Caught Between Two Alphas

Chapter Four

Sophia

Life as an omega is nothing if not routine. Brutal, exhausting routine.

The wake-up whistle splits the air at 4 AM like a knife through skull. Marta slams her cane against the metal bunks, the sound ricocheting off concrete walls.

“Up! Chores start in twenty! Anyone late loses breakfast!”

Twenty girls stumble from beds, fighting over the three working sinks. We share one tube of toothpaste that tastes like chalk, passing it down the line while trying not to think about the blood on some girls’ gums. No privacy, no dignity, just efficiency.

I learn to pee fast because there’s only two toilets and someone’s always waiting.

The chore list Is already posted, assignments written in Marta’s angry scrawl: laundry, kitchen, maintenance, latrine duty. They put me in the kitchen, probably thinking the fat girl knows her way around food. It’s meant to be an insult, but joke’s on them—Sophia’s hands know exactly what to do.

The kitchen supervisor is a broken Beta named Clyde—glass eye that never quite focuses, hands that shake from some old trauma, and the permanent stench of garlic and failure. He points me to the prep station next to Liza.

“Herbs. Chop fine, no stems. You waste anything, you don’t eat.”

The knife feels perfect in my hand. Not like when I was Luna, playing at cooking for fun. Sophia’s hands have calluses in all the right places, muscle memory from years of this exact work. The rhythm comes naturally—chop, scrape, chop, scrape. My body knows this suffering.

Liza works beside me, knife flying despite the burn scars that web up her arms, fingers permanently curled into claws. Nobody talks. We just chop, mix, repeat. But I start to notice things—how Liza saves the best herbs for certain dishes, how she adds extra seasoning when Clyde’s not looking, little rebellions that make the food bearable.

“You’re good at this,” she says quietly, watching me separate leaves with practiced efficiency.

“Had to eat somehow in Moonstone,” I lie. But it feels true. Sophia’s body remembers years of kitchen work, hands moving without thought.

When we prep the chicken, I spot dried lavender in the spice rack. A memory surfaces: teaching pack pups that lavender brings out the meat’s sweetness. My secret ingredient as Luna, the thing that made Anson request my cooking over the professional chef’s.

“Mind if I add lavender?” I ask Liza quietly.

She freezes, knife suspended. Studies me with eyes that have seen too much. Then nods once.

Clyde notices. “We don’t use that unless it’s for the Alpha’s table.”

“Thought it might help,” I say. “Makes the cheap meat taste better.”

He grunts but lets it go. Liza watches me work the lavender into the meat, something unreadable in her eyes. “You know things,” she says. Not a question.

“Everyone knows something.”

“Not like that. You know pack things. High-rank things.”

I shrug, but she’s already figured out I’m not what I seem. Smart girl. Dangerous girl.

At lunch service, the hierarchy slaps me in the face again. Betas get first pick—perfect portions, fresh and hot, actual vegetables. Warriors get seconds—decent but not great, mostly protein. By the time food reaches the omega tables, it’s scraps and burnt bits, the vegetables just the water they were boiled in. We eat at the back, by the trash bins, like we’re one step from being thrown out ourselves.

A tiny girl sits beside me—maybe twelve, hair chopped short and ragged, teeth too big for her face. “I’m Tilly. You’re from Moonstone? They say it’s worse there.”

“Not by much,” I admit, looking at her bowl of gray slop.

She laughs wetly. “At least we’re inside. The mine omegas eat underground.”

Mine omegas. I approved expanding the mining operation last year. “More efficient to keep workers on-site,” the proposal said. I never asked what that meant for the people underground.

When I push my bowl toward Tilly—the meat portions, specifically—she stares like I’ve handed her gold. “Nobody shares,” she whispers.

“I do.”

She inhales the food before I can change my mind. Around us, other omegas watch with a mixture of suspicion and hope. Sharing is weakness here, but it’s also power. It says you’re strong enough to give things away.

Liza leans close. “You don’t have to do that. Save your strength.”

“Strength for what? To die alone?”

She considers this. “Most do.”

“I can afford to lose a few pounds.”

After lunch, I study the patterns. Older omegas form protective clusters around the younger ones, subtle but consistent. Betas always travel in pairs, watching each other as much as us. Some warriors linger near the kitchen, and the way omega girls shrink from them tells me everything.

I spot Alcyde once, watching from a corner. He doesn’t acknowledge me, but his presence keeps the worst of the warriors away. He stays until the last dish is washed, then vanishes without a word.

That afternoon, folding bloodstained laundry, Liza asks, “Why’d you really run?”

“Didn’t want to die in Moonstone.”

She holds up a sheet with a hole that looks suspiciously like a claw mark. “Some of us tried running. The fence has silver now. Guards shoot to kill.”

“When did that start?”

“Two years ago. After the last uprising.”

Uprising. I remember signing something about “containment protocols” but I never… God, I never asked what it meant.

“We’re omegas,” Liza continues. “Nobody cares what happens to us.”

The words sit between us like a challenge. And something in me shifts. The old Hannah would have made speeches about unity and pack values. But Sophia? Sophia’s going to change things from the ground up.

That night, I start working out.

It begins small—pushups by my bunk after lights-out, using the floor’s filth as motivation to hold proper form. Twenty the first night leave me shaking. But Sophia’s body knows work, knows how to push through pain. The muscle memory is there, just buried under soft flesh and years of giving up.

I discover the compound’s routines and exploit them. Up at 3:30, before the whistle, to stretch in the bathroom.

Kitchen work becomes strength training—hauling massive pots, kneading bread until my forearms scream, carrying trays that others need two people for. I volunteer for maintenance shifts, scrubbing floors on hands and knees until my core burns.

“You’re gonna hurt yourself,” Tilly says, watching me do squats with a water bucket.

“I’m gonna get stronger.”

“Why? We’re omegas. Weak is what we’re supposed to be.”

“Says who?”

She doesn’t have an answer.

I revolutionize my eating. No more empty carbs. I trade bread portions for meat, hoard boiled eggs, pocket raw vegetables during prep. Liza notices and starts sliding me extra protein. “You’re trying to change,” she says. “I want to see if it works.”

Within a week, my body starts responding. The stairs don’t wind me as much. The kitchen work feels easier. My reflection shows someone still soft but with a purpose now, a determination that makes the plain face less forgettable.

Training days become my religion. Duke, the sadistic Beta trainer, runs “conditioning” for omegas—supposedly to keep us healthy, really to exhaust us into compliance. But I attack it like my life depends on it.

“Five laps,” he barks at dawn, and I run like I’m being chased. Which I am, in a way. Chased by the ghost of who I used to be.

My feet sink in mud, legs screaming, lungs on fire. Sophia’s body wants to quit with every step. But I picture Anson’s face, his tears as he murdered me, and I keep going. By lap three, I’m passing other girls. By lap five, I’m still standing when others collapse.

“You,” Duke points at me. “Slower than s**t but you don’t stop. That’s something.”

After official training, I stay. Work through combat forms in the mud, movements I taught to warriors when I was Luna. My body doesn’t respond right—too heavy, too slow—but I drill them anyway. Jab, cross, dodge, repeat. Other omegas watch from windows, some mocking, some curious.

Then Tilly joins me. “Teach me,” she says.

“It’s hard.”

“Everything’s hard. At least this might help.”

So I teach her basic blocks, how to break a hold, where to hit to cause maximum pain. Soon Liza joins, then two more girls, then five. We train in secret, after dark, turning ourselves into something nobody expects omegas to be.

Within two weeks, the changes are obvious. My clothes hang different. My stamina doubles. I finish kitchen shifts without gasping, run laps without puking. The soft belly shrinks, replaced by something harder. Not the Luna’s athletic build, but strong in a different way.

Working strong. Survivor strong.

“You’re different,” Marta says one morning, studying me. “Harder.”

“Just trying to earn my keep.”

She snorts. “Don’t get too strong. They don’t like that.”

But I can’t stop. I do pullups on the bunk frame, planks until my whole body shakes, stairs until my legs give out. I stretch every night, feeling Sophia’s body remember movements it never learned.

The rope burns on my wrists fade to nothing, but the motivation remains.

My omega friends—because that’s what they’ve become—watch my transformation with something like hope.

“You think we could all change?” Tilly asks one night, abs sore from the exercises I taught her.

“We’re already changing,” I tell her. “They just haven’t noticed yet.”

Three weeks in, I’ve lost twenty pounds and gained something else. Purpose.

The omegas look to me now—for training tips, for food advice, for little acts of rebellion that make them feel human. I teach them to share resources, to protect each other, to find strength in unity.

Everything I should have done as Luna but never thought to try.

One evening, Alcyde catches me doing combat drills alone. “You train like a warrior,” he observes.

“I train like someone who refuses to be a victim.”

He watches me work through a complex form, movements sharp despite my still-soft body. “Who taught you that?”

“Life,” I lie.

“Life doesn’t teach Alpha-level combat forms.”

I meet his eyes. “Maybe omegas are capable of more than you think.”

He’s quiet for a long moment. “The funeral’s tomorrow. Council’s ordering everyone to attend.”

My stomach drops. Tomorrow they burn Hannah’s body. My body. “Even omegas?”

“Especially omegas. They want everyone to see what happens to those who can’t handle pack life.” His jaw tightens with something like anger. “Be careful, Sophia. People are starting to notice you.”

After he leaves, I punch the wall until my knuckles bleed. Tomorrow they’ll sell the lie that Hannah was weak, unstable, suicidal. But I’m not dead. I’m here, getting stronger every day, building an army from the bottom up.

I was never a good Luna. I see that now. I was blind, privileged, useless to the people who needed me most.

But Sophia? Sophia’s going to be something better. Something harder. Something that brings change not from the top down but from the ground up.

The funeral will burn Hannah’s past. But from those ashes, something new is rising.

And when I’m strong enough, when my omega army is ready, we’ll show them all what happens when you treat people like property.

Anson thinks he killed me. But he only killed the weak version. The one who trusted. The one who loved.

This version? This version is all rage and muscle and patient planning.

And she’s just getting started.