Caught Between Two Alphas

Chapter Three

Sophia

The Silverfrost compound looks nothing like I remember.

Not that I’d ever been on this side before. When you’re Luna, you enter through the main gates, past the marble fountains and manicured hedgerows, escorted by honor guards in ceremonial blues. You glide up the white stone steps while staff bow their heads, and you never—never—use the service entrance. That’s for deliveries, maintenance crews, and the invisible people who keep the pack running while you sleep in silk sheets.

Now I shuffle through that very entrance behind Alcyde, just another stray omega dragged in from the cold. My feet squelch in mud that no one bothers to pave over back here. The door is rusted at the hinges, and someone’s carved “ABANDON HOPE” into the frame.

Charming.

Dawn breaks ugly over the compound—bruised sky bleeding pink and yellow at the edges. My body is a catalog of pain: jaw swollen from the rogue’s fist, thighs sticky with dried blood, wrists still raw where phantom rope burns won’t fade.

Every step sends fire through muscles I didn’t know Sophia had. This body is soft where mine was hard, weak where mine was strong. But it knows exhaustion. It knows work.

The main building looms ahead, and I finally see it for what it is—not the “functional architecture” I once praised at pack meetings, but a concrete box designed to warehouse bodies. Three stories of mesh-covered windows that don’t open, walls stained with water damage and something darker. The Silverfrost banner flies at half-mast beside a black flag. Mourning colors. For me.

God, the irony burns.

Shift change brings controlled chaos. Warriors jog the perimeter in their midnight-blue gear, all perfect synchronization, muscles gleaming with sweat. I used to love watching them train, thinking how powerful our pack looked. Now I see the careful distance they keep from the building’s omega entrance, like poverty might be contagious.

Betas haul supplies from trucks, barking orders at omega workers who struggle under boxes twice their size. One girl—can’t be more than fourteen—drops a crate of canned goods. The Beta cuffs her across the head, casual as breathing. She doesn’t even cry, just scrambles to pick up the scattered cans while he watches, arms crossed.

I used to think our pack was civilized. Progressive. I signed policies about “omega welfare” and “pack unity” from my temperature-controlled office, never bothering to check if they meant anything down here.

“Keep walking,” Alcyde murmurs behind me. “Don’t look at anyone.”

Council investigators cluster in the courtyard—black suits, silver badges, that particular brand of bureaucratic arrogance that says they’d rather be anywhere else. They’re interviewing a Beta who gives textbook non-answers while his eyes track us. When he spots me, there’s a flicker of something. Not recognition. Curiosity maybe. Fresh meat.

Fragments of conversation drift past: “…Luna’s memorial next week…” “…Council investigation…” “…found hanging in her closet…” “…always was unstable…”

My blood freezes. Hanging? That lying, murderous bastard. Anson strangled me during s*x, crying while he did it, begging for my forgiveness. Now they’re saying I killed myself? That I was weak? Unstable?

The rage is so hot It makes my vision blur. I stumble, and Alcyde’s hand touches my elbow—brief, steadying.

“Breathe,” he says quietly. “Getting angry here gets you killed.”

Inside, the smell hits me like a slap—industrial bleach barely covering the stench of sweat, fear, and something else. Desperation maybe. The hallways are polished concrete that makes every footstep echo. The walls are painted institutional gray, the kind that’s supposed to hide dirt but just makes everything look diseased.

An omega boy mops the floor on his knees, hands wrapped in bloody bandages that leak pink into his bucket. He can’t be older than twelve. When he glances up as we pass, the look he gives me is pure pity. Not for my injuries—for my arrival. Like I’ve just been sentenced to something worse than death.

I thought I knew this place. Thought I understood how my pack worked. I had meetings about omega integration, for f**k’s sake. I allocated budgets for their “care and maintenance.” Care and maintenance. Like they were equipment.

We pass doors marked “Interrogation 1” and “Discipline.” The medical bay reeks of alcohol and old blood, with an undertone of something chemical and wrong.

Everything’s been scrubbed recently—too recently. The kind of deep clean that only happens when someone’s trying to hide evidence.

A Beta emerges from Interrogation 1, knuckles split and shirt splattered with something dark. He nods at Alcyde, glances at me with the kind of interest that makes my skin crawl, then continues down the hall whistling.

Upstairs, the omega quarters hit me like a punch to the gut.

The walls are covered in graffiti—not the artistic kind, but the desperate scratching of people with nothing left to lose. “OMEGA = OWNED” is carved deep into the paint. Below it: “Maria survived 3 years” and “They killed Jenny” and “DON’T TRUST THE WATER.” A list of initials runs the length of one wall, some crossed out, some circled, some with dates. How many omegas have passed through here? How many survived?

The common room has all the charm of a detention center—bunk beds bolted to walls like a barracks, plastic chairs cracked and stained, a flickering TV playing static. The windows have bars. Actual bars. When did I approve that? Or did I ever even know?

The smell is overwhelming—too many bodies in too small a space, unwashed sheets, the sour stench of fear-sweat that never really fades. There’s a bucket in the corner that I don’t want to know the purpose of.

This is where my omegas lived? While I slept in a bed that cost more than they’d see in a lifetime? While I complained about the thread count of my sheets?

The desk supervisor Is ancient, gray hair yanked into a bun so tight it pulls her eyes into permanent disapproval. Her badge reads “MARTA” and her expression says she’s seen everything and is impressed by none of it.

“New runner,” Alcyde says, voice carefully neutral. “Found her by the creek. She’s got medical needs.”

Marta’s inspection is thorough and dismissive. She catalogs every bruise, every tear, and finds me wanting. “Name?”

“Sophia Alvarez.”

“Moonstone?”

“Was.”

“You’re Silverfrost now. No drugs, no fights, no drama. Work, eat, keep quiet. Cause trouble and you’re out.” She waves at the bunks. “Pick one. Fresh sheets are in the bin—if there are any left. Laundry at six, kitchen at nine. Latrine duty once a week. You miss a shift, you don’t eat.”

“What about—” I start to ask about basic things—medical care, rest days, basic human dignity—but Marta’s look stops me cold.

“What about what? You think this is a hotel? You work or you’re gone. End of story.”

She dismisses Alcyde with a look, but he leans close to me first, close enough that I smell his cologne—same one he wore to my funeral planning, apparently.

“Stay quiet. Don’t trust anyone. Don’t take food from strangers. Don’t go anywhere alone. I’ll check on you when I can.”

Then he’s gone, and I’m alone in a room full of strangers who size me up like meat at market.

“Too fat for kitchen duty,” one girl mutters, not bothering to lower her voice.

“Look at those wrists—definitely a hog,” says another.

“Give her a week. Maybe less.”

“Bet she’s gone by morning. Ones with soft-bellies always break first.”

I claim a bunk at the end, as far from the others as possible. The mattress is thin enough to feel every spring, and there’s a suspicious stain on the pillow that I try not to think about. The sheets in the bin are “fresh” in the sense that they’re slightly less filthy than whatever was there before.

A pale girl with a sharp jaw and clever eyes approaches. She’s got burn scars on her neck, partially hidden by dirty blonde hair. “I’m Liza. You need to know who to avoid, just ask.”

She doesn’t wait for a response, just melts back to her bunk. I file her away as either helpful or dangerous. Maybe both.

The other omegas go about their evening routines—some playing cards with a deck missing half its faces, others darning clothes with threads pulled from their own garments. One girl sits in the corner, rocking slightly, humming something tuneless. Nobody comforts her. Nobody even looks.

When the lights dim—not off, never completely off—I stare at the ceiling and try to reconcile this reality with my memories.

I was Luna for three years. Three years of thinking I was making things better for everyone. I instituted “reforms”—monthly health checks for omegas (that apparently never happened), education programs (that existed only on paper), protection protocols (that no one enforced). I signed documents and made speeches and patted myself on the back for being so progressive.

But I never came up here. Never walked these halls. Never asked an omega directly what they needed.

I stayed in my tower, making decisions about people I never bothered to know. I thought giving them leftovers from the Alpha’s table was generosity. I thought letting them work inside instead of the mines was kindness. I thought I was a good Luna.

The shame burns worse than any bruises.

Around midnight, I hear it—soft crying from three bunks over. A girl, maybe fifteen, curled into herself. The others ignore her, but I can’t. I slide out of bed, bare feet on cold concrete, and crouch beside her.

“Hey,” I whisper. “You okay?”

She flinches so hard she nearly falls off the narrow mattress. “Don’t touch me! Please, I’ll be quiet, I promise—”

“I’m not going to hurt you.” I back up, hands visible. “Just wanted to check on you.”

She stares at me with eyes that have seen too much. “Nobody checks on anyone here.”

“Maybe that should change.”

She laughs, bitter and broken. “You’re new. You’ll learn. Caring gets you killed.”

I want to argue, but what do I know? I’m the Luna who let this happen under her nose. Who signed papers and gave speeches while children cried themselves to sleep in barracks.

I was never a good Luna. I was blind as f**k.

Back in my bunk, I pull the thin blanket up to my chin and breathe through my mouth to avoid the smell. Tomorrow, they’ll burn my body. The Council will make speeches about tragic losses and mental health. Anson will play the grieving widower, and everyone will believe the lie that I was weak enough to hang myself.

But I’m not dead. I’m here, at the bottom of the hierarchy I thought I understood. And maybe that’s exactly where I need to be to finally see the truth.

The omega quarters settle into uneasy sleep—snoring, whimpering, the occasional scream from someone caught in nightmares.

This is the Silverfrost Pack I created through negligence. This is my legacy.

No wonder someone wanted me dead. The only mystery is why it took so long.