The Wolf, the Demon, and Their Omega

Chapter Fourteen

SASHA

The Monday morning bell cuts through Blood Moon's corridors, and I'm standing at my locker pretending the weekend didn't rewrite every rule I thought I understood.

Pretending I didn't feel every moment Kenji spent with Mina through bonds that don't believe in privacy. The pack connections hum constant now—his fire meeting her cold, the way her dragon essence pulled his oni blood to the surface, how she gasped when those extra mouths tasted her life force. I spent Saturday night in the compound's training room, beating my frustration into heavy bags until my knuckles bled and my wolf finally exhausted itself into submission.

Sharing shouldn't feel like this. Raw. Visceral. Like watching someone eat the meal you've been craving while your stomach twists with hunger that has nothing to do with food.

"Calculus." Adrian appears at my shoulder, immaculate despite the early hour. "Try not to murder Dylan when he inevitably tries to one-up you."

"I make no promises."

Down the hall, Mina walks flanked by two men wearing maintenance uniforms that don't hide the yakuza ink crawling up their necks. She catches my eye for half a heartbeat—nothing changes in her expression, but through the bond I taste her awareness spike, feel the complicated knot of concern and want and guilt.

We're playing roles now. The engaged couple gets proximity. The rest of us get distance and discipline.

I slam my locker and head for AP Calculus, where Mrs. Pemberton—witch, ancient, patient as stone—already has derivatives covering the board. The room smells like dry erase markers and the particular tension that comes from putting two dozen teenage predators in metal desks and expecting them to focus on mathematics.

I take my usual seat. Back corner, three exits catalogued, perfect sightlines.

Dylan Ashford arrives exactly ninety seconds before the bell, because punctuality is just another competition. He's all sharp angles and sharper intellect—sandy hair that never quite looks styled but probably takes an hour, gray eyes that catalogue everything, the kind of bone structure that comes from centuries of careful breeding. Witch bloodlines old enough to remember when mathematics was considered sorcery.

We've been trading class rank since freshman year. Currently I'm ahead by point-zero-three percent.

He takes the seat directly in front of me, angling so he can watch my work without appearing obvious.

"Bolkonsky." His voice carries the faint British accent his family cultivated. "Productive weekend?"

"Illuminating. You?"

"MIT sent another recruitment letter. Apparently they're quite eager for my particular talents." He produces the envelope, because of course he does. "Have you heard from anyone worthwhile? Or are Ivy League schools still concerned about your family's... reputation?"

My wolf stirs. Dylan knows exactly which buttons to press—legacy admissions might overlook Volkov brutality, but the Bolkonsky name only opens doors if you ignore what walks through them.

"Princeton, Harvard, and Yale." I keep my voice level. "All offering full academic scholarships. Apparently they value intellect over prejudice."

"How progressive." He turns back to the board, but I catch his jaw tightening.

Mrs. Pemberton begins her lecture on implicit differentiation. My pen moves across paper automatically—the mathematics come easy, always have. Numbers follow rules. They don't betray you or sell you or try to auction off the people you've claimed. Twenty minutes in, Dylan's hand shoots up.

"Mrs. Pemberton, I believe there's an error in your third step."

The room goes quiet. Challenging a three-hundred-year-old witch's mathematics is either brilliant or suicidal.

She examines the board. "Where, Mr. Ashford?"

"The chain rule application. You've missed the derivative of the natural log's argument." He stands, walks to the board with practiced confidence. "It should be this."

He writes out the correction in handwriting that probably gets framed. Mrs. Pemberton studies it, then nods slowly.

"You're correct. Well spotted."

Dylan returns to his seat radiating smug satisfaction. Several students whisper—the brilliant witch just out-mathed the ancient teacher. His reputation climbs another notch.

I wait until he's settled, then raise my hand.

"There's still an issue."

Dylan turns. "Excuse me?"

"Your correction fixes Mrs. Pemberton's error, but introduces another." I stand, move to the board. "The natural log derivative is right, but you've dropped the coefficient from the second term during simplification."

I write out the full solution. Mrs. Pemberton examines it, lips quirking.

"Mr. Bolkonsky is correct. The final answer should include the coefficient." She looks between us. "Perhaps you two would benefit from collaboration rather than competition."

"Competition breeds excellence." Dylan's smile doesn't reach his eyes.

"Collaboration breeds accuracy." I return to my seat.

The bonds pulse—Kenji amused, Adrian entertained, Lysander watching through whatever fae senses let him monitor us from three buildings away. And Mina, her attention sharp and focused, pride bleeding through our connection even though we're supposed to be strangers who occasionally share oxygen.

Class continues. Dylan and I trade supremacy across problems that would make college students weep. By the time the bell rings, we're dead even on participation points, and the competitive tension has half the class placing bets on who'll break first.

English Literature happens in a fog. We're dissecting Wuthering Heights, which feels pointed given I'm living in my own gothic nightmare of impossible bonds and family betrayal. Ms. Rivera lectures about destructive obsession while I plot ways to keep my father from stealing Mina right after the wedding ceremony.

The bonds keep pulling me back to her thread in the tangle. She's tense, surrounded by guards, hyperaware of every glance and whisper. Two days until the wedding, and every predator at Blood Moon is recalculating their approach.

Between classes, I pass Dylan in the hall. He's holding court with three other academic overachievers—all witch bloodlines, all comparing standardized test scores like other students compare kill counts.

"Bolkonsky." He breaks from his group. "A word?"

We move to an alcove away from traffic. He produces his phone, shows me an email that makes my blood crystallize.

It's from my father's office. Offering Dylan's family exclusive access to Bolkonsky mining rights in Siberia—territories worth billions—in exchange for supporting certain "family initiatives regarding recent complications."

"Your father approached mine." Dylan's voice drops. "Wanted magical assistance with a situation involving an omega transfer. Said you'd lost perspective."

"What did your family say?"

"That they'd consider it. For the right price." His gray eyes hold mine. "But I thought you should know. Professional courtesy."

"We're not friends."

"No. We're rivals who understand something crucial—family politics that require trafficking sentient beings aren't competition worth winning." He pockets his phone. "I told my father to decline. Whatever you're doing with the Fukiyama omega, it's fascinating enough to watch without interfering."

He walks away before I can respond. I stand there processing—Dylan Ashford, my academic nemesis, just turned down billions because he thinks our pack bonds are more interesting than money.

The cafeteria at lunch pulses with territorial divisions that haven't changed since Blood Moon opened. Vampires near the windows, wolves dominating center tables, witches and fae mixing at the edges. The F4 table sits empty like always now.

I grab something vaguely resembling Thai food and find a corner spot. Alone, which used to feel like safety but now tastes like missing pieces.

"Mind if I sit?"

I look up. Violet Monroe stands with her tray, looking uncertain in ways most Blood Moon students forgot how long ago. She's quiet, brilliant—top marks in Physics, keeps to herself, might be human or might be something that passes well enough no one bothers checking.

"Free country."

She sits, arranges her lunch with careful precision. We eat in silence for three minutes before she speaks.

"I saw what happened Friday. With Chase and the wolves."

My hand tightens on my fork.

"When that girl broke his arm. The omega everyone's talking about." Violet's voice stays low. "My older sister went missing two years ago. Transfer student, omega, last seen heading toward the east wing."

The words hit like brass knuckles. I set down my fork.

"I'm sorry."

"Everyone's sorry. Sorry doesn't find bodies." She meets my eyes, and I see the same grief I carry for Viktor. "But I've been watching patterns. Missing omegas, always around the same time of year. Always after certain families make large financial transactions."

"Why tell me?"

"Because you marked her. You and the others—everyone knows, even if you pretend otherwise." She slides a folded paper across the table. "This is everything I've compiled. Names, dates, financial records I probably shouldn't have access to. Maybe it helps. Maybe it doesn't. But my sister deserved better than being erased."

She stands and leaves before I can respond. I unfold the paper—dense text, meticulous documentation, three years of research compressed into single-spaced notes.

Violet Monroe has been tracking the same patterns that got Mina's parents killed.

I pocket the paper, appetite gone. Across the cafeteria, I catch Kenji watching from the demon section. He saw the exchange, probably heard it with senses that catch whispers across buildings.

Through the bonds: We need to talk. After school.

My response: Agreed.

The afternoon drags. Physics, where we pretend conservation of momentum applies to creatures who rewrite reality. History sanitized of supernatural influence. Study hall that I spend memorizing Violet's research, cross-referencing against what I know about Viktor's disappearance.

The patterns align. Missing persons, money transfers, bodies that never surface. Someone's been hunting systematically for years.

And now they want Mina.

The final bell releases us into October afternoon that tastes like frost and violence deferred. I head for the parking lot where my BMW waits, already planning routes that avoid ambush points.

I make it five steps before reality fractures.

Four men emerge from between vehicles. Too old for students, too coordinated for random. Suits that don't hide muscle, movements precise as pack formations.

Volkov wolves. My father's personal guard.

"Alexander Bolkonsky." The lead enforcer—Dmitri, all Cyrillic tattoos and cold eyes—speaks with Moscow accent thick as blood. "Your father requests your presence."

"Tell him I'm busy."

"Not request." Dmitri's smile reveals too many teeth. "Requirement."

They spread out, cutting exits. Students scatter or stop to watch—violence as entertainment, Blood Moon's favorite sport after academics.

My wolf rises, measuring odds. Four experienced fighters against one alpha whose still developing. Whose head still throbs from last week's collision with Chase's fist during that fight.

Whose father understands exactly how to hurt him.

"Last chance to walk away."

"No chance." Dmitri cracks his knuckles. "Your father just wants conversation. About recent mistakes. Disobedience. The omega he plans to collect after ceremony."

Code for everything. The pack bonds, the defiance, the way I'm choosing desire over dynasty.

"Not happening."

They move as one—coordinated assault meant to overwhelm through numbers and experience. Dmitri high, two others low, fourth circling for blind spots. Professional brutality, exactly how my father trains his personal guard.

I shift partial—claws and teeth, enough to make them work for it. Catch Dmitri's punch, twist until bone grinds. He doesn't scream, just adapts. The others swarm before I can press advantage, weight and training dragging me down.

Something hard impacts my skull. Vision swims, wolf rage mixing with very human understanding that they're not trying to kill me.

They're subduing. Preparing to transport me somewhere my father can demonstrate what happens to disobedient sons in private.

Through the bonds, I feel the pack responding—Kenji burning with protective fury, Adrian's calculating violence, Lysander folding space to arrive faster. But they're buildings away, blocked by distance and physics.

And Mina—

She burns through our connection like glacial fire given purpose.

The temperature drops. Not supernatural cold, but genuine atmospheric shift that makes breath visible. The wolves holding me pause, instinct screaming warnings their training tries to suppress.

"Let him go."

Her voice carries across asphalt, perfectly calm. I twist enough to see her standing between vehicles, yakuza guards flanking but not touching. Still in uniform, still looking like dangerous teenager playing at deadly.

Until she moves.

The shift flows like water becoming something ancient. One heartbeat she's girl-shaped, the next—

Twenty-three feet of apex predator pours across concrete like nightmare given scales. Black shot through with green that shifts in light, muscle coiling with power that makes grown wolves freeze mid-breath. Her head rises higher than grown men, eyes still absolutely Mina but the pupils slit vertical like judgment.

"Bozhe moy," Dmitri whispers.

She strikes.

Not at them—at me. Her massive body coils around mine faster than human eyes process, muscle contracting until I'm lifted completely off the ground. The wolves scramble backward, recognizing predator so far above their weight class that fighting would be suicide.

This close, I feel the power in every scale. Muscle dense enough to crush steel, skin harder than tactical vests. Her tongue flicks out—forked, tasting air and threat. The tip brushes my face with surprising gentleness before she turns to face my father's men.

The hiss vibrating through her body translates clearly across species: Mine. Back off.

"The Volkov wolves should leave." Tetsuya's voice cuts through parking lot tension. He stands with eight more yakuza, guns visible and ready. "Now."

Dmitri looks at me, wrapped in protective serpent that could crush me as easily as save me. His eyes hold something between respect and terror.

"Your father will hear of this."

"Good." My voice comes strained—her coils restrict breathing, protection overriding comfort. "Tell him everything. Tell him what protects me now."

They leave. Smart predators know when they're outmatched.

The crowd doesn't disperse—too good a show. They watch Mina slowly uncoil, muscle releasing with careful control. When she's fully unwound, she shifts back with that same impossible fluidity. Girl standing where serpent just was, breathing hard from exertion, skin flushed from the change.

"Are you hurt?" Her fingers find my face where Dmitri's fist landed.

"Nothing permanent." The words stick. She just revealed her full form to half the student body. Burned every secret, gave them ammunition and fear and knowledge.

All to save me from my father's dogs.

"Thank you."

"Pack protects pack." She says it loud enough to carry. "Anyone who forgets learns hard."

The yakuza guards close formation, creating barriers between us and gawking students. Tetsuya's already on his phone—damage control, spin management, whatever yakuza do when their charge becomes viral video.

Through the bonds, I feel the others arriving—Kenji first, burning with rage and pride. Adrian flowing from shadows like liquid violence. Lysander making reality fold until he's suddenly present.

They assess the scene. Scattered wolves. Crowd filming. Mina standing calm while yakuza create perimeter.

"Well." Lysander sounds delighted. "That's certainly a statement."

"Are you hurt?" Kenji reaches for me, checking the head wound with hands that want to combust everything.

"Nothing that won't heal." I catch his wrist. "But my father knows now. Everything."

"Let him know." Adrian's smile promises creative violence. "Let him understand what he's dealing with."

Tetsuya finishes his calls. "We're leaving. Now. School will handle inquiries, but Mina needs secured before anyone gets ambitious."

"The wedding—" Mina starts.

"Moves to tonight." He says it with finality. "Can't risk two more days of exposure. Not after this display."

Tonight.

The word drops between us like detonation. We were supposed to have time—two more days before the blood ritual, before Mina becomes officially yakuza, before everything shifts.

"Tonight." Mina doesn't argue, just processes.

"Full ceremony at the compound. Maximum security, complete witnesses. By morning, anyone who wants her goes through the entire Fukiyama clan." Tetsuya's already moving toward black SUVs pulling up. "This gets handled now."

Guards escort her toward vehicles. She looks back once—eyes finding mine across chaos. Through the bond, I feel her certainty threaded with fear. The ritual will expose everything, force her to shift again, bare her complete self before yakuza elders who will measure and judge and decide her worth.

But she'll survive. She survived worse.

"We should move too." Adrian's calculating angles. "If Ivan knows, he'll escalate. Faster and harder."

"Let him." My wolf settles, satisfied by Mina's protection even if it cost secrecy. "He'll learn the same lesson his wolves just did."

We head for my BMW. Behind us, Blood Moon's parking lot buzzes with aftermath—students filming, gossiping, spreading word that the marked omega isn't just claimed.

She's something that wraps around you tight enough to steal breath and refuses to let go.

I slide behind the wheel, pack filling the car. Engine starts while my head throbs and vision swims slightly from Dmitri's punch.

"You need medical attention." Kenji's worried.

"Later. First we get to the compound."

"First," Adrian corrects, "you accept that she just saved you. Publicly. Irrevocably."

He's right. Mina burned every careful cover to protect me. Revealed what she is to the entire student body, gave them ammunition and knowledge and fear.

Because my father's men put their hands on me.

I drive toward the compound while afternoon bleeds toward evening. The bonds pulse with shared anxiety—ceremony tonight, blood ritual, full exposure under yakuza scrutiny.

But underneath the fear runs something fiercer.

Pride.