Dark Pact: The Obsessed King's Omega

Chapter 6.

A month had passed since Freya was brought to the Northridge Pack, and slowly, painfully, she had come to accept the truth of her existence. She was nobody—just a wolfless omega bound by circumstance, tossed into a world where she had no real say over her own future. In the first few weeks, she had clung to a fragile hope, imagining that perhaps her old pack would send for her, that her father would beg the Alpha to reconsider, that maybe—just maybe—her fate could be undone. Yet with each passing day, it grew clearer.

No one was coming.

Her room, though small, had become her sanctuary. She spent hours there, sitting by the window, watching the pack grounds from a distance. The Northridge territory was nothing like the terrifying tales she had grown up hearing. She had been told they were merciless savages, brutal even to their own, but that wasn’t entirely true. Here, people lived with discipline, yes, but also with a sense of order. They smiled, worked, celebrated. The only ones who seemed to suffer were those who openly defied the Alpha’s laws. And Freya, with her quiet nature and submissive demeanor, gave them no reason to look at her twice.

Alpha Logan barely spoke to her. When he did, his words were curt but not cruel, commanding yet never laced with the venom she had expected. He had not forced himself upon her, nor demanded her body the way other Alphas were rumored to treat their claimed mates. Instead, he gave her time—though she wasn’t sure whether it was an act of mercy or mere disinterest. At Samantha’s quiet urging, he allowed Freya space to breathe, to learn the rhythms of life in Northridge.

Logan himself was a contradiction. Strict, inscrutable, his presence dominated any room he entered, and yet there were moments when Freya caught glimpses of something softer, something human. Unlike most Alphas she had heard of, he did not dine alone in some grand chamber, but at the long table alongside his closest men—his Beta, Xavier; his Gamma, Theodore; and, of course, Samantha. Freya had been surprised to see Samantha at the Alpha’s table so often, until she learned the truth:

Samantha was Theodore’s fiancée.

That revelation had brought Freya a sliver of comfort. On evenings when the men’s talk grew too serious or the silence too heavy, Samantha would lean over and whisper to her, keeping her company. One afternoon, over a quiet meal, Samantha confessed that she too had once been brought to Northridge as a captive, barely sixteen, frightened and uncertain of her fate. It was Theodore, she said, who had taken her under his wing, treated her like family until, slowly, affection deepened into something more.

Now they were to be married, and Samantha’s face glowed whenever she spoke of it.

Freya had listened with a faint, wistful smile, her chest aching. She was happy for Samantha, truly—but she couldn’t help comparing their situations. Where Samantha had found love and belonging, Freya had only solitude. She wanted to believe that maybe, someday, she too could find something similar—someone who would truly see her. But that dream felt too fragile to hold onto.

It was during one such evening meal that tension finally seeped into the dining hall.

Freya sat in her usual silence, pushing food around her plate, doing her best not to draw attention. Laughter and easy conversation flowed between Xavier and Theodore, while Samantha listened with an affectionate smile. The mood was warm—until the sharp click of heels on stone cut through the air.

Freya glanced up and saw her.

Eve.

The young woman carried herself with a confidence that bordered on arrogance, hips swaying as she emerged from the hallway leading to the Alpha’s private chambers. Her dark eyes swept across the table, lingering a second too long on Freya before sliding dismissively over the others. Eve was beautiful in a sharp, unyielding way, but that beauty was soured by the habitual sneer upon her lips.

“Don’t expect the Alpha to join you just yet,” Eve announced, her voice dripping with disdain. “He’s… preoccupied.”

The way she said it—the deliberate pause, the smug curl of her lips—was plainly meant to provoke.

Freya froze, her fork halfway to her mouth. She leaned subtly toward Samantha, whispering, “Who is that?”

Samantha’s expression shifted, a mix of annoyance and resignation. “That’s Eve. Alpha Logan’s adopted sister. He saved her years ago during a raid and took her in. She’s been here ever since.”

“His sister?” Freya murmured, brows knitting together. “But… people talk. I’ve heard some of the women whisper that she and the Alpha…” She trailed off, heat creeping up her neck.

Samantha’s eyes widened before she let out a low chuckle, covering her mouth with her hand. “Oh, Freya. Don’t believe everything you hear. Logan is many things, but he would never stoop that low. She’s family to him.”

Freya wanted to believe her. She truly did.

But the way Eve sauntered about, the way she had exited his chambers with that look of smug satisfaction—it planted doubts in her mind that she couldn’t easily shake.

Eve’s gaze landed squarely on Freya then, sharp and mocking. She gave a derisive little laugh, tilting her head. “So this is the precious omega we’re all meant to bow to? How pitiful.”

Freya’s chest tightened, but she lowered her gaze, refusing to take the bait. She had learned early that silence was far safer than retaliation.

Moments later, the doors opened once more, and Logan himself entered.

His presence hushed the room instantly. Tall and broad-shouldered, his very aura demanded obedience without a single word.

Eve’s transformation was immediate. She straightened, her lips curling into a practiced smile as she rose gracefully. “Alpha,” she purred, moving to his side with the ease of someone who believed she belonged there. She reached for the serving bowl, poised to dish food onto his plate before anyone else could move.

Freya caught the exchange from the corner of her eye, a flicker of silent amusement passing through her. Eve’s eagerness was almost comical, though no one dared to laugh. Still, Freya kept her head down, pretending to focus entirely on her meal.

In the weeks since her arrival, Logan had begun summoning Freya to sit in on certain pack meetings. At first, she was bewildered. What use was a wolfless omega in discussions of patrol schedules or border security? But Logan had explained, in his usual curt manner, that she needed to understand the pack’s workings if she was to live here. He never elaborated, and though his words offered little clarity, she obeyed.

Yet, curiously, he never spoke again of the original reason for her presence in Northridge. Samantha speculated that he was buying time, allowing her to adjust, because a breeder for the Alpha was akin to a Luna... Not once had he demanded she share his bed or spoken of offspring. The uncertainty gnawed at her—was he simply waiting for the right moment, or did he find her so unworthy that he couldn’t be bothered?

Now, seated at the dinner table, Freya absently picked at her food, lost in her own thoughts. The laughter of the others faded into the background, the clatter of dishes dull against the storm raging quietly in her chest.

Then, his voice cut through the noise.

“Freya.”

She stilled, her fork giving a soft clink against her plate.

Her heart thudded heavily. She told herself he must be speaking to someone else, that she had misheard. She kept her head down, her grip tightening around her utensil.

“Freya,” Logan said again, more firmly this time.

The air around the table shifted palpably. Every pair of eyes turned toward her.

Slowly, reluctantly, she raised her gaze.

His dark eyes were fixed on her, steady and inscrutable, as though trying to peer into the very depths of her soul.