Caught Between Two Alphas

Chapter Five

Sophia

Twilight bleeds across the North Georgia woods as I crouch behind a moss-covered oak, watching my own funeral. The irony isn't lost on me—Hannah Durand, once Luna of Silverfrost Pack, now hiding in the shadows as Sophia Alvarez, the omega nobody knows exists.

The pyre stands ten feet tall, stacked with split oak and woven with white gardenias that glow pale in the dying light. The entire pack has gathered—more people than I've ever seen in one place. Betas and warriors stand in perfect formation wearing ceremonial blues, their collars crisp despite the humidity. Omegas cluster at the edges in pressed whites, eyes red and puffy, shoulders hunched like they expect to be struck for crying too loud. Even a Council representative has come, standing apart in his expensive suit with the silver moon badge gleaming on his lapel, taking notes in a leather journal.

They've all come to mourn the Luna who supposedly hanged herself in her closet. Who couldn't handle the pressure. Who was weak.

Liars. Every single one of them complicit in the lie that covers up my murder.

At the head of the assembly stands Old Bertha, the pack's medicine woman, her silver-tipped staff planted deep in the mud. Her face is granite-hard, carved with scars and decades of secrets. She doesn't need to speak to command the crowd—her presence alone brings silence. The wind catches her robes, and for a moment she looks ancient, eternal, like the mountains themselves.

I scan the crowd for him. My mate. My murderer. The man who cried while he strangled the life from me.

Anson arrives late, deliberately so. He always understood the power of making people wait. He moves through the crowd in a black wool coat that hangs loose on his frame—he's lost weight since killing me. His beard is ragged, unkempt, lips cracked and bitten raw. But he still carries that dangerous grace that first made my heart race, that wolf-like fluidity even in human form.

At his elbow, never more than inches away, is Allura—his foster sister, though they share no blood. She's dressed for a wedding, not a funeral, in flowing white that makes her pale hair shine like moonlight. Barefoot despite the cold ground, she steers him through the crowd with practiced ease, whispering constantly in his ear, her free hand trailing through the air like she's conducting invisible music. She positions herself perfectly—supportive family member, potential replacement, the obvious choice for next Luna.

On the opposite side of the clearing stands Alcyde, Anson's younger brother. He's a wall of controlled fury in a dark turtleneck, arms crossed so tight the muscles cord, jaw clenched hard enough to crack teeth. But he's not watching the pyre—his electric blue eyes scan the treeline methodically, systematically, like he's hunting for something that shouldn't exist.

For a heartbeat, our eyes meet across the distance. Every hair on my body stands on end. I know he can't possibly recognize me in this borrowed body, but something passes between us—a recognition of survival maybe. I press myself flat against the rough bark, holding my breath until his gaze moves on. But I feel him watching, always watching.

Bertha raises her staff, and silence falls absolute. Even the forest seems to hold its breath. "We stand on the bones of our ancestors," she intones in the old language that tastes of copper and river water. "We gather to honor the Luna, daughter of Durand, wolf of the frost line. She was fierce in life, and we send her fierce into death."

Warriors step forward with baskets, tossing white gardenias and splashing honey-wine onto the wood. The sweet smell makes my stomach turn—these were my favorite things in life, and now they'll burn with whatever body they've put in my place.

Anson approaches the pyre slowly, each step measured like he's walking to his own execution. He pulls a folded paper from his coat—a letter?—and tucks it between the logs with shaking hands. When he turns, his face is blank, dead, the expression of a man who's been bled dry. But I saw the tears tracking down his cheeks, the way his shoulders shook.

Good. Let him drown in guilt.

Allura glides forward next, making sure everyone sees her grief. She lays a lock of her own white-blonde hair on the wood—not mine, hers, already claiming my place. She makes a show of blessing the pyre with delicate fingers, then whispers to Anson, loud enough for the closest wolves to hear: "She's at peace now. No more suffering."

His jaw ticks—barely controlled rage at the implication I was suffering—but he says nothing. Allura's hand finds his, possessive, comforting, calculating.

Alcyde never moves from his position. He stands like a sentinel, a guardian of something already lost. The only sign of emotion is the tightness around his eyes, the way his fingers dig into his biceps hard enough to leave bruises.

The pack begins their dirge—not a hymn but something older, an ancient howl that builds and twists through the air. Every wolf joins in, the harmonics vibrating in my chest, in my bones, reminding me of what it meant to belong. To be part of something greater.

Bertha slams her staff against the earth, and the pyre ignites.

Flames race up the sides, hungry and golden, turning flowers to ash and wine to steam. The heat slams into the crowd, making everyone step back except Anson, who stands there letting it burn his face. In the smoke and shimmer, I swear I see her—the old me, Hannah, standing proud with her amber eyes bright and her Luna crown gleaming. She looks at peace. She looks free.

But she's not me anymore. She's dead, and I'm what crawled back.

I watch Anson's face crumble as the flames rise higher. Tears stream freely now while Allura holds his hand, her thumb stroking possessively, already marking her territory. He's staring at the pyre like a man watching his soul burn, his future turn to smoke.

Alcyde's gaze returns to the treeline, and this time he stares directly at me. Not through me—at me. Like he knows something survived this funeral. Something that shouldn't exist. Something dangerous.

I stay until the pyre collapses into glowing embers, until the last wolf has drifted away, until only ash and regret remain. Only then do I stand on shaking legs and creep to the edge of the clearing. I press my palm to the warm earth where Hannah Durand officially died.

"I'll remember everything," I whisper. "And I'll make them all pay."

~°~

The morning after my funeral, I'm hauling compost behind the kitchen when the screaming starts.

Not omega screaming—this is a Beta in real panic, the kind of terror that cuts through everything else. I drop the bin, potato peels scattering, and run toward the sound, deep into the woods near the creek where the trees grow thick and the shadows never quite lift.

I find her in a hollow under a fallen cypress: Marylou, the honey-blonde Beta who calls all the omegas "kitten" and wears her privilege like designer perfume. She's curled on her side, clutching her calf with blood-slicked hands, whole body shaking. A copperhead, thick as my arm and glossy with venom, slithers away through the reeds.

"Don't move!" I drop beside her, seeing the puncture wounds already swelling angry red, skin going white and glassy around the edges. My mind races through options—this isn't Hollywood, where you suck out venom. This requires real knowledge, the kind the old Luna learned from Bertha during long afternoons that feel like another lifetime.

"Breathe through your nose, out through your mouth," I order, ripping my sleeve off to tie a tourniquet above the wound. "If you hyperventilate, the venom hits your heart faster."

She nods, teeth chattering with fear and shock. "Am I going to lose the leg? Oh god, am I going to die?"

"Not if you listen to me." I scramble to the creek bank, searching desperately until I find it—plantain, growing wild and thick. I grab handfuls, chew them to bitter pulp, and press the paste against the wound. "Count to fifty. Out loud."

By thirty, the swelling has visibly slowed. By fifty, the white ring has faded to pink. I apply fresh plantain, and the relief on her face is almost comical.

"How did you know that?" she gasps, staring at me like I'm something impossible.

"Old Luna trick," I say without thinking. "You'd be surprised what sticks."

The woods suddenly fill with people—Betas crashing through the brush, a warrior with his knife already drawn, all responding to the screams. They freeze when they see Marylou sitting up, tourniquet neat as a field medic's, bite already healing.

"Who are you?" demands a crew-cut Beta, suspicious.

"Alvarez. Kitchen rotation."

He looks between us, calculating. "You've done this before."

"Enough times." I turn to Marylou. "Keep it clean, elevate it tonight. You'll walk fine tomorrow."

She grabs my wrist with surprising strength. "You saved my life," she announces, loud enough for everyone to hear. Then, quieter, just for me: "My daddy's on the Council. You want out of the kitchen, you let me know."

The offer is so unexpected I almost laugh. A Beta, offering to help an omega. Instead, I nod once and help them carry her back toward the compound.

I don't see Alcyde until I'm almost at the kitchen door. He leans against a pine tree, arms folded, one eyebrow raised in what might be approval.

"Nice work," he says, voice carefully neutral.

"Wouldn't want a nice young lady like that limping in her Louboutins."

Something flickers in his eyes—surprise maybe. He almost smiles. "Keep that up and they'll start thinking you're useful."

"Better than being forgotten."

He studies me with those intense blue eyes that see too much. "People are talking about you. The omega who knows things she shouldn't."

"Let them talk. It's better than silence."

He pushes off from the tree, takes a step closer. I smell his cologne—cedar and something darker. "Be careful, Sophia. Being noticed isn't always safe."

Then he's gone, melting into the trees like smoke. But something has shifted between us—a recognition that I'm more than just another omega, even if he doesn't know exactly what.

~°~

Lou doesn't wait for her leg to fully heal before she appears at the omega bunks three days later, grabs my arm with surprising strength, and announces: "You're coming with me."

Her cabin sits at the nice end of pack territory, up the hill where the air doesn't reek of desperation and the windows have actual glass. It's tiny but explodes with color—walls painted in sunshine yellow and poppy red, fairy lights strung across the porch, wind chimes that sing in the breeze. Cats are absolutely everywhere—on the furniture, in the sink, perched on stacks of veterinary journals. The place smells like citrus and secrets and home.

"Sit," she commands, sweeping three kittens off an armchair. "You saved my life, so now you're mine. House rules. You live here, you eat here, you become something better here."

"What about your father? The Council member?"

She snorts, picking up a massive orange tabby. "Council business keeps him gone two weeks out of three. If he complains, I'll tell him you're my emotional support omega." Her grin turns wicked. "He hates that."

She serves me real soup—chicken with vegetables that have actual flavor, herbs I can taste. I almost cry at the first spoonful. When she shows me the guest room—a converted pantry with clean sheets patterned with tiny moons and a window that actually opens—I do cry, just a little.

"First order of business," Lou announces the next morning, hauling me into the bathroom, "decontamination."

She fills an ancient clawfoot tub with steaming water, dumps in lavender and rosemary until the room smells like a garden, then orders: "Strip. I'm a vet, not a pervert. Trust me, I've seen worse."

I hate how this body looks—soft where Hannah was hard, bruised and scarred, nothing like the Luna's athletic build. But Lou is all business, scrubbing my back with a brush until my skin tingles pink, washing my hair with something that smells like eucalyptus and magic.

"You've got good bones under there," she observes, applying a face mask of honey and yogurt and something gritty. "Strong features. Just need to stop hiding them."

She plucks my brows into sharp arches, files my nails into subtle points, adds makeup so subtle it just looks like I finally got enough sleep. "See? You've got a look. Not what people expect from an omega. That's power."

The transformation becomes our shared obsession. Dawn runs that start as gasping stumbles around the block and become five-mile circuits through the hills. Weight training with her ancient dumbbells until my arms shake. Self-defense lessons that are half martial arts, half dirty fighting.

"Ever bite a man's nose off?" she asks cheerfully, demonstrating on a carrot. "Works every time. They never expect it from a woman."

She teaches me to make beauty products in her makeshift lab—mascara that won't run even through tears, lipstick that hides blood's metallic taste, lotions that kill infection while softening skin. "Looking harmless then striking when they don't expect it—that's how omegas win. That's how winners have always won."

But it's more than physical transformation. Lou makes me read pack law cover to cover, every code and tradition and ancient loophole. We argue succession rights and moon stories late into the night over wine she steals from her father's collection.

"They're all lies," she says, "but lies have power. Know the right lie at the right moment, and you can make anyone believe anything."

Three weeks in, the change is undeniable. My face has sharpened back to something closer to my original bone structure, arms showing real muscle definition. I can run five miles without stopping, lift twice what I could before. The kitchen supervisor doesn't recognize me when I show up for shifts.

Other omegas start coming to Lou's cabin at night with questions—how to handle aggressive Betas, how to avoid getting sick from bad food, how to survive. I help them quietly, teaching what Lou taught me, building something that feels like pack within pack.

Even Betas nod respectfully now. Warriors leave extra protein on my tray. Someone slips a note under the door: "You fixed Marylou. Can you fix this rash?" I laugh but make the ointment anyway.

"You're building an army," Lou observes one evening as we map patrol schedules and guard rotations. "Whether you know it or not."

Her father returns from Council business on week four—tall, cold, wearing a suit that costs more than most omegas see in a lifetime. He looks me over with calculating eyes, then at Lou. "She keeping you out of trouble?"

"She keeps me alive," Lou responds simply.

He nods grudgingly and disappears into his study. That night, fresh bread and good scotch appear on our table. Lou pours us each a glass.

"To new beginnings," she toasts.

I clink glasses, finally believing it's possible.