The Bullied Omega's Return

Chapter Five

There's a special kind of anxiety that comes with crawling through dusty ventilation ducts to spy on werewolf elders who could literally rip your face off. Not garden-variety public speaking jitters—more like "I've made questionable life choices and now I'm going to die in a heating vent" anxiety.

"This is officially the dumbest thing we've ever done," I whisper-hissed to Maria as we army-crawled through generations of werewolf dust. "And I'm including that time we dyed Councilwoman Harrison's white wolfsbane garden black."

"That was actually epic," Maria whispered back, her dark curls now gray with possibly sentient dust bunnies. "She thought it was a death omen and canceled three full moons of hunting."

"Yeah, until Victoria ratted us out and I couldn't sit down for a week." I extracted a cobweb from my hair. "When you said 'air vent,' I pictured something more Mission: Impossible and less Texas Chainsaw m******e: The Dusty Edition."

Silver Fang's ventilation system was apparently designed by someone who hated both HVAC professionals and basic comfort. Narrow, filthy, with random screws at exactly eye-stabbing height—like crawling through a robot's digestive tract after it had eaten nothing but dust and regret.

"Almost there," Maria promised. "Just past this junction."

"If we die here, I'm coming back as a ghost specifically to haunt Victoria during her bikini waxes," I muttered, my birthmark pulsing with irritation—less "mysterious supernatural omen" and more "mood ring with anger issues."

We finally reached a metal grate overlooking the council chamber just as Alpha Richard called the meeting to order.

"Let me be clear," his voice carried upward, "this arrangement with the Reyes girl is strategic. Sophia's bloodline combined with Damien's will strengthen our pack considerably."

Ah yes, my sister the prized broodmare. I'd send her a congratulatory horse apple gift basket if she'd appreciate the symbolism.

"But what about the mark issue?" Elder Greyton asked. "The twin carries it. Could it manifest in their offspring?"

Twin. Not "Arianna." Just "the twin," like I was a defective factory second.

"Victoria assures me the mark appears only in the mother's line," Alpha Richard dismissed. "Since Sophia is unmarked, there's no risk."

"Unless it's recessive," countered an unfamiliar female voice. "We all know the legends about marked wolves. They bring change—usually not the kind we want."

My birthmark practically sizzled. Legends? This was brand new information in my "Why Everyone Thinks I'm Cursed" knowledge base.

"Which is precisely why we need to address the other twin before her eighteenth," Alpha Richard replied. "The timing of this announcement isn't coincidental."

Maria squeezed my hand hard enough to cut circulation. Something cold settled in my stomach like I'd swallowed an ice boulder.

"You're suggesting implementation of the Omega Protocol?" Elder Harrison asked, somewhere between shocked and intrigued. "It hasn't been used in generations."

"The protocol exists for situations exactly like this," Alpha Richard's voice lowered. "A marked omega, approaching maturity, from a powerful bloodline. The girl is a potential liability we can't afford."

"Richard," Luna Catherine cut in sharply. "We discussed alternatives."

"We did, and I've made my decision. Three nights from now, when the moon is full and the mate bonds activate, the protocol will be implemented. We can't risk an unknown element disrupting the pack structure."

"And Alfred?" someone asked. "The girl's father?"

"Alfred has been informed. He understands what's required."

My father knew. Whatever this "protocol" was, my father knew.

"And what of Damien? He hasn't agreed to this."

"Damien will do what's expected of him. The engagement announcement makes that clear. As for the marked twin—arrangements have been made with the Northern Alliance. They've agreed to take her."

The Northern Alliance. Even with my limited political knowledge, that name sent ice through my veins—rogue packs notorious for treating omegas as communal property.

"Jesus tap-dancing Christ," I breathed. "They're selling me off."

Maria's face was pure horror, but she froze as a new voice joined the council's discussion.

"I'd like to go on record as opposing this."

Damien. His voice controlled but with something dangerous underneath.

"Your objection is noted," his father replied coldly. "But as you're not yet officially on the council, it carries no weight."

"You're using Sophia's bloodline while disposing of her twin. It's hypocritical at best, cruel at worst."

"It's necessary. The protocol exists to protect the pack from potentially dangerous elements. Your responsibility is to your future mate and the pack, not some omega with a curse mark."

"And if she manifests a mate bond on her birthday?" Damien's question hung like a live grenade.

His father laughed dismissively. "With who? We've controlled every interaction she's had with eligible unmated wolves since the mark darkened. Any potential mates have been kept away precisely to prevent such a complication."

My mind reeled. They'd been manipulating my social interactions for years? My absolute absence of romantic prospects wasn't just bad luck—it was by design?

"I still object," Damien insisted. "There are other ways—"

"Enough. The decision is made. The protocol will be implemented after the full moon ceremony. Now, let's discuss territory negotiations with Silver Creek pack."

Maria tugged my arm. "We need to go," she mouthed, eyes wide with barely controlled panic.

I nodded numbly. My father had agreed to sell me to werewolf Gilead. The Alpha had deliberately isolated me from potential mates. And Damien had objected.

We began our reverse crawl. My mind was a hurricane of emotions—betrayal, fear, anger, and a weird sliver of something almost like hope at Damien's unexpected defense.

We were nearly back to our entry point when my uniform caught on an exposed screw. The resulting rip sounded like a gunshot, followed by the ominous sound of metal groaning.

"Oh sh—" was all I managed before the bottom of the vent gave way.

For one suspended moment, it felt like flying. Then gravity remembered its job description and I crashed down in an explosion of dust and regret—directly into the small dining room adjacent to the council chamber.

Maria managed to grab the edge of the collapsed section, dangling above like the world's dustiest trapeze artist.

"Run!" she hissed, hauling herself back up with impressive upper body strength.

I scrambled up, my uniform now authentically distressed with rips and dust smudges. The crash had been loud enough to wake the dead, or worse, alert angry Alphas with violence issues and apparently a penchant for human trafficking.

The dining room door burst open as I reached the connecting hallway. I caught a glimpse of Elder Harrison's shocked face before sprinting down the corridor like my ass was on fire and the only extinguisher was miles away.

"Intruder in the east wing!" his voice bellowed. Super, I'd upgraded from "omega pest" to "active security threat."

I ducked into a service corridor, frantically mapping escape routes while "oh s**t oh s**t oh s**t" played on repeat in my head. The library would be the first place they'd look. The kitchen would be full of staff who'd absolutely throw me under the bus. That left—

"In here!" A hand yanked me sideways with supernatural strength into a linen closet.

The door closed, leaving darkness broken only by my traitorous birthmark, pulsing like a paranormal rave light. In its violet glow, I made out the last face I wanted to see.

"Fancy meeting you here," Damien drawled, golden eyes reflecting my birthmark's light like a predator. "Enjoy the show?"

"I have no idea what you're talking about," I replied automatically, pressing against the opposite wall—which put about six inches between us. "I just really love... linens."

"Right. You regularly crawl through ventilation systems to visit towels. Totally normal omega behavior."

Outside, the sounds of searching pack members grew louder. Damien stepped closer, making personal space theoretical.

"They're going to find us," I whispered, torn between fear of discovery and confusion at the proximity of a werewolf who'd just sort-of defended me while simultaneously preparing to marry my twin.

"No, they're going to find you," he corrected. "Unless you do exactly what I tell you."

My birthmark flared hot. "Why would you help me? You're literally about to become my brother-in-law s***h owner via marriage proxy."

Something like pain flickered across his face. "That's not—" He cut himself off as footsteps approached. "No time. Take off your uniform."

I stared at him. "Excuse me?"

"The server uniform," he clarified, shrugging out of his suit jacket. "It reeks of kitchen and marks you as staff. Put this on."

He thrust the expensive jacket at me, still warm from his body heat. "Now, Arianna. Unless you want to find out what the Northern Alliance does to omegas firsthand."

His use of my actual name instead of some derogatory nickname shocked me. I hesitated only briefly before fumbling with the buttons.

"Turn around," I demanded, dignity making a last stand.

He rolled his eyes but complied. "We're literally racing against werewolf noses, but sure, let's observe proper changing room etiquette."

I stripped the uniform with record speed, standing in my tank top and leggings. His jacket swallowed me, smelling of pine, amber, and that indefinable Damien-ness that made my stomach perform gymnastics it definitely hadn't qualified for.

"Okay," I said, hiding the uniform behind towels. "Now what, O great escape artist?"

He turned back, eyes widening slightly at the sight of me in his jacket. "Now we walk out like we own the place. Or rather, like I own the place and you're with me."

"That's your master plan? Just... walk out?"

"Sometimes the best plan is the simplest one. No one questions an Alpha. Basic werewolf sociology."

"And what about the part where I smell like ceiling dust and poor decisions?"

"You smell like me now," he said, sending an unexpected shiver down my spine. "The jacket helps. And..."

Before I could react, he leaned down and drew his cheek slowly against mine—right over the birthmark. The contact sent electric shocks through my body, my knees suddenly optional. The birthmark blazed, but instead of pain, it radiated warmth throughout my entire body.

"What the actual f**k?" I gasped when he pulled back, his pupils dilated to nearly swallow the gold.

"Scent marking," he said, voice rougher than before. "Now you smell like you've been with me this whole time."

"That was—" Inappropriate? Confusing? Weirdly hot in a way I refused to examine? "—unnecessary."

"It was completely necessary. Now shut up and look slightly aroused but mostly submissive."

"I don't think my face does that particular combo."

"Just follow my lead." He cracked the door. "Ready?"

No. Not remotely. But given the alternative of omega hell, I'd take my chances with the devil I knew. "Ready."

He stepped out with the confident swagger of Alpha genes and a lifetime of entitlement. I followed, trying to channel "slightly aroused but mostly submissive" while achieving what probably looked more like "constipated but making the best of it."

We'd barely made it three steps when Elder Harrison and two enforcement betas rounded the corner, their expressions shifting from predatory focus to confusion as they took in the tableau of the Alpha's son and the marked omega emerging from what was clearly a makeout closet.

"Damien," Elder Harrison said, eyes narrowing as he scented the air. "We're searching for an intruder. A server was spotted eavesdropping on the council meeting."

Damien's arm slid around my waist, pulling me against his side in a gesture both possessive and casual. "Haven't seen anyone. We've been... occupied."

The elder's gaze shifted to me, taking in my disheveled appearance, Damien's jacket, and our mingled scents. His lip curled slightly.

"I see." His disapproval could have frozen lava. "Your father is looking for you."

"I'm sure he is," Damien replied smoothly. "I'll find him shortly."

Harrison's gaze lingered on me, nostrils flaring. "And the... omega?"

"Is with me," Damien said, his tone hardening. "Is that a problem?"

The challenge was unmistakable. After a tense moment, Harrison shook his head.

"No problem. We'll continue the search elsewhere." As they turned to leave, he added, "I'm sure your father will be interested in your... choice of companions."

Once they were gone, I sagged against the wall, heart pounding like I'd run a marathon while being chased by zombies.

"Holy s**t, that actually worked," I breathed. "We just Red Wedding-ed our way out of certain death."

"That reference doesn't make sense. The Red Wedding was a m******e, not an escape."

"You watch Game of Thrones?" I asked, momentarily distracted by this unexpected cultural overlap.

"Everyone watched Game of Thrones," he replied with an eye-roll. "Even werewolves have HBO."

The normalcy was so at odds with everything else that I almost laughed. Then reality crashed back like an anvil with my name on it.

"They're going to sell me to the Northern Alliance," I said, the words tasting like ash. "My own father knows about it and he didn't object."

Damien's expression darkened. "You heard."

"Every word of your father's little human trafficking scheme. Including the part where you objected. Which is breaking my brain, given your history of making my life hell."

He ran a hand through his hair, messing up the careful styling. "It's complicated."

"Complicated?" I repeated incredulously. "You're literally engaged to my twin and your father is shipping me off to werewolf Mordor, but sure, let's go with 'complicated.'"

"Keep your voice down. We're not in the clear yet."

"Right, because the most important thing is maintaining your reputation while I'm being sold into omega slavery."

"That's not what I—" He broke off, frustration evident. "Come with me."

"Where?"

"Somewhere we can talk without being overheard by half the pack."

I hesitated. Going anywhere alone with Damien contradicted about seventeen survival instincts. But I'd just learned my father and Alpha were conspiring to ship me off, so clearly my threat assessment needed recalibration.

"Fine," I conceded. "But I reserve the right to knee you in the balls if this is a trick."

"Noted," he said dryly. "Though given I just saved you from discovery, you might want to hold off on the testicular assault."

He led me through servant passages, emerging into the cool night air. The full moon hung heavy and expectant in the sky, three days away but already asserting its influence.

"Where are we going?" I asked as he headed toward the edge of the packhouse grounds.

"The old caretaker's cottage," he replied. "No one uses it anymore."

The cottage was a small stone structure originally built for human maintenance staff. It had been abandoned for years, ever since Richard decided omegas could handle all domestic duties more cheaply.

Damien produced a key, unlocking the weathered door with practiced ease.

"You just happen to have a key to the abandoned creeper cottage?" I asked. "That's not serial killer behavior at all."

"I come here to think," he said, pushing the door open. "It's the one place in pack territory not under constant surveillance."

The interior was surprisingly well-kept—dusty, but with basic furniture intact. A small sofa, a wooden table with chairs, even a kitchenette. All the comforts of a horror movie opening scene.

"So this is where you bring all your victims?" I quipped. "Very Texas Chainsaw chic."

"If I wanted to murder you, Reyes, I've had countless opportunities over the years. And I wouldn't need an isolated cottage to do it."

"Comforting," I muttered, keeping the sofa between us. "So why are we here? To discuss your father's omega trafficking business model? Or your engagement to my evil twin?"

Damien leaned against the wall, studying me with an intensity that made my birthmark tingle. "I'm trying to help you."

I laughed, sharp and disbelieving. "Help me? You've spent a decade making my life miserable. You knocked over my mop bucket this morning. You're marrying my sister in three days. Forgive me if your concern seems suspect."

"I never said I wasn't an asshole," he conceded, surprising me. "But I don't actually want to see you shipped off to the Northern Alliance."

"Why not? It solves your problem. No more marked omega embarrassing the pack. No more reminder that your future wife has a defective twin."

Something flashed in his eyes—anger, frustration, or maybe something else entirely. "There's nothing wrong with you."

The simple statement, delivered with unexpected vehemence, knocked me off-balance. "Says the guy who calls me 'Dark Moon' and makes moon crater jokes."

"I thought we agreed that I'm a raging asshole," he murmured, a ghost of a smile touching his lips. "But this mark—it's not what everyone thinks."

My hand rose automatically to cover the birthmark. "And what would you know about it?"

"More than you might expect. The legends about marked wolves aren't all negative. Some say they're blessed, not cursed. That they bring necessary change."

"Is that why your father wants to ship me off? Because I'm so blessed?"

"My father fears what he doesn't understand," Damien said quietly. "And he doesn't understand you."

This was territory so unfamiliar I needed a passport. Damien defending me? Implying my birthmark might be a blessing? Using "fear" in relation to his Alpha father? It was like I'd fallen into an alternate universe where up was down and asshole werewolves had depth.

"None of this makes sense," I said finally. "Why the sudden concern? Why object in the council meeting? Why help me escape? And why scent-mark me in a linen closet?"

He ran a hand through his hair again, a nervous gesture I'd never associated with his confident persona. "Because in three days, everything changes. And I'm trying to make sure you're still here when it does."

"When what does? The mate bonds? News flash, your father made it clear they've ensured I won't be bonding with anyone. Unless you count my new owners."

"They can't interfere with true mate bonds," he said intensely. "That's not how it works. They can try to manipulate circumstances, keep potential mates apart, but when the moon is full and you turn eighteen—"

"What?" I pressed when he didn't continue. "What happens?"

Instead of answering, he closed the distance between us, his movement so swift I barely registered it. His scent enveloped me—pine, amber, and something darker that made my wolf want to simultaneously submit and challenge.

"Your birthmark," he said, his voice lower. "It's glowing."

I touched my cheek, feeling the warmth. "It does that sometimes. Usually when I'm about to be murdered in an abandoned cottage."

A smile tugged at his lips—not his usual smirk, but something genuine. "Always with the jokes, Reyes."

"Gallows humor is my love language," I quipped. "Along with righteous indignation and elaborate revenge fantasies."

"Listen to me," he said, serious again. "You can't go back to the packhouse tonight. Harrison and the others will be looking for you, and after what they saw—"

"You mean us emerging from Closet of Sin looking like we'd been filming an amateur werewolf porno?"

He ignored my colorful description. "After what they saw, my father will accelerate his plans. The Northern Alliance representatives are already here. If they find you, they'll take you tonight."

A cold weight settled in my stomach. "Where am I supposed to go? I can't exactly check into a Holiday Inn with 'omega on the run' as my Yelp review."

"Stay here," he said. "Just for tonight. I'll figure something out."

"Stay here? In Abandoned Murder Cottage? Alone?"

"It's safer than the alternatives. There's running water, electricity. Basic supplies. And no one comes here."

"Except you, apparently. What's to stop you from telling your father exactly where to find me?"

Something like hurt flashed across his face. "If I wanted to turn you in, I wouldn't have helped you escape in the first place."

He had a point, much as I hated to admit it. And my options were limited to approximately zero.

"One night," I conceded reluctantly. "But I need to tell Maria I'm okay. And I need actual clothes. And food. And an explanation for why you're suddenly Werewolf Batman, swooping in to save the omega in distress."

"I'll bring supplies," he promised. "As for the explanation..." He trailed off, his gaze dropping to my birthmark. "Let's just say I have my reasons."

"Cryptic much?" I muttered. "Fine. Go do your Alpha heir thing. I'll just hang out here in Serial Killer Chic, hoping you don't lead a pack of Northern Alliance thugs to my doorstep."

He headed for the door, pausing with his hand on the knob. "You don't have to trust me, Arianna. But for what it's worth, I'm not the villain in this story."

"Could have fooled me. Your audition for Big Bad Wolf has been pretty convincing for the last decade."

Something like regret crossed his face. "People play the roles they're given." Then, with a final indecipherable glance, he was gone.

I stood in the abandoned cottage, wrapped in Damien Blackwood's suit jacket, my birthmark glowing faintly. Three days until my eighteenth birthday. Three days until mate bonds activated. Three days until everything changed, according to the most confusing Alpha heir in werewolf history.

"Well," I said to the empty room, "this is either the worst teen rom-com setup ever, or I'm about to star in my own slasher film."

The cottage offered no response, but my birthmark pulsed once, like a silent answer to a question I hadn't thought to ask.