Chapter 4.
1655 Words
The Northridge Pack House loomed larger than anything Freya had ever seen. The sprawling stone estate stood magnificent and imposing, its shadows stretching long as the sun sank behind the treeline. It was beautiful in a way that made her chest ache, but to Freya, it felt less like a home and more like a gilded prison.
Beta Xavier had escorted her through the heavy iron gates and into the grand foyer without a single unnecessary word. His presence was unnervingly calm, his steps measured as though nothing in the world could shake him. The moment they crossed the threshold, he handed her over to a pair of waiting maids without so much as a glance back.
The women were efficient, their faces kind but professionally detached as they scrubbed her clean, dressed her in simple, clean linen, and ushered her into a small, plain room in the west wing. For the first time in days, Freya had a real bed and clothes that didn’t carry the scent of decay and despair. But the warmth that should have brought comfort only pressed on her heart like a stone. The cage was simply cleaner.
One woman stayed longer than the others—a nurse with soft brown eyes and a gentle voice, who introduced herself as Samantha. Unlike the rest, she did not hurry. She asked if Freya was hurt, if she needed food, if she wanted quiet. For reasons Freya could not understand, the simple kindness nearly broke her.
Samantha checked her pulse, her eyes, her temperature, then finally leaned back with a small, approving nod.
“You’re healthy,” she said gently. “A little underfed, but nothing time and good meals won’t fix.”
It should have been good news. Instead, Freya only nodded, her hands fisting silently in her lap.
Days passed. Then a week. Then two.
She lived in that room as though the walls themselves were bars. Whispers slithered through the hallways—servants spoke when they thought she couldn’t hear. Some called her “the loan girl.” Others muttered “the hybrid.” A few whispered another term with hushed, clinical reverence: the breeder.
Freya tried to shut it out. She tried not to let the words take root. But the seed of dread had already been planted, watered daily by the silence and the sidelong glances.
And still, she did not see him. The Alpha.
She began to wonder if he was a phantom, a myth wielded to keep others in line. But her father’s greedy grin, Lycril’s cruel laughter, and the murmurs that grew thicker each day affirmed his reality. He was real. He was powerful.
And he had purchased her.
On the fourteenth day, Beta Xavier returned.
He filled her doorway, his tall frame blocking the light from the hall, his eyes calm and unreadable.
“Prepare yourself,” he stated simply. “The Alpha will see you this evening.”
Freya’s chest constricted. Her tongue felt thick and useless.
“W-why now?” she asked before she could stop herself.
Xavier’s lips curved into something that was not a smile.
“Because he has decided the time is right.”
With that, he was gone.
---
When evening came, Freya felt the chill in the air before she heard the footsteps. The dying sun bled through the window, casting long, crimson streaks across the wooden floor.
Her hands trembled as she fought to steady her breathing. She told herself she didn’t care. She commanded herself to be strong.
The door opened.
Xavier entered first, a statue of solemn duty. Samantha followed, her face pale and drawn. And then—him.
The Alpha of Northridge. Logan.
He was taller than she had imagined, broad-shouldered, his movements precise and predatory. His hair was the black of a raven’s wing, his jaw sharp enough to cut stone. His eyes—a piercing, glacial gray—swept over her, cold, calculating, and utterly merciless. They pinned her in place, stripping her down to bone and soul with a single glance.
He offered no greeting. He did not speak. He looked at her the way a man might assess a new weapon or a piece of livestock. Evaluating. Measuring.
Freya’s stomach twisted into a knot of ice. Every rumor she had overheard screamed inside her skull. The Alpha with nine lives. The Alpha who slaughtered rogues with his bare hands. The Alpha no one dared defy.
And now, the Alpha who owned her.
She dropped her gaze to the floor, but not before she caught the faint, dismissive curl of his lip.
The silence stretched, thin and taut, until it was severed by the arrival of the healers. Three of them entered, their dark robes marking them as the pack’s spiritual and medical guides. They bowed deeply to Logan before turning their attention to Freya.
“She is the one,” the lead healer announced, his voice echoing in the quiet room. “The hybrid.”
Freya blinked, confusion cutting through her fear.
“I… I don’t understand.”
The eldest healer, a woman with a stern face and silver hair, stepped closer.
“You carry a bloodline that is rare. Sacred. You are not merely an omega, child. You are a vessel for a strength that will serve this pack’s future.”
Freya shook her head, a frantic denial.
“No… you’re mistaken. I don’t have a wolf. I’m nothing.”
The healer reached for her hand. Freya instinctively flinched back, but the woman’s grip was firm and unyielding. She turned Freya’s palm upward, tracing the lines as if reading an ancient text.
A soft, awe-filled chuckle escaped her.
“She is truly the one. But her potential is buried deep, dormant. Even we cannot yet measure its full extent.”
Freya’s heart hammered against her ribs.
“What are you talking about? What potential?”
No one answered her.
Logan’s cold eyes never left her face. He turned his head slightly toward Samantha. His voice, when it came, was low and sharp as a blade.
“Is she prepared to conceive?”
The words hit Freya like a physical blow. She stared at him, uncomprehending. She must have misheard.
Samantha stiffened, her lips parting as if to argue.
“Alpha… she’s still so young. Barely eighteen. Perhaps with more time to acclimate—”
Logan’s gaze sliced through her words.
“I asked a question.”
Samantha’s voice faltered. Her eyes darted to Freya, wide with silent, desperate apology.
“Y-yes, Alpha. She… she is physically ready.”
Freya felt the world drop out from under her. She stared at Samantha, then back at the Alpha. Ready? Conceive? The blood drained from her face, leaving her cold and dizzy.
Logan gave one final, indifferent glance in her direction before turning toward the door.
It was too much. Too fast. Too cruel, this silent verdict.
A trembling, broken sound escaped Freya’s lips before she could cage it.
“W-wait.”
Everyone froze. Xavier’s head snapped toward her, a clear warning in his eyes. Samantha’s hand twitched, as if to shush her. But the words, fragile and desperate, tumbled out.
“What do you mean… conceive? I was told I’d be working here. That’s… that’s why I’m here, isn’t it?”
Logan stopped at the threshold. Slowly, with deliberate motion, he turned back. His eyes locked onto hers, colder than a midwinter gale.
“I do not entertain questions,” he stated flatly. “But for the sake of clarity, you may answer her, Xavier.”
The Beta stepped forward. His expression remained neutral, but his words fell with the weight of tombstones.
“Your father owed the Northridge Pack a debt he could not repay. To settle it, he offered you.”
Freya’s breath hitched.
“No…”
Xavier continued, his voice relentless in its calm.
“Not merely as settlement. He accepted additional payment. He sold your future to the Alpha. Our healers have confirmed what was long suspected—that your lineage holds unique value. You will serve this pack not as a servant, but as the Alpha’s breeder. You will bear his heirs.”
The words tore through her, shredding the last vestiges of denial.
“No…” Her whisper shattered into a sob. “No, that’s not true! He wouldn’t—”
But the protest died on her lips. The memory of her father’s relieved smile as the carriage pulled away was answer enough.
Her knees buckled, but she forced herself to remain upright, clutching her arms around herself.
“A breeder?” she choked out. “I’m not… I’m not livestock! I’m eighteen. I’m just a girl—”
Her plea cracked, dissolving into raw, ragged sobs that echoed in the sterile room.
“This isn’t fair! Please… please don’t do this!”
Her cries were met with a silence more devastating than any shout.
Logan’s expression did not flicker. He observed her breakdown as one might observe an inconvenient weather event. Her tears meant nothing. Her personhood meant nothing. She was a duty, a biological function to be fulfilled.
“You are in Northridge now,” he said, his voice devoid of all warmth. “In my territory, I do not tolerate weakness or disobedience. You will do what is required of you. That is all.”
Without another word, he turned and left.
The door shut behind him with a soft, final click that snuffed out the last air in Freya’s lungs.
She sank to the floor, her body wracked with silent, shuddering tremors. Samantha rushed to kneel beside her, whispering words of comfort that could not penetrate the sheer horror.
But no soothing words could soften the brutal truth.
She was not a guest. She was not a servant.
She was property.
And her body, her future, her very self, no longer belonged to her. It belonged to the Alpha.
- Writer
