The Bullied Omega's Return

Chapter Two

By the time I reached River's Edge High, third period was half over and my jeans still had suspicious wet patches from when Damien had "accidentally" knocked over my mop bucket at the packhouse. And by accidentally, I mean he'd sauntered in while I was on my hands and knees, taken one look at my ass in the air, and promptly upended five gallons of dirty floor water across my lower half.

"Oops," he'd said with a razor-blade smile, golden eyes gleaming with something that wasn't quite hatred. "Guess you'll have to start over."

I'd fantasized about sixteen different ways to murder him, most involving implements from Geoff's kitchen and at least one involving a potato peeler in a place potatoes should never go.

Now, skulking through the eerily empty halls of River's Edge, I looked like I'd pissed myself spectacularly and smelled like Pine-Sol and failure. My birthmark throbbed like an angry social media notification – Someone's about to make fun of you! Click here for crushing self-esteem damage!

Mrs. Fincher, the ancient office secretary who'd survived both world wars and probably the extinction of the dinosaurs, looked at my late slip through glasses that magnified her eyes to insect proportions.

"Another doctor's appointment, Miss Reyes?" Her tone suggested she believed this explanation about as much as she believed in the moon landing.

"Yes," I lied, the word practically pre-programmed. "Monthly check-up."

Let her think I had some embarrassing chronic condition requiring frequent medical attention. It was better than the truth: Sorry, my stepmother volunteers me as tribute for pack servitude like she's running her own personal Hunger Games, minus the sponsors sending helpful gifts or the sweet release of a potential death.

Mrs. Fincher stamped my slip with the enthusiasm of someone punching a Nazi. "That's your third 'monthly' appointment this month," she said, one eyebrow climbing toward her hairline with the determination of Everest mountaineers. "You must be the most thoroughly examined student in River's Edge history."

"I'm very high maintenance," I offered with a smile that felt like broken glass on my face.

She handed over the stamped paper with a snort. "Just like your mother was."

The comment hit like an unexpected pothole – jarring, painful, and leaving something suspiciously misaligned in its wake.

"You... knew my mother?" I asked cautiously.

Mrs. Fincher's face softened marginally, which for her meant shifting from "gargoyle" to "slightly less intimidating gargoyle."

"Elisa was two years my junior. Prettiest girl in school, but kind to everyone. Even the weird kids." She shook her head. "Real tragedy, what happened. Your daddy was never the same after."

My mother – Elisa Reyes, former Luna of Silver Fang pack, legendary beauty, and woman who died pushing me into a world that decidedly didn't want me there. All I had of her was a tarnished locket with a tiny photo inside and the crushing weight of knowing her last act had been giving birth to twins: one perfect, one marked.

Guess which one killed her?

According to pack lore (and Victoria's frequent reminders), it was my fault. I'd come out last, apparently putting up a fight about entering this cruel world (smart fetal me), and the complications had been catastrophic. My father had held his mate as she bled out, cradling twin daughters – one with a strange crescent birthmark spanning her left cheek.

From that moment on, Alfred Reyes had looked at me and seen only his mate's killer.

Two years later, he'd married Victoria. Because what newly motherless infants needed most was obviously a stepmother whose heart made the arctic tundra look tropical.

"Miss Reyes?" Mrs. Fincher's voice snapped me back. "Class? Learning? Bright future? Any of these ringing a bell?"

"Right. Sorry. Going now."

I fled before she could see the dangerous moisture gathering in my eyes. Crying in school was the werewolf equivalent of bleeding in shark-infested waters – predators could smell vulnerability from a mile away.

I slipped into third-period English just as Ms. Hayes was dissecting Wuthering Heights, which felt appropriate given the gothic tragedy that was my existence. Sophia was already there, looking fresh as a damn daisy in a white sweater that probably cost more than my entire life. Her dark hair cascaded down her back in perfectly arranged waves, reflecting the fluorescent lights like she had her own personal lighting crew.

"...obsessive nature of Heathcliff's devotion demonstrates the thin line between love and hatred," Ms. Hayes was saying, sounding way too enthusiastic about toxic relationships for 10 AM on a Tuesday.

The only open seat was directly behind Damien, because the universe never passed up an opportunity to throat-punch me with irony. I slid into it, trying to be invisible, but his head turned slightly, nostrils flaring as he caught my scent.

A muscle in his jaw ticked. He didn't look at me, but I watched his knuckles whiten as he gripped his pencil harder.

Great. Already pissed off, and I hadn't even done anything except exist in his general vicinity. Story of my life.

"Ah, Arianna, how nice of you to join us," Ms. Hayes said, because teachers never let you just sneak in without public acknowledgment. It was in their contract, right after "must have inexplicable love for dry erase markers" and "shall assign group projects during mental health awareness week."

"Sorry," I muttered. "Doctor's appointment."

Twenty-five heads swiveled to stare at me. Twenty-five judgments formed about my still-damp jeans and disheveled appearance. Seven of those heads belonged to werewolves who could smell the Pine-Sol and packhouse on me, who knew exactly what "doctor's appointment" meant.

Sophia's lips curled in a smirk that would have made our evil stepmother proud. "She was helping at the packhouse," she announced, because apparently the concept of sister solidarity had died along with our mother. "Victoria volunteered her."

The human students just looked confused, but the wolves snickered. Being "volunteered" was code for "assigned menial omega tasks." In pack hierarchy, it was right up there with "hold my stuff" and "go fetch me something from across the room I could easily get myself."

"How... civic-minded," Ms. Hayes said uncertainly, before returning to Heathcliff's problematic behavior patterns, unaware she was standing in a room with several real-life examples.

A folded note landed on my desk. I opened it cautiously, like it might contain anthrax.

Pine-Sol's a good scent for you. Covers the desperation.

I didn't need to look up to know it came from Macy, Damien's beta groupie who'd been trying to climb him like a tree since freshman year. She sat two rows over, her chemically-enhanced red hair glowing like a hazard sign, which was appropriate given the toxic waste dump that was her personality.

I shoved the note in my pocket and focused on Ms. Hayes, who was now asking for examples of unhealthy relationship dynamics in the novel. I could have given her a PowerPoint presentation on those from my daily life.

When the bell rang, I gathered my stuff at warp speed, desperate to escape before—

"Not so fast, Pine-Sol," Damien's voice wrapped around me like barbed wire covered in honey. Sweet, but designed to make you bleed.

He'd moved with that unnatural werewolf quickness, blocking my path to the door. Up close, he was devastating – six feet of coiled muscle, golden eyes framed by lashes that should be illegal on a guy, and full lips perpetually fixed in an arrogant smirk. His blond hair had that artfully tousled look that suggested he'd either just rolled out of bed or wanted you to imagine him there.

"I have calculus," I said, trying to sidestep him.

He moved with me, a predator anticipating prey. "Heard you did a s**t job on the floors this morning," he said, voice pitched low enough that passing humans wouldn't hear. "Mother had to ask one of the other omegas to redo them."

Shame burned through me, hot and acidic. I'd tried to do a good job, but with Victoria's impossible timeline and Damien's water sabotage...

"Maybe if someone hadn't kicked over my bucket—"

"Maybe if someone knew how to clean properly—"

"Maybe if someone wasn't such an entitled d**k—"

His eyes flashed gold – actual wolf gold, not human hazel – and for a second, I thought I'd pushed too far. But instead of anger, something else flickered across his face. Something that made the air between us feel suddenly charged, like the moment before lightning strikes.

"You smell like pack work," he said, leaning closer, inhaling deeply. The move was pure wolf, inappropriate by human standards, and weirdly intimate. "But underneath that, you still smell like—"

"Yo, Damien!" Kyle's voice shattered whatever strange moment was happening. "You coming to calc or what? I need to copy your homework before Gonzalez collects it."

Damien's expression shuttered closed, the mask of Alpha arrogance sliding back into place. "Watch yourself, omega," he growled, but the threat felt hollow somehow, like he was reading lines from a script he'd suddenly lost interest in.

He stalked away, leaving me confused and breathing too fast, my traitorous heart playing dubstep against my ribcage.

What the actual hell was that?

---

Calculus was a nightmare of quadratic equations and humiliation.

"Ms. Reyes," Mr. Gonzalez said, peering at my half-finished test, "I expected better from you."

Join the club, I thought bitterly. There's a support group that meets Thursdays. It's called Everyone in My Life, Ever.

My brain was foggy from too many chores and too little sleep. The equations swam before my eyes like drunken fish, and my birthmark pulsed in time with my anxiety. Three days until my eighteenth birthday. Three days until I'd either be bound to some random Alpha or left to serve the pack forever.

The bell couldn't ring fast enough.

I found refuge at my usual lunch spot – the far corner of the cafeteria, partially hidden behind a fake plant that had collected enough dust to qualify as an evolving ecosystem. The location offered strategic advantages: minimal visibility, proximity to an exit, and decent surveillance of the cafeteria's social geography.

"Mind if I join the pity party?"

Liam dropped his tray across from mine with a clatter. Fellow omega, fellow social outcast, fellow member of Pack Servitude Anonymous. Unlike me, his status wasn't advertised on his face – he looked like any other gangly seventeen-year-old, with wire-rimmed glasses, a face too pretty for a boy, and a spray of freckles across pale skin. It was his scent that marked him: sweet, submissive, the olfactory equivalent of a "kick me" sign to Alphas.

"Did you bring alcohol to this pity party?" I asked. "Because I've had a day that demands at least tequila, possibly absinthe."

"I brought contraband cookies from the kitchen," he offered, sliding a napkin-wrapped bundle across the table. "Geoff says you looked like you needed the calories."

The cookies were still warm, chocolate chips melting at the edges. My throat tightened with a dangerous mix of gratitude and impending emotional breakdown.

"Geoff's too good for this pack," I managed, biting into heaven.

"Truth," Liam agreed, unwrapping his sandwich. "So what's the damage report today? Victoria? Twins from The Shining? Alpha-hole and his merry band of dickwads?"

I snort-laughed, nearly choking on cookie. "All of the above. Victoria volunteered me for packhouse duty this morning, which made me miss half the school day, including most of my calc test. Sophia threw me under the bus in Hayes' class. Oh, and Damien dumped floor water all over me, then got weird about how I smell."

Liam's eyebrows shot up. "Weird how?"

"I don't know. Like... intense weird. Sniffing weird." I lowered my voice. "I think he was going to say I smelled good before Kyle interrupted."

Liam whistled low. "That tracks with my theory."

"Which is?"

"That our resident Alpha-in-training wants to hate-f**k you into next week but can't admit it because you're an omega with the audacity to be both hot and marked." He bit into his sandwich. "Classic case of 'I want to bang you but society says no so I'll be an asshole instead.'"

I choked for real this time. "That's... disturbing."

"What's disturbing is that you haven't noticed. The guy watches you like you're a limited-edition PS5 he can't afford." Liam shrugged. "Classic forbidden fruit syndrome."

"I'm not fruit," I muttered. "And if I were, I'd be like... a bruised apple. Or one of those weird dragonfruit things that look cool but taste like nothing."

"You're a self-esteem dumpster fire, you know that?" Liam said fondly.

"It's my most consistent personality trait."

Our omega commiseration session was interrupted by a commotion at the popular table. Sophia held court at the center – my genetic duplicate but spiritual opposite. Around her clustered the werewolf elite: Damien and his beta buddies Kyle and Jackson, Macy with her toxic red hair, Tasha with her cheerleader ponytail, and assorted other members of the "future pack leaders of America" club.

"Three more days!" Sophia's voice carried across the cafeteria, pitched to ensure I heard every syllable. "I can't believe we're finally turning eighteen! It's going to be epic!"

By "we," she meant herself and her popular friends. The fact that we shared a birthday – shared a womb, shared DNA – was an inconvenient footnote in her narrative.

Liam rolled his eyes so hard I worried for his ocular health. "Ten bucks says she's planning a birthday lingerie party where she'll just happen to discover her mate bond with Damien."

I winced. "Can we not?"

The mate bond. The mystical werewolf connection that supposedly activated on our eighteenth birthday. The thing that could either save me or destroy me, depending on who the Moon Goddess decided was my perfect match.

For omegas, it was both blessing and curse. Finding your mate meant protection, provision, a chance to rise above your station. Not finding your mate – or worse, being rejected by them – meant a lifetime of pack service.

"Don't you ever wonder who yours will be?" Liam asked, voice softer now.

"I try not to think about it," I lied.

Truth was, I thought about it constantly. Dreamed about it. Fantasized about some kind, strong Alpha whisking me away from Victoria's clutches, looking at my birthmark like it was beautiful instead of cursed, treating me like I was precious instead of disposable.

Reality check: the Moon Goddess had clearly put a cosmic "KICK ME" sign on my back the moment I was born. Why would my mate be any different?

Across the cafeteria, Damien laughed at something Sophia said, his arm casually draped across the back of her chair. My twin preened under his attention, flipping her perfect hair, touching his arm, playing all the move-pieces in the age-old game of "notice me, want me, choose me."

"They look good together," I said, the words like glass in my mouth.

"They look like a basic Alpha-beta stereotype straight out of werewolf central casting," Liam countered. "All they need is a white picket fence and two-point-five pureblood pups."

I couldn't help the bubble of laughter that escaped. This was why I loved Liam – he saw through the pack's bullshit hierarchy with laser precision.

My amusement died when Kyle's voice suddenly rose above the cafeteria din.

"So Damien, you gonna tap that omega ass before she turns eighteen? Last chance before she's somebody's mate!"

The entire room seemed to freeze. Even the oblivious humans sensed the sudden tension. Damien's face went rigid, his eyes flashing that dangerous gold.

"What the f**k did you just say?" His voice was deadly quiet.

Kyle, apparently possessing the survival instincts of a lemming with a death wish, grinned wider. "You know, Dark Moon. Been watching you watch her all day. Figured maybe you wanted a taste of omega before—"

Damien moved so fast the humans probably saw a blur. One second he was seated, the next he had Kyle pinned against the wall, forearm pressed against his throat.

"Don't. Ever. Talk about her like that." Each word was punctuated with increased pressure. "Understand?"

Kyle's eyes bulged, face reddening. He managed a jerky nod.

Just as abruptly, Damien released him, stepping back like he'd touched something contaminated. "We're going to be late for Bio," he announced to the table, voice forcibly casual despite the violence hanging in the air like ozone after lightning.

As the popular crowd dispersed, Sophia lingered, her hazel eyes – identical to mine – finding me across the cafeteria. For a moment, something like confusion crossed her face as she glanced between me and Damien's retreating back.

Then her mask of contempt slid back into place. "Pathetic," she mouthed at me before flouncing after the others.

"What the hell just happened?" Liam whispered, eyes wide behind his glasses.

I didn't have an answer. My birthmark burned against my cheek, and for a split second – just a heartbeat – I could have sworn it glowed, reflecting in the metal of the cafeteria table.

Three days until my eighteenth birthday.

Three days until whatever cosmic joke the Moon Goddess had planned for me reached its punchline.

I just hoped I'd survive the laughter.