Bound to the Alpha Twins

Whispers

The healing center was busier than usual today, which meant I did not have time to think about the ball or the twins or the bond. That was fine with me.

I spent the morning grinding herbs under the watchful eye of the senior healers, my fingers stained green and my back aching from bending over the worktable.

The girl on the cot near the window had come in with her mother, both of them looking lost and frightened. Her wolf had not spoken to her in weeks. Deaf, they thought or maybe just sleeping. No one could tell.

I wanted to help. I always wanted to help. But there was only so much an Omega apprentice was allowed to do.

What I noticed, though, was the way my coworkers looked at me. Not with the usual disgust. Not with the sneers I had grown used to over the years. They looked at me like I had grown a second head. Like they were seeing something they had not noticed before.

Mira, a girl who had never spoken two words to me, actually held the door open when I walked past. Her eyes were wide, her mouth slightly parted in shock. Like she could not believe she was doing it. Like she could not believe I was the reason everyone was whispering.

I almost asked her if she was feeling well but I knew why. The news had spread quickly. Everyone knew about the bond. Everyone knew about the twins. And now the Omega who had been invisible for fourteen years was suddenly the most interesting thing in Silver Fang.

It did not change my pay, though. I wish it had. At the end of the morning, the pouch the Preceptor handed me was just as light as always. Omegas earned little and that had not changed.

I left at noon. The sun was high and hot, and the walk to the market gave me time to breathe.

But first, I had to tell the Preceptor I was leaving.

Her name was Velya. She had been a healer for forty years, and she ran the center like a general commanding an army. Her office was at the back of the building, a small room that smelled of dried sage and old paper.

I knocked.

"Enter."

I pushed the door open and stepped inside.

Velya did not look up immediately. She was writing something on a piece of parchment, her quill moving in slow, deliberate strokes. The only sound was the scratch of the nib and the distant murmur of the healing center behind me.

She set down the quill. Then she looked at me.

"Sit," she said. It was not a request.

I lowered myself into the wooden chair across from her desk. It was hard and uncomfortable, designed to make visitors feel small. It worked.

"Close the door."

I reached back and pulled it shut. The latch clicked. The room felt suddenly smaller.

Velya folded her hands on the desk and studied me in silence. Her grey hair was pulled back so tight it looked painful. Her eyes were pale, almost colourless, and they did not blink.

"I know about the bond," she said. No warmth. No congratulations. Just a statement.

I swallowed. "Yes, Preceptor."

"I have heard the whispers. The Council. The twins. The Omega who thinks she is destined for something greater." She smiled, it was cruel.

My mouth opened in protest, but the look on her face stopped the words in my throat.

"I am not finished," she said quietly.

I pursed my lips and gripped the edges of the chair.

Velya leaned forward. Her voice dropped, low and cold, like frost creeping across a window in deep winter.

"You think this bond makes you special, girl? Let me tell you what it makes you. It makes you a target. Those twins are royal blood. Their family has ruled Silver Fang for generations. Their blood is old and powerful. Yours is not. You are an Omega from Ashen Ridge. An immigrant. No lineage. No name that anyone respects."

She paused, letting the words sink into my skin like needles.

"When the Council is done with you, they will find a new Luna. Someone proper. Someone with status and power and connections. And you? You will be pushed to the back. Forgotten. Left to grow old in some dusty corner of the pack while your so‑called mates move on without you."

Her voice softened, and that was worse. That was the voice of someone who had seen this happen before.

"You will watch them from a distance, Ophelia. Always close enough to feel the bond, but never close enough to touch it. And eventually, the bond will fade. Your wolf will go quiet again. And you will be left with nothing but the memory of what you almost had."

I felt tears burning behind my eyes, but I refused to let them fall.

"Do you know what that does to a wolf?" she whispered. "To feel the bond and lose it? It destroys them. Slowly. Quietly. They grow hollow inside. They stop eating. They stop speaking. They stop caring. And one day, they simply stop breathing."

The room felt cold.

"You are not special," Velya said. "You are a footnote in someone else's story. Do not let this bond convince you otherwise. Do you understand me?"

"Yes, Preceptor," I whispered. My voice cracked.

"Good. Now go. You are dismissed."

I stood up on shaking legs. My hand fumbled for the door handle. I did not look back. I could not.

The hallway felt longer than usual. The eyes of the other healers followed me as I passed. Mira was standing near the entrance, pretending to organize jars. She looked at me with something that might have been pity, or maybe curiosity. I did not stop to find out.

I kept my head down and walked outside.

~`~`~`~`~`~`|~`~`~`~`~`~`|~`~`~`~`~`~`

The market was crowded when I arrived, full of wolves going about their business, haggling over bread and meat and cloth. I had promised to pick up a package for Pilar from her mother's shop. Her family was upper average, comfortable enough to hire workers. The shop was a dressmaker's stall, well‑kept, with fabric draped over the entrance.

As I walked, I noticed the stares again. The whispers. People stepped aside when I passed, like I was something they did not want to touch but could not look away from.

I tried to focus on the market around me. The rich side was near the front, where the large fabric shops and dressmakers had their stalls.

Women in high‑heeled boots and silken dresses browsed bolts of velvet and lace, their laughter light and careless. They had never known hunger. They had never known what it felt like to be turned away because their coin was not enough.

Further back, near the edge of the market, the poor side sprawled. Wolves sat on worn blankets, selling small bundles of vegetables, handmade baskets, old clothes patched and repurposed. Their faces were tired. Their hands were cracked. I knew those hands. I had the same ones.

I watched a girl my age try on a gown in one of the fancy shops, her blonde hair falling in waves over her shoulders, her smile easy and bright. The dressmaker fussed over her, adjusting the hem, talking about silk from the eastern provinces.

I looked down at my own clothes. Worn, faded. Mended in three places.

Why could I not have been born into that world? Why could I not have been rich, or powerful, or anything other than an Omega from Ashen Ridge?

If I had been rich, maybe people would not look at me like I had stolen something that belonged to them. Maybe the Council would not be sharpening their knives. Maybe Velya would have been wrong.

A prickle ran down my spine.

Someone was watching me.

I did not turn around. I kept walking, weaving through the crowd, but the feeling did not go away. A gaze, heavy and fixed, tracking my every move. I could feel it like a hand on my shoulder. Like breath on the back of my neck.

I stole a glance over my shoulder, but the crowd was too thick. Too many faces swarmed around me. I could not tell who it was.

But they could not do anything to me here. There were too many witnesses.

I quickened my pace.