The Captured Omega's Savior

WINTER The suppressants are wearing off. I can feel it in the way Magnus Blackthorne's head tilts when I walk past, nostrils flaring like he's caught the edge of something sweet on the morning air. The bitter pills Susan slipped into my hand two hours ago should hold until noon, but my body burns through them faster every day. Stress, probably. Or maybe my fae blood just refuses to be contained much longer. Either way, I'm f****d. The Moonhaven pack house sprawls across five acres of Northern California redwoods, built from timber Dad's great-grandfather harvested from these same mountains. Three stories of hand-hewn logs and stone foundations that have weathered earthquakes, wildfires, and now conquest. Magnus's scent marks overlay everything now—territorial piss on walls that held my family's legacy for four generations. Morning sunlight slants through the great room's cathedral windows, illuminating dust motes that dance like tiny spirits. Dad always said this house breathed with pack energy, lived and loved and grieved alongside the wolves who called it home. Now it feels like a mausoleum wrapped in the stench of usurpers. "Winter." His voice cuts through the breakfast chatter like a blade through silk. Every conversation dies. Twenty wolves freeze with forks halfway to their mouths, and the relief rolling off them hits me like a wave. Thank god he didn't call their name instead. I straighten my spine and turn to face the man who ripped my father's throat out three weeks ago. Magnus lounges in Dad's chair at the head of the massive oak table, golden hair catching the morning light streaming through windows Dad installed when I was twelve. Everything about him screams apex predator—the lazy grace, the ice-blue eyes that miss nothing, the smile that promises violence. The dining hall used to echo with laughter during pack meals. Now it echoes with fear. Magnus's wolves cluster at one end of the table, territorial and aggressive, while Dad's surviving pack members huddle at the other. The invisible line between them pulses with tension that makes my teeth ache. "Alpha." "Sit." The command hits every wolf instinct I've been suppressing since childhood. I slide into the empty chair beside him, the one that used to be mine when Dad ruled the Moonhaven pack. When this house was home instead of a prison wrapped in familiar walls. Magnus reaches over and runs one finger through the white streak in my hair, separating it from the black. The dual coloring has been my trademark since birth—fae genetics refusing to be ignored even when I wish they would. His touch sends ice down my spine, and somewhere deep in my blood, ancient magic recoils from the contact. The fae heritage comes from my mother's line, diluted but persistent. Grandmother Lyralei carried pure Winter Court blood before she fled to human realms and fell in love with a wolf. That bloodline skip-breeds true—one generation nothing, the next blazing with power that shouldn't exist outside the fae courts. Lucky me. "Beautiful as always." I manage a smile that doesn't feel like broken glass. "Thank you, Alpha." The pack house buzzes with nervous energy that makes my skin crawl. Supernatural senses pick up layers of scent that tell stories—old fear, fresh violence, the metallic tang of spilled blood that no amount of bleach can fully erase. Magnus brought his own wolves when he took over, and they don't play well with Dad's people. My people. Oil and water forced to share the same space, waiting for the inevitable explosion. Pack bonds fray when alphas change violently. The spiritual connections that bind wolves together weaken, leaving everyone emotionally raw and territorially aggressive. It's why conquered packs usually scatter within months—the social structure can't survive the trauma. But Magnus won't let anyone leave. Can't risk word spreading about how he murdered a beloved alpha and claimed his territory through slaughter instead of challenge. Susan catches my eye from across the room where she's serving coffee to Magnus's lieutenant. Her face gives nothing away, but I see the tension in her shoulders, the careful way she moves through spaces that used to welcome her. She knows what I know—my disguise is failing. The beta masquerade that's kept me alive since Magnus claimed the pack won't hold much longer. "I've been thinking about your future, Winter." My stomach drops to my toes. "My future?" "Twenty-one is old for an unmated beta female. Your father was overprotective." His thumb traces along my jaw, possessive and threatening. "But you're not his little princess anymore." The endearment hits like a physical blow. Dad called me his little princess. Magnus saying it feels like desecration of everything sacred. "I'm grateful for your protection, Alpha." "Are you?" He leans closer, and I catch his scent—violence and smoke with an undertone of something darker. Something that makes my fae blood recoil in recognition of predator too close to prey. "Because David Fletcher has expressed interest. Strong bloodline. Good warrior. You could do worse for a mate." David Fletcher. Magnus's enforcer who gets hard watching interrogations. Who looks at me like I'm already naked and screaming beneath him. The pack hierarchy reshuffled completely when Magnus took over. Dad's beta council dead or exiled, replaced by wolves who earned their positions through brutality instead of wisdom. David sits at Magnus's right hand not because he's smart or loyal, but because he enjoys the kind of violence that keeps conquered packs compliant. "I would be honored." The lie tastes like poison, but it's the only thing keeping me breathing. Magnus nods approval and moves his hand to my thigh, fingers splaying possessive across bare skin. My shorts suddenly feel too short, too revealing. "Good girl. You've been so well-behaved since the transition. So accepting of necessary changes." His grip tightens with mock affection. "I'm minded to be generous. We'll announce the engagement in three days, give you time to properly prepare for your new role." Three days. The reprieve feels like a stay of execution, but execution delayed is still execution. Magnus thinks he's being magnanimous, rewarding my compliance with time to "adjust to the idea." If he only knew what I'm really adjusting to. My mind races through possibilities while I keep my expression carefully neutral. Susan can't help me—not without exposing herself. The loyal pack members left alive after Magnus's purge are scattered, afraid, broken by weeks of systematic intimidation. I'm alone in a house full of predators who'd tear me apart if they knew what I really am. The morning air carries scents that tell stories—coffee and bacon from the kitchen, pine sap from the surrounding forest, and underneath it all, the supernatural markers that define pack territory. Magnus's scent overlays everything now, claiming what was never his to take. "I should help Susan with preparations." "Of course." His grip tightens just shy of bruising. "But first, David wants to speak with you privately. Get to know his future mate better." He gestures toward the living room where David Fletcher waits. Six feet of scarred muscle and dead eyes, leaning against the mantle like he owns it. Like he already owns me. The room tilts. My fae-sweet omega scent spikes despite the suppressants, and three wolves at the far end of the table lift their heads in interest. The beta facade cracks for just a moment, but it's enough. Supernatural senses catch what human ones would miss. Shit. "Actually," I say, standing too fast, "I need to change first. I'm not properly dressed to meet with—" "You're fine as you are." Magnus's smile turns predatory. "David appreciates natural beauty." Every instinct screams run, but there's nowhere to go. The pack house sits on fifty acres of forest, surrounded by Magnus's guards who patrol in shifts around the clock. Even if I made it past them, how far would a beta female get alone in wilderness thick with territorial predators? Not far enough. I walk toward David on legs that feel disconnected from my body. Behind me, Magnus returns to his breakfast like he hasn't just handed me over to a monster. Normal pack business. Nothing to see here. The living room holds too many memories. Family movie nights curled up on the massive sectional. Christmas mornings with presents scattered under a tree Dad cut from our own forest. Birthday parties where pack children ran wild while adults pretended to supervise. Now David Fletcher pollutes the space with his presence, scarred hands stroking the leather arm of Dad's favorite chair. David straightens when I approach, and the smile that spreads across his scarred face makes my skin crawl. "Winter. You look good enough to eat." "Thank you." He moves closer, backing me against the stone fireplace Dad built with his own hands. The heat from last night's embers seeps through my shirt, but it's nothing compared to the predatory warmth radiating from him. "Your father spoiled you. Made you soft." His finger traces the line of my collarbone. "I'll fix that." The casual cruelty in his voice trips something inside me. Dad didn't make me soft. He made me dangerous. All those years of martial arts training disguised as father-daughter bonding time. All those lessons about fighting dirty, hitting first, never showing mercy to enemies. I learned to break bones before I learned to break hearts. David's hand moves to my throat, thumb pressing against my pulse point. "Magnus says you're grateful for male protection. Ready to be a proper pack female." "I am." "Good. Because I have very specific ideas about how a mate should behave." His grip tightens, and I feel my pulse hammering against his thumb. One squeeze and he'd crush my windpipe. The knowledge sits between us like a loaded gun. But Dad taught me about loaded guns too. How to take them away from men who thought size meant everything. "I want to be the mate you deserve," I whisper, letting my voice go breathy and scared. Playing the helpless omega even though everything fae in my blood screams to fight. "That's what I like to hear." His free hand drops to my waist, pulling me closer. "Three days should be enough time to plan a proper ceremony. After that, you'll come to my room. We'll discuss expectations." The word 'expectations' drips with enough menace to make my knees weak. He wants me afraid. Wants me broken before he ever gets me alone. "Of course." His mouth hovers inches from mine, and I catch his scent—arousal mixed with anticipation of violence. He's already imagining what he'll do to me. How he'll hurt me. The kind of sick satisfaction he gets from pain. "You smell different today." His nose brushes my throat. "Sweeter." Ice floods my veins. The suppressants. They're definitely failing. "I've been using a new shampoo." "Hmm." He doesn't sound convinced, but he steps back. "Three days, pretty girl. Use them wisely." The endearment sounds like a threat in his voice. He walks away whistling, and I stay pressed against the fireplace until my legs stop shaking. Across the room, Susan watches me with carefully blank eyes. But I catch the flash of something desperate in her expression before she turns away. She knows. She knows my time is up. I make it to my room on the second floor before the panic hits. Three weeks of barely controlled terror finally breaks free, and I sink to my knees beside my bed, gasping for air that tastes like fear. The room still smells like home. Like the vanilla candles Mom—Susan—burns and the lavender sachets she tucks in my dresser drawers. Like safety and love and all the things that died with Dad. My hands shake as I pull out my phone. No service—Magnus had all the towers in the area disabled the day he took over. No internet. No way to call for help even if I had anyone to call. Dad's people scattered to the winds after the takeover. The smart ones ran before Magnus could consolidate power. The loyal ones are dead or prisoners in their own homes, just like Susan and me. I'm alone. The thought should terrify me more than it does. Instead, something cold and sharp settles in my chest. Something that tastes like winter air and sounds like Dad's voice in my ear. Fight dirty, little princess. Hit first. Show no mercy. I stand up and walk to my closet, pushing past dresses and cute tops to the back corner where my real clothes hide. Black cargo pants with hidden pockets. Steel-toed boots. A fitted jacket that conceals weapons without restricting movement. If I'm going down in three days, I'm not going down easy. The suppressants burn bitter in my throat as I swallow another dose—the last ones Susan managed to slip me. They'll buy me a few more hours. Maybe enough. My reflection stares back from the mirror, black and white hair catching the light like a flag of surrender. But my eyes hold something that wasn't there this morning. Something sharp and unbreakable. Let David Fletcher come. Let him try to break Judson Solis's daughter. He'll learn what Dad already knew—pretty girls who know how to break bones are the most dangerous predators of all. The engagement announcement is in three days. After that, I'm dead or gone. Time to find out which.