The Male Omega

By nineteen, I had already become the kind of person no one looked at twice. Not because I was ugly. Not because I had done anything wrong. I was just… ordinary. In the Blackthorne Pack, most wolves differentiated by fifteen. Sixteen, if they were a little late. After that, people stopped waiting. They stopped watching for signs, stopped speculating, stopped caring. If you had not become an alpha or omega by then, you were considered a beta and your life settled into something simpler. That was what had happened to me. By every measure that mattered, I was a beta. A forgettable one. I lived quietly, spoke little, and kept out of people’s way. A few of the commoners in the lower district knew my name because I ran errands for old Mrs. Tallen when her knees ached, or because I sometimes helped at the herb stalls when hands were short during winter. But beyond that, I was no one special. The larger pack didn’t know me. The Blackthornes certainly didn’t. If they had passed me on the road, I doubted they would have remembered my face by the next turn. Most days, I thought that was a good thing. It was easier to be small. Safer too. I stood in the back washroom that morning with my sleeves rolled to my elbows, rinsing cloth in a basin of cold water while pale winter light slipped through the narrow window above me. My hands were numb already. The cold had a way of settling into everything in our house before the fires were fully built up. I liked the quiet of these hours. Before the roads filled. Before neighbors started talking across fences. Before people had enough energy to ask questions. The sound of boots crossing the hall came a second before Rowan’s voice. “Kyle.” I looked up too quickly and splashed icy water over the front of my shirt. Rowan paused in the doorway, took one look at me, and sighed. “That bad, huh?” I muttered. His mouth twitched, though not enough to be a real smile. “You’ve been awake for less than an hour.” “That’s enough time to embarrass myself.” “That,” he said, stepping inside, “is unfortunately true.” My brother was twenty-four and looked older when he was worried, which lately was most of the time. Before all of this—before anything had changed—people used to say Rowan Knox had one of the sharpest eyes in the hunters’ guild. He’d spent years ranging the outer woods, tracking prey and scent movement and rogue wolves that crossed too close to our territory. He was good at it too. Quiet when he needed to be, hard when he had to be. Not cruel. Just steady. Then I differentiated. And Rowan retired. Just like that. He had not argued publicly. He had not made a grand declaration. He had simply returned his guild insignia, ignored every attempt to persuade him otherwise, and stayed home. I had told him not to. More than once. He had looked at me and said, “You think I’m leaving you here alone?” I never knew what to do after that. So now, instead of running the borders, he kept house accounts, did contract work when he could, and hovered over me like he could somehow stand between me and the whole pack if he watched hard enough. Sometimes I thought he really might try. He crossed the room and leaned against the side of the table, arms folded. “You didn’t finish breakfast.” I wrung out the cloth too hard. “I ate enough.” “You moved food around a plate.” “That still counts as interacting with it.” Rowan gave me a look. I looked back down at the basin. “You’re pale again,” he said after a moment. “I’m always pale.” “You’re also thin.” “I’m always thin.” “That isn’t helping your case.” I couldn’t help it. A small laugh escaped me, weak but real. Rowan’s expression softened for half a second before settling back into worry. That was the problem with Rowan. He noticed too much. He had noticed when I started sleeping less. When I stopped leaving the house unless I had to. When I flinched at knocks. When my hands shook after certain letters arrived. When I said “I’m fine” too quickly. And he never, ever believed me. He reached out and caught my wrist before I could rinse the next cloth. His fingers pressed lightly against the inside of my wrist. Then his eyes narrowed. “You’re cold.” “It’s winter.” “Kyle.” I kept my gaze lowered. “I’m alright.” “You say that like if you repeat it enough, it becomes true.” I didn’t answer. What could I say? That I was tired in a way sleep didn’t fix? That I hated being watched, hated that everything in my life had become fragile and tense? That some mornings I woke up and wished I could go backward to when I was no one at all? Rowan let go of my wrist slowly. There had been a time, before my differentiation, when he worried over me like an older brother worried over a shy younger one. Now the worry had sharpened. It had become watchfulness. Protection. Sometimes even fear. Not fear of me. For me. “I’m going into the lower district,” he said. “If you need anything, tell me now.” I shook my head. “I’m going to the market later.” “Only the near stalls.” I almost smiled. “Yes, Rowan.” “I mean it.” “I know.” His jaw tightened. “And if anyone says anything—” “I know,” I repeated softly. He stared at me. That was another thing that had changed. Before, if someone had spoken sharply to me in the market, Rowan might have scowled, maybe warned me not to let people walk all over me. Now, after my differentiation, every outing had become a negotiation. Go here, not there. Stay where there are people. Come home before dark. Don’t answer if they provoke you. Don’t go alone if you can help it. Because once I had become what I was, ordinary cruelty no longer felt ordinary. Rowan finally sighed and rubbed a hand over his face. “I hate leaving you alone.” “You don’t leave me alone.” “You know what I mean.” I did. He meant in the bigger sense. In the world sense. I dipped the cloth back into the water and said quietly, “You can’t stay in the doorway all day.” “Want to bet?” That made me smile properly this time, small though it was. Rowan looked at me for a second, and something in his expression loosened. He stepped forward, pushed damp hair back from my forehead with rough gentleness, and said in a lower voice, “If something feels wrong, you come get me. Immediately.” My throat tightened. “Okay,” I whispered. He held my gaze another second, making sure I meant it, then finally left. The room felt colder after he was gone. By midday, the lower market had filled with noise. I kept my hood up and my eyes down as I moved between the stalls with a basket over one arm. The common market was the only part of the territory where I still felt half familiar. Not safe exactly. That word had changed shape for me over the last few months. But familiar enough that I knew who would nod, who would ignore me, who might pretend not to stare. A few people recognized me. Old Mrs. Tallen called, “Boy, tell your brother I still need that split firewood by tomorrow.” I nodded and promised I would. A herb seller I had once helped through inventory gave me a brief, uncertain smile before glancing at the people around us and looking away. That was how it was now. Recognition with caution attached. No one wanted to be too kind to me where others might see. I bought dried herbs and lamp oil, then stopped at a butcher’s stall where the scent of raw meat hit me so sharply I almost reeled. My stomach turned. I stepped back fast enough to bump into the edge of a post. “You alright?” the butcher asked. “Yes,” I said too quickly. But I wasn’t. For the past few days, something had felt off. Not enough for panic. Not enough even for certainty. Just a strange heaviness under my skin, a heat that came and went, moments when scents seemed too sharp or sounds too loud. I had told myself it was winter sickness. Stress. Lack of sleep. Anything but another change. I was so busy trying not to think that I didn’t notice the carriage until it rolled to a stop near the central well. Conversation around me shifted. Subtle, but immediate. People moved differently when high-ranking wolves arrived. Straighter backs. Lower eyes. Quieter voices. I looked up before I could stop myself. The carriage was black, trimmed in silver, marked with the Blackthorne crest. My breath caught. The door opened, and Xylie Blackthorne stepped down first in a dark winter cloak, elegant and sharp-faced. Behind her came Amanda Vale, all pale beauty and polished grace, as if the cold had been instructed not to touch her. I froze. It wasn’t as if they would notice me. People like them did not look at boys carrying oil and herbs. Still, instinct made me step farther back toward the edge of the stall line. Amanda said something to Xylie and laughed softly. They moved through the market like the path had been made for them. I lowered my gaze at once. My palms had gone damp. I told myself it was foolish. They weren’t here for me. No one in their circle thought about me long enough to come looking. And yet a familiar shame crawled under my skin anyway—the kind that had no logic, only memory. The memory of whispers. The memory of being looked at too long. The memory of knowing I did not belong in anyone’s idea of what should exist. I turned away, meaning to leave before they came any nearer. That was when the world tilted. It happened so suddenly I thought, for one stupid second, that I had slipped. But my feet were still planted. It was everything else that moved. My vision blurred at the edges. Sound dulled, then sharpened so violently it hurt. I could smell wet wool, horse sweat, blood from the butcher’s table, old pine smoke from a distant chimney, the metal tang of carriage wheels, perfume—sweet and floral and cloying—coming from somewhere too far away for me to be smelling it at all. A wave of heat rushed through me. Not outside. Inside. My knees weakened. I caught the edge of a stall before I fell. The world lurched again, and a burst of dizziness ran through me so hard my stomach twisted. “Boy?” Someone touched my sleeve. I jerked away on instinct. “Sorry,” a woman said, startled. “I’m fine,” I heard myself say. But even to me, it didn’t sound true. I could barely breathe. Not because there wasn’t air. Because suddenly the air was too much. Every scent in the market came at me all at once, thick and overwhelming. My pulse pounded at the base of my throat. My skin felt too tight. My wrists, my neck, the space behind my ears—everything burned. Fear struck cold and clean. No. No, no, no. I left the basket. I didn’t even realize I’d done it until I was halfway out of the market, walking too fast, then stumbling, one hand pressed against the wall of a narrow side lane. People passed at the far end and blurred together. I bent forward slightly and tried to breathe. This was wrong. This was impossible. I had already differentiated. Hadn’t I? No, I thought wildly, no—I had been sorted, labeled, placed. That was different. That wasn’t the same as certainty. It was just what happened when enough time passed and nothing changed. And now something was changing. A tremor went through me so hard my teeth nearly clicked. Home. I needed Rowan. I pushed myself off the wall and forced my legs to move. By the time I reached the house, my hands were shaking so badly I couldn’t lift the latch properly. The door opened before I managed it. Rowan stood there, one look from his guild days still sharp enough to cut through lies and distance. His expression changed instantly. “Kyle.” I tried to answer and failed. Rowan caught me before I pitched forward, one hand under my arm, the other going to my forehead. Then to the side of my neck. His face went pale. “You’re burning.” “I don’t know what’s happening,” I whispered. Rowan swore under his breath and got me inside, shutting the door hard behind us. My legs barely felt like mine by then. Heat pooled in my veins and under my skin in waves, broken by chills that made me shake. Rowan half-walked, half-carried me to the back room and sat me on the edge of the bed. “Look at me,” he said. I tried. His hands framed my face. His expression was wrong—too sharp, too frightened. “What do you feel?” “Hot,” I whispered. “Anywhere specific?” “Everywhere.” He went still. I saw it happen. Saw the realization begin before he even spoke. His nostrils flared once. Then again. He was scenting the air. My stomach dropped. No. I didn’t say it out loud. I couldn’t. But Rowan heard it anyway. I could see it in his face. “No,” I whispered at last, because I needed someone to deny it. Rowan’s jaw tightened. “Kyle,” he said, voice too careful now, too controlled, “stay here.” My fingers caught his sleeve with sudden panic. “Rowan—” “I’m getting a healer.” His eyes flicked over me once more, taking in the shaking, the heat, the scent that was probably changing even now into something neither of us wanted to name first. For the first time in months, maybe longer, I saw something close to helplessness in my brother’s face. And that frightened me more than the fever. Because if Rowan looked like that, then whatever was happening to me was worse than I had imagined. Much worse.