This Omega Werewolf Miss Is Superhumanly Strong

My name is Lumi. Right now, one of my hands is gripping a black wheelchair loaded with high-tier magic, and my other arm is hooked around the thighs of a man in a costly black robe. He is upside down over my shoulder. His black hair spills down my arm. The ends brush my wrist every time I take a step. His face is half-hidden against my shoulder, pale, beautiful, and bitter enough to curdle milk. His golden eyes keep cutting sideways at me like he is trying to murder me with vision alone. "Let. Me. Go." The words scrape out through his teeth. His fingers dig into the back of my coat, not because he is holding on, but because he has not found a better place to put his rage. I glance at the wheelchair in my left hand. Then at the expensive man over my right shoulder. "No." His jaw tightens. "I am not luggage." "You were trying to throw yourself off a cliff," I say. "Until your family pays the return fee, you are rescue property." The muscle under his eye jumps. "I am a person." "Then stop behaving like an unpaid corpse." His mouth opens. Nothing comes out. Good. I have offended him into buffering. Three days ago, my wolf clan kicked me out. The chief listed my flaws in front of everyone. Low-rank blood. No proper claws. No control. Too much appetite. I stood there with my ears out, my tail out, and my stomach growling at the worst possible time. Most beastfolk can hide their animal traits when they look human. Noble wolves tuck away ears and tails as easily as folding a fan. I cannot. My ears stay. My tail stays. On full moons, my body forgets even more of its human shape, and nobody wants a wolf girl who might bite the furniture, the livestock, or the chief's nephew. So I ended up in a cave on Blacksol Mountain. Three thousand years ago, beastfolk ancestors lived in caves and called it heritage. Three thousand years later, I lived in a cave and called it rent-free because crying used calories. After three months of cold stones, smoky firewood, and flour that had begun developing a personality, I made a decision. I needed work. Ravenhollow, the leopard clan's border territory, sat just beyond the mountain. Monsters wandered there. Merchants lost goods there. Nobles needed guards there. Someone was always missing a horse, a child, a fiance, or common sense. A perfect place for a working wolf. Then I found Kyran Vaelthorn trying to leave the world by way of Blackcliff. His enchanted wheelchair stood at the edge, one front wheel already hanging over empty air. He had dragged himself halfway out of it. His legs lay useless beneath the robe, but his arms still looked strong enough to break stone. The wind whipped his hair across his face. He looked calm. That was the part I disliked. People who slipped screamed. People who got pushed clawed for ground. He only leaned forward, golden eyes open, as if the drop below him had called his name politely. I ran. My boots tore through wet grass. One hand caught the wheelchair frame. The other caught the back of his belt. The chair lurched. He twisted. His elbow smashed into my cheek. Stars burst behind my eyes. "Let go," he hissed. "No." "Do you know who I am?" "Heavy." His claws did not appear. Only black curse marks flickered under his skin and vanished again. His expression changed for one breath, small and ugly, like I had seen him miss a step he no longer had. Then he tried to bite my wrist. I forgave him once. He tried again. I forgave him twice. The third time, I decided forgiveness was a luxury item. I picked up the wheelchair, threw him over my shoulder, and carried both down the mountain. Which is why Blackstone Town stopped breathing when I walked in. The street had been full a moment before. Leopard nobles in sharp coats. Merchants with silver chains. Guards with curved blades. A grilled-meat uncle turning skewers with the solemn grace of a temple priest. Then my boots hit the first black stone of the main road. Silence dropped. A skewer slipped from the meat uncle's hand and landed in the dust. A noble lady lifted her fan, missed her face entirely, and fanned the empty air beside her ear. Two guards half drew their blades, saw Kyran's face, and shoved the blades back so quickly one of them pinched his own finger. "That is Lord Kyran." "The war god?" "Why is he on a wolf?" "Is he dead?" "His eyes are open." "That might be worse." A young merchant dropped his account book. He bent to pick it up, forgot why he bent, and stayed there with one hand hovering above the page. Someone whispered, "Soul.exe has stopped working." Another voice answered, "Mine is stuck on loading screen." I lifted my chin. When people stare, shame is expensive. Confidence is free. So I bounced Kyran once on my shoulder and walked like I had meant to terrify a whole street before lunch. Kyran's fingers clamped over his own face. "You are finished, wolf girl." "After I get paid?" His hand slid down enough for one golden eye to glare at me. "No one will pay you." "You look expensive." "That is not how reward systems work." "It is today." The Vaelthorn estate rose at the end of the street: black iron gates, thorn-carved walls, towers sharp enough to stab the sky. From inside came panicked shouting. "Search the cliff road!" "Young Master Kyran is missing!" "The wheelchair too!" "If Madam asks, nobody say the word cliff!" I stopped before the gate. Both hands were occupied. So I used my foot. Bang. The gates slammed inward. One side hit the wall hard enough to shed black dust. The other swung back and forth, squealing like it had opinions. The courtyard froze. Guards turned. Maids turned. A footman with bread in his mouth turned and forgot to chew. Blades flashed halfway out. "Who are you?" "How did you get in?" "Why is Young Master shaped like that?" I lowered the wheelchair to the ground. Blue magic lines crawled along the frame. The wheels corrected themselves with a low hum. Then I shifted my shoulder so Kyran's face showed. "Delivery." The footman's bread fell out. Kyran lifted his head an inch. His hair slid off his cheek. His eyes swept over the courtyard, cold, furious, and full of one very clear order. Forget this. Nobody forgot this. A guard's mouth opened so wide his fangs showed. Another covered his eyes, then split two fingers to peek. A third pressed both hands to his throat and leaned back like his soul was trying to escape through his mouth. "Young Master..." "Lord Kyran..." "He is being carried." "By one arm." "Is this medical?" "Silence," Kyran said. The word was quiet. The whole courtyard snapped shut. Then the ground started shaking. Pebbles jumped. A teacup rattled toward the edge of a garden table. From the side corridor burst a man over two meters tall, shoulders like a wardrobe, arms like tree trunks, wearing a pink lace apron with a giant heart stitched on the chest. A satin bow trembled in his hair. "Young Master!" he cried in the softest voice I had ever heard from someone who could probably punch a chimney flat. "My poor tragic mooncake!" Kyran closed his eyes. He looked more willing to die now than he had at the cliff. The giant minced toward me in tiny steps that made the paving stones jump. "Miss Wolf, please put him down gently, okay? Bruno's fragile heart cannot take this." I looked at Bruno. Then at Kyran. Then at the open doorway behind him. "Move." Bruno pressed both hands to his cheeks. "I cannot. I am loyal." "I am hungry." "Loyalty is stronger than hunger." "Not mine." I kicked him. Not hard. Just enough. Bruno flew sideways. His pink bow floated in the air a beat longer than he did. He hit the wall with a boom and slid down slowly, one hand still posed against his forehead. The courtyard went still. I lowered my foot and puffed one cheek. "He blocked traffic." A woman gasped at the staircase. Madam Vaelthorn stood there in a silver-white gown, pale-gold hair pinned high, one gloved hand gripping the banister. Beside her, old Sebas held a monocle between two fingers as if his soul had just stepped on it. Her gaze caught on Kyran's muddy sleeve. Then his blood-streaked fingers. Then his face. "Kiki." Kyran's eyes snapped open. "Mother. Do not call me that." She came down the stairs too fast for her dress. One heel caught the hem. Sebas reached for her elbow, but she had already crossed the last step. Her hand rose toward Kyran's cheek. Stopped. Trembled there. "You frightened me." "Put me down," Kyran said through his teeth. He twisted. His fingers dug into my shoulder. His ears went red. The great war god's whole body locked under the robe, all muscle and humiliation. I shifted my grip. "Behave." He struggled harder. So I slapped his backside. Smack. The sound cracked across the courtyard. Kyran froze. Madam Vaelthorn's hand stayed in midair. Sebas's monocle dropped. Bruno opened one eye from the wall, saw my hand, whispered, "Young Master was..." and fainted again. Kyran's face turned red all the way to his ears. "Kill me." "No," I said. "I have not been paid."