The Alpha And His Omega

2

Rena

I kept my head down. In the Silver Creek pack, that wasn't just a gesture of humility—it was a survival tactic.

The flagstones of the service corridor were cold beneath my thin-soled shoes as I hurried toward the laundry wing. At eighteen, nearly nineteen, I was a ghost in a house of giants. While the high-ranking wolves of the pack spent their days in the training pits or the council chambers, I spent mine in the steam-filled rooms of the basement, scrubbing the scent of blood and sweat from their expensive linens.

Being an Omega meant being at the bottom of a very steep, very jagged mountain. But being a wolf-less Omega was worse.

Most members of the pack shifted for the first time by sixteen. Seventeen was late. Eighteen was a cause for concern. I was few months away from my nineteenth birthday, and my inner wolf was as silent as a grave, nothing at all. In the eyes of Alpha Deza and the elite, I wasn't just low-rank; I was a defect.

"Rena! Move it! These need to be in the Alpha’s wing before the gala guests arrive," the head housekeeper, a stern woman named Martha, barked as she shoved a fresh stack of pressed shirts into my arms.

"Yes, Martha. Sorry," I whispered. My voice felt rusty from disuse. Omegas weren't paid to speak.

I navigated the back hallways with practiced ease, avoiding the grand corridors where the "real" wolves walked. We were the invisible engine of the pack, the hands that cooked the meat and the backs that carried the weight, all to ensure the elite never had to look at the dirt they stood on.

I began the climb toward the upper floors. The air changed as I ascended—the damp, soapy smell of the laundry was replaced by the scent of expensive sandalwood, polished mahogany, and the overwhelming, suffocating aura of power.

As I reached the Alpha’s wing, my heart began to gallop. I hated it up here. The power in the air was so thick it felt like static electricity dancing on my skin. It made my lack of a wolf feel like an open wound.

I was turning the corner toward the heir’s suite when the heavy oak doors at the end of the hall swung open.

I froze.

Tristan.

The Alpha Heir was a silhouette of pure, terrifying authority against the late afternoon sun. He was taller than any man had a right to be, his shoulders broad enough to carry the weight of the world he was destined to rule. Even from twenty feet away, the heat radiating from him was palpable.

I flattened myself against the wall, clutching the laundry to my chest as if it were a shield. Don't look up. Don't make eye contact. Just be a shadow.

But as he walked past, something happened. A ripple of heat, sharper than the general aura of the house, slammed into me. It wasn't just power; it was a pull. It felt like a hook had been buried in my sternum and was being yanked toward him.

My breath hitched. My skin tingled, a frantic, buzzing sensation I had never felt before. It was confusing—and utterly terrifying.

I felt his footsteps slow.

No. Keep walking. Please, just keep walking.

The air around me suddenly felt electric. I could smell him—not just the sandalwood of the manor, but something deeper. Rain on hot stone. Wild honey. It was a scent that felt like a memory I hadn't lived yet.

Against every instinct I possessed, my eyes flickered upward.

He was looking at me.

Tristan’s eyes weren't the dark brown I’d seen from a distance. They were a stormy, turbulent hazel, swirling with gold that seemed to glow with a repressed ferocity. For a heartbeat, the world stopped. The ticking of the grandfather clock in the hall, the distant sounds of the training grounds, the very air in my lungs—it all vanished. There was only him.

His gaze was intense, searching, and filled with a sudden, sharp irritation that made my blood run cold.

Then, just as quickly as it had started, he snapped his head away. His jaw tightened so hard I heard the bone click. He didn't say a word. He didn't acknowledge me as a person. He simply walked away, his stride long and predatory, leaving a vacuum of cold air in his wake.

I slumped against the wall, my knees trembling.

What was that?

I pressed a hand to my chest, trying to calm the frantic beating of my heart. It was just the Alpha's aura, I told myself. He was powerful, and I was... nothing. I was a maid with no wolf and no future.

The pull I felt—that strange, magnetic yearning—was a delusion. It had to be. A wolf like Tristan didn't even see Omegas, let alone feel anything toward them. He was untouchable, a king-in-waiting who would likely mark a high-born Beta like Nora by the end of the month.

I looked down at the shirts in my arms. My hands were shaking.

"Get a grip, Rena," I whispered to the empty hallway. "You're a shadow. Stay in the dark where it's safe."

But as I finished my rounds, the scent of rain and honey stayed in my nose, a constant, mocking reminder that for one terrifying second, the sun had looked at the shadow, and the shadow had almost believed it could burn.