tension like glass hitting stone. Desmond froze mid-motion, his face emotionless, cold as a winter ni