All Chapters of Rejected Omega, claimed by the Ruthless Alpha: Chapter 81 - Chapter 90

The plan fit on a single scrap of parchment.That was how Jace liked it.He smoothed the roughly sketched lines of the city one more time on the table in Kael’s command tent—the river, the outer walls, the old aqueduct tunnel marked like a faint scar beneath.“Old sewer line,” he said. “Built long before Rowan’s father decided pretty fountains were better than functional drains. Half‑collapsed in places, but our scouts say it still runs under this section of the wall.”He tapped near the southern quarter, away from the main gates and the heaviest fortifications.“Less guard traffic here,” he went on. “They’re pouring most of their men onto the main approaches. They didn’t bother sealing what they thought only rats used.”“Rats,” Mirella said. “And us.”“And us,” Jace agreed.Kael’s gaze swept the small assembled group.Not the full council this time.Just the ones he trusted to go into a hole in the ground with him and not die badly.Jace, Talia, Mirella.Two Blackthorn veterans.An A

Lucian’s sword came up in a clean, shaking arc.For one heartbeat, no one in the throne room moved.Then Rowan laughed.It was a short, ugly sound.“Look at you,” the king sneered. “Finally deciding to be useful. After all this time. I should have broken you younger.”Lucian’s jaw tightened.The hand on his sword hilt trembled once.Then, they steadied.*You’re still a boy,* a memory whispered—Rowan’s voice, years old, from a training yard where snow had fallen in his eyes, and he’d dared to blink.He pushed it down.The ring of guards around them—what remained of Rowan’s inner circle—shifted in confusion, glancing between king and prince as if waiting for the old order to reassert itself and tell them where to stand.It did not.Lucian’s eyes stayed fixed on his father.Not on Kael.Not on Aria.On Rowan.“You failed,” Lucian said.The words were quiet.They hit harder than a shout.Rowan’s expression sharpened.“Excuse me?”“You failed us,” Lucian said, voice growing firmer with eac

By midday, the throne room looked almost like a different place—marble scrubbed, banners down, the last traces of blood pushed into waiting buckets.Almost.Servants and soldiers moved in careful, deliberate patterns across the floor. The bodies of Rowan’s last loyalists had been carried out under sheets, the dead king among them, his crown taken to a guarded chest rather than dumped with the rest of the spoils.High on the walls, men on ladders unhooked Rowan’s heavy banners—rich crimson cloth embroidered with the crowned wolf. Each one hit the floor with a muffled thud, dust blooming from the folds.For the first time in Aria’s memory, the walls stood bare.No snarling royal crest glowered down over the room.Just stone.She stepped into the space slowly.Barefoot.Her boots had been left at the threshold at her own insistence. She wanted to feel this floor. Wanted to know what it was like under her skin when it wasn’t slick with fear.The marble was cold and faintly damp where it h

They didn’t linger in the capital.Couldn’t.Even with a Regency Council forming and the worst of the fires doused, the city felt like a creature stunned by a blow—staggering but not yet steady. There are too many threads still vague. Too many wolves are looking for the new center.But the north was bleeding, too.Blackthorn.Ashridge.The packs that had stood in the past and on the field.They needed their alpha and Luna.So, three days after Rowan’s death, Aria and Kael stood in the palace courtyard with their packs arrayed behind them, horses saddled, winter cloaks drawn tight against the cutting wind.Mirella adjusted the strap of her sword, watching them with her usual mix of affection and exasperation.“Try not to burn anything important while I’m gone,” Kael told her.“No promises,” she said. “But I’ll try to limit it to things I can justify on paper.”Jace snorted.“You’ll be my eyes here,” he said to Mira. “Make sure the council doesn’t turn into a pack of posturing peacocks

The great hall of Blackthorn had never been this full of voices that didn’t sound alike. It was usually a place of pack business—war councils, winter feasts, the occasional argument loud enough to rattle the rafters. Now, benches and chairs had been dragged in from every corner of the keep and beyond. The long tables had been pushed aside to make space for a rough circle. Alphas sat there. Betas. Omegas. Healers. A few humans Aria recognized from the nearby village—the smith’s wife, the baker who always gave pack pups, the end pieces of loaves. The air smelled of woodsmoke and damp wool and the faint iron tang of old blood that no amount of scrubbing ever fully erased. It felt thick, like wool pressed too tightly over mouths and ears. Even the torches’ flicker seemed hesitant, as if afraid to ignite the next outburst. Kael stood at the far end, where a raised step gave him sight over everyone’s heads. He didn’t take the high‑backed chair that had once served as Blackt