The Omega Is The Alpha

"Touch me," Farkas said, his voice echoing with the absolute authority of a true king, "and I’ll rip your spine out through your throat." How he wish he can be that terrifying, but he's not that powerful in the werewolves world—not yet. The floorboards of the Bloodhowl Pack House were stained with old beer, dried mud, and the lingering scent of stale dominance. Farkas Moonfang knelt in the center of the grand hall, his calloused hands resting flat against the cold hardwood. The back of his neck burned. It wasn’t a physical fire, but the suffocating weight of an Alpha’s Command—or at least, the counterfeit version of it that Conri Bloodhowl wielded like a blunt ax. "Look at you," Conri drawled, his voice echoing off the vaulted timber ceiling. He paced the perimeter of the room, his thick, heavy leather boots thudding with intentional malice. He wore a tailored suit, an absurdly expensive Italian cut that stood in stark, obnoxious contrast to the rustic, rugged architecture of the Pack House. "The ultimate useless piece of meat. An Omega who can't even hold his head up." Around the perimeter of the hall, several mid-ranking wolves chuckled, eager to curry favor. The Pack Bond hummed in the air, but to Farkas, it felt like a static haze, a dull throbbing behind his eyes that only reminded him of how deeply wrong everything was. Farkas kept his gaze fixed on the dust motes dancing in the moonlight filtering through the high windows. He didn't speak. He didn't growl. Over the years, he had learned that the safest mask to wear in this house was one of hollow apathy. "Boss, he’s wearing three thousand on his back and his left shoe is slightly scuffed." A breezy, ethereal voice whispered directly into Farkas’s ear. Farkas didn't flinch. He couldn't. Only he could hear Hepi, the floating, translucent ghost who currently hovered upside down near the chandelier, casually inspecting his ethereal fingernails. Hepi was invisible to the rest of the pack, a spectral remnant who had attached himself to Farkas three years ago after a hit went weirdly side-ways in New Orleans. Ever since, Hepi had acted as Farkas' personal assistant, secretary, and unasked-for commentary track. "Also, you have a client meeting at midnight," Hepi added, floating down until his ghostly, pale face was mere inches from Conri’s unaware nose. "I’d suggest wrapping up this daily humiliation ritual before traffic gets heavy in the lower district." "Are you listening to me, dog?" Conri snarled. He stepped forward, the heavy silver signet ring on his right hand catching the dim light. Without warning, Conri struck. The back of his hand slammed across Farkas’s jaw. The impact was loud, but it was the silver in the ring that truly bit. A sharp, sizzling pain raced across Farkas' cheekbone, the metal acting like an acid against his healing factor. Farkas’ head snapped to the side, a drop of dark blood pooling on his lip. "Oooh, rude," Hepi winced, floating upward. "That’s definitely going to bruise. Do you want me to haunt his favorite leather loafers later? I can make them smell like boiled cabbage." Farkas slowly turned his head back, his eyes remaining entirely dead, emotionless, and cold. He forced his breathing to stay slow and measured. Deep down, beneath the layers of forced suppression, something ancient and terrible thrashed against its cage. A dark, golden fire simmered in his chest, screaming at him to tear Conri’s throat out, to rip the fake Alpha’s jaw off and feed it to the rogues at the border. But Farkas pushed it down. He held the golden fire under lock and key, burying it beneath years of calculated silence. Not yet. "Clean the training grounds," Conri spat, wiping his ring on a silk handkerchief as if Farkas’ blood was dirtying him. "The Beta squad left a mess. If there is a single drop of sweat left on those mats by dawn, I’ll let the Gammas use you for target practice." Beta, is the second-in-command, acting as the Alpha's right hand and enforcer, while Gamma, is the tactical planner or third-tier strategist in the packs. On the other hand, Omega, where Farkas belong—for now, is the lowest-ranking, often bullied or outcast member of the pack. Conri turned his back and strode toward the heavy oak doors leading to his private office. "And someone fetch my phone. I need to check on the wire transfer for Zelda's new distribution center. The human world doesn't wait for incompetent mutts." Farkas remained on his knees until the heavy doors slammed shut and the mocking laughter of the lingering pack members faded into the corridors. The moment he was alone, the submission melted off his frame. Farkas stood up in one fluid, terrifyingly graceful motion. The hunch in his shoulders vanished, replaced by a deadly, coiled posture that had nothing to do with an Omega. He wiped the blood from his lip with the back of his thumb, his jaw setting into a hard, rigid line. "You let him hit you with silver again," a sharp, raspy female voice snapped from the shadows near the back entrance. Otsana Silverclaw stepped into the light. She was dressed in torn dark jeans and a leather jacket, a half-burned cigarette dangling from her fingers despite the 'No Smoking' rule Conri had posted in the hall. Her silver-white hair was tied back messily, and her piercing yellow eyes burned with raw, suppressed fury. As an outcast noble from the Silverclaw pack, she didn't belong here any more than Farkas did, but her lethal fighting skills kept the local wolves from pushing her too far. "It keeps him happy," Farkas said, his voice a low, gravelly baritone. "A happy fake Alpha is a careless one." "It's bullshit, Farkas," Otsana hissed, taking a heavy drag from her cigarette and blowing the smoke toward the ceiling. She marched up to him, her knuckles white. "You could snap his f*****g neck before he even felt his pulse jump. I’ve seen you tear through a squad of armed rogue mercenaries without getting a speck of dirt on your boots. Watching you bow down to that soft, gold-chasing bastard makes me want to rip my own ears off." "Patience, Otsana," Farkas murmured, his tone devoid of warmth, though his eyes softened just a fraction as he looked at her. Otsana was the only living wolf who knew what he truly was, the only one who didn't look at him like dirt. "Patience doesn't cure a silver burn, you i***t," she muttered, reaching out. Her fingers brushed his cheekbone, her touch unexpectedly gentle despite her foul mouth and brutal reputation. She inspected the burn with a dark scowl. "He’s draining the pack treasury, Farkas. He’s pouring millions into some human woman’s corporate war. The elders are too terrified to speak up, and the pack bond is fraying because half the enforcers aren't even getting paid. If you don't take your place soon, there won't be a pack left to rule." "Let him drain it," Farkas replied smoothly, stepping back from her touch. "The higher he builds his tower on stolen ground, the harder he’ll hit when it collapses." He turned toward the side exit. "I have a contract tonight." Otsana let out a sharp, irritated breath, tossing her cigarette butt to the floor and crushing it under her boot. "In the human city? Who’s the target this time? Another crooked politician?" "Hepi has the file," Farkas said, throwing a dark hoodie over his broad shoulders. "It’s a high-profile corporate hit, Miss Silverclaw!" Hepi chimed in, floating around Farkas’ head like a glowing halo, though Otsana couldn't hear him. "Very fancy! Three hundred million base pay, half up front!" "Just don't get shot," Otsana grunted, crossing her arms over her chest. She looked at him with an intensity that went far beyond mere pack loyalty—a fierce, quiet longing that she hid behind a veil of profanity and violence. "I don't feel like carrying your grumpy ass back to the territory if you bleed out." "I don't bleed easily," Farkas said. He slipped into the shadows of the side corridor, leaving the heavy, oppressive air of the Pack House behind. An hour later, the stifling stench of pack politics was replaced by the cold, rain-slicked concrete of the human metropolis. Farkas stood on the roof of a glass skyscraper in the high-rent district, the cold rain washing over his dark clothes. The city lights stretched out below him like a sea of electric gold, oblivious to the monstrous world that hunted in the margins of their reality. Down here, Farkas wasn't an Omega. He wasn't the broken boy Conri loved to humiliate. In the human world, he was the Shadow of the Quarter. An infamous, phantom assassin hired by the elite when money couldn't buy a legal solution. "Target details arriving now!" Hepi chirped, floating beside him with an ethereal, glowing iPad he had manifested out of ghost-logic. "Client is a human woman named Zelda Valerius. She’s the owner of Valerius Sweets. Apparently, Conri personally referred her to your proxy contact." Farkas narrowed his eyes. "Conri set up the client?" "Indirectly! Conri uses pack money to back her company, remember? Zelda wanted a permanent solution to her biggest business headache, and Conri gave her the contact for 'the best hitman in the state.' He doesn't know it's you, of course. To him, you're just cleaning the gym floor right now," Hepi giggled. "Oh, the irony is delicious. Like a fresh croissant." "Who is the target?" Farkas asked, pulling a pair of sleek, black leather gloves over his hands. "Yvaine Sinclair," Hepi read off the spectral file. "CEO of Sinclair Artisanal Bakery & Pastries. Age twenty-six. Smart, ridiculously successful, extremely grumpy, and currently driving Zelda’s company into financial ruin by stealing all her high-end contracts. Target is currently at her private penthouse on 5th Avenue. The client requested it look like an accidental heart failure or a late-night break-in gone wrong." "Simple enough," Farkas muttered. He moved silently across the rooftop, leaping the ten-foot gap to the adjacent residential tower without making a sound. He bypassed the rooftop security cameras with practiced ease, slipping through the service hatch and descending the stairwell like a ghost. By 1:30 AM, Farkas was standing inside the luxurious, open-concept penthouse. The interior was modern and minimalist, filled with the rich, intoxicating scent of vanilla, roasted coffee beans, and expensive bourbon. The lights were off, save for the soft glow of the city skyline pouring through the floor-to-ceiling glass windows. Farkas reached into his coat, drawing a long, slender blade coated in a subtle, odorless nerve toxin. One scratch, and the human heart would simply stop beating within five minutes. Clean. Untraceable. He glided across the hardwood floor, his footsteps completely silent. He stepped into the main living area and paused. A woman was curled up on the plush velvet sofa, an empty glass of bourbon resting on the coffee table beside an open laptop displaying financial spreadsheets. She was wearing an oversized silk button-down shirt, her dark hair tumbling messily over her shoulders. She was visibly intoxicated, muttering angrily under her breath as she glared at her phone. "Stupid... arrogant... rich playboy bastard," Yvaine slurred softly, rubbing her temples. "No, Valir, I won't go to your damn resort... stop sending flowers..." It was her ex-boyfriend she's talking to. Farkas adjusted his grip on the blade. He stepped closer, raising the weapon as he moved behind the sofa. This was the moment. Quick, clean, and over. Yvaine sighed heavily, tossing her phone onto the cushions. She suddenly sat up and swung her legs off the couch, turning around to face the dark room. Her eyes met his. Farkas froze. The moment his eyes locked onto her deep, storm-brewing hazel ones, a violent, deafening roar echoed through Farkas’ mind. It wasn't a physical sound, it was a sudden, agonizingly beautiful explosion within his very soul. The fake Omega bond, the suppressed golden fire, the cold distance he had built over years—all of it shattered in a single microsecond. The scent hit him next, cutting through the vanilla and bourbon: wild honey, night-blooming jasmine, and the electric pulse of a soul that belonged entirely to his. Fated Mate. His wolf, locked away for years, roared to life with terrifying, absolute authority, clawing at his ribs, demanding he claim her, protect her, destroy anyone who had ever dared to stress her. Farkas dropped the blade. It clattered loudly against the hardwood floor. Meanwhile, Yvaine blinked. Her intoxicated eyes were trying to focus on the tall, lethal stranger standing in her living room clad in black. Instead of screaming, instead of running, she leaned forward, her lips parting as a strange, dizzying warmth flushed across her skin. "Who..." Yvaine stumbled over her words, swaying slightly as she stood up. She took a step toward him, entirely unbothered by the danger. "Who the hell are you? Did... did Valir send you?" Farkas couldn't move. His breath hitched in his chest as she stepped into his personal space. The sheer, overwhelming pull of the mate bond was like a physical gravity dragging him down. Before he could process the lethal mistake he had just made, Yvaine reached out, her warm, soft hand wrapping around the collar of his leather jacket. "You have... really nice eyes," she muttered, her breath was hot and smelling of sweet bourbon. And then, she pulled the deadly assassin down and kissed him full on the lips.