The Bullied Omega's Return

Chapter Thirteen

The medical building stood apart from the other structures of Crescent Moon—a single-story cedar cabin with wide windows and a wraparound porch. Unlike the stark, clinical facilities at Silver Fang, this place radiated warmth, from the hanging planters bursting with lavender and mint to the comfortable chairs scattered across the porch.

I hesitated at the bottom step, suddenly unsure. Gabriel had gone ahead to speak with Velma, leaving me to follow when ready. But what could I, with my own barely-healing wounds and permanent scars, possibly offer to someone fresh from trauma?

My fingers traced the birthmark that covered the left side of my face. Several nights of research in the library had yielded contradictory information about what different marks meant. Some ancient texts claimed facial marks indicated a wolf destined for leadership or great magical ability. Others suggested they were warnings—signs of wolves who would bring chaos or change. The most disturbing text declared marks to be visible manifestations of past-life sins.

Complete mumbo-jumbo, as Zoe would say. And yet... something in me wanted to believe there was meaning behind the swirling pattern that had defined—and ruined—my life. That the Goddess hadn't simply marked me for cruelty's sake.

"You coming in, or just admiring my gardening skills?"

I startled, looking up to find Velma leaning against the porch railing, arms crossed over her chest. The older omega's gray and black hair was twisted into its usual messy bun, her olive skin creased with laugh lines around eyes that missed nothing.

Nodding quickly, I climbed the steps.

"Gabriel says you volunteered," Velma said, studying me. "You sure you're up for this? Your insides were outside not that long ago."

I winced at her bluntness but appreciated the lack of coddling. Most pack members still treated me like I might shatter, like the rogues who'd eviscerated me—who'd been waiting just beyond Silver Fang territory after my rejection—had taken more than my voice and nearly my life.

I'm better, I signed. Want to help.

"Hmm." Velma's gaze traveled over me, assessing. "Well, you've certainly got firsthand experience with surviving the unsurvivable. That counts for something." She pushed off from the railing. "Just don't push yourself. You rupture those internal stitches, and Dr. Michaels will have both our hides."

She led me through the reception area—all natural wood and soft green tones—past examination rooms and what looked like a small surgery, toward a back hallway marked 'Extended Care.' The wing housed just four rooms for patients needing ongoing treatment.

Gabriel stood outside the last door, deep in conversation with Dr. Michaels. Both looked up as we approached.

"Arianna," Dr. Michaels acknowledged with a small smile. "Good to see you vertical. How's the pain today?"

Manageable, I signed. The doctor had taught me the sign for pain during my first terrifying days at Crescent Moon, when every breath felt like fire and communication had been limited to yes/no questions I could answer with blinks.

"He's sedated right now," Gabriel said, nodding toward the closed door. "Velma thought it best until we could assess his injuries properly."

"Some of which," Dr. Michaels added grimly, "appear deliberately inflicted to maximize pain while minimizing healing."

My stomach twisted. I'd experienced Victoria's particular brand of creative punishment at Silver Fang, but this sounded worse.

"I need to prepare you," Velma said, her usual briskness softened. "He's been mutilated. Systematically. His alpha used him as an example to keep other omegas in line."

Who? I signed, anger flaring hot and sudden.

"Alpha Dominic of Blackwater," Gabriel answered, his voice tight with controlled fury. "A traditionalist even by conservative standards. Believes omegas exist solely to serve and should be 'properly conditioned' from presentation."

"He's demanding Remy's return," Dr. Michaels added. "Claims he's pack property and accuses us of theft."

Would you send him back? I signed, suddenly afraid for this stranger.

"Never," Gabriel's response was immediate, his eyes flashing amber. "Sanctuary law is clear—we can offer protection to any wolf suffering deliberate cruelty, regardless of status. I've already informed Dominic that Remy remains under our protection."

Velma snorted. "Which is why we've got scouts reporting unknown wolves at our borders. Dominic won't let this go easily—he loses face if an omega successfully escapes."

"Let him try," Gabriel said with quiet menace. "Crescent Moon hasn't survived twenty-five years by bowing to bullies."

The intensity of his protective anger—so different from the cold rage I'd seen in Alpha Richard at Silver Fang—still surprised me. In the three weeks since Luna Emily and Alpha Gabriel had found me bleeding out in the forest, carried me back, and fought to save my life, I'd witnessed countless moments that challenged everything I thought I knew about alphas and pack hierarchy.

"You can see him," Velma said, drawing me back to the present, "but don't expect much. He hasn't spoken since arrival, and he panics if touched. We've had to sedate him twice for treatment."

I nodded, understanding completely. After the rogue attack, I'd lashed out instinctively at anyone who approached, my wolf seeing only threats through a haze of pain and fear.

"We'll be right outside," Gabriel assured me, stepping aside as Velma opened the door.

The room beyond was softly lit, curtains drawn against the afternoon sun. A monitoring machine beeped steadily beside a hospital-style bed where a slight figure lay motionless under a light blanket.

Remy.

I approached slowly, careful to make my footsteps audible. Sometimes predators moved silently before attacking—I'd learned to announce my presence early when visiting traumatized new arrivals.

He looked impossibly young, though he had to be at least seventeen to have presented as omega. His features were delicate even by omega standards—high cheekbones, full lips, a straight nose that seemed to have miraculously escaped whatever damage had been inflicted elsewhere. His skin, several shades paler than mine, contrasted with brown bandages wrapped around his forearms and neck.

He wasn't wearing a shirt.

But what caught and held my attention was his birthmark—a complex pattern that started at his right shoulder, and as he moved to show it to me, I saw that it snaked across his back, and ended on his left shoulder, like misshapen wings. Unlike my solid patch of darker pigment, his mark was intricate, almost like filigree against his skin.

His eyes snapped open suddenly—alert despite the sedatives—and locked onto mine. No gradual awakening, no disorientation. Just immediate, razor-sharp awareness that spoke of a wolf who'd learned to sleep while part of him remained vigilant.

I recognized that vigilance. Had lived it for years.

For several heartbeats, we simply stared at each other. I made no move to approach further, gave him space to process my presence. His eyes—a startling amber-gold that seemed too intense for an omega—traveled from my face to my hands, then back to my birthmark.

His lips parted as if to speak, then closed. His throat worked, swallowing convulsively.

They hurt you too, I signed without thinking, then cursed myself for assuming he understood sign language.

To my surprise, his hands moved in response—shaky but recognizable signs. They always do.

You know sign? I asked, hope blooming unexpectedly.

His mouth twisted in something too bitter to be a smile. Had to learn. He gestured vaguely toward his throat, then signed: Can't scream if you can't speak.

The simple, horrible logic of it stole my breath. Had Blackwater's alpha silenced him deliberately, as the rogues had silenced me? Or had Remy, like so many omegas, simply taught himself to communicate without sound to avoid drawing unwanted attention?

Why are you here? he signed, wariness replacing the momentary connection.

To meet you, I responded. I'm Arianna.

I know who you are, he signed, surprising me. Silver Fang reject. Your mate chose your twin. Rogues got you after.

News travels fast, I acknowledged, wondering how he'd learned my story while barely conscious.

Nurses talk. Think I'm asleep. His hands moved precisely despite their trembling. Why did you really come?

I considered lying, offering some platitude about welcoming him to the pack, but something told me Remy would see through it instantly. Instead, I signed: Because we're both marked. Both broken. Thought maybe that helped.

For a moment, his expression remained guarded. Then, slowly, the tension in his shoulders eased fractionally. Not broken, he corrected. Just different.

Warmth spread through my chest at this unexpected echo of what Riley had told me during my darkest days. It wasn't brokenness I carried—just difference. A way of being wolf that didn't fit the narrow definitions of traditional packs.

You're safe here, I promised. They won't send you back.

Remy's eyes narrowed, skepticism plain. No one's safe. Alpha will come for me.

Our alpha is stronger, I insisted. Gabriel won't let anyone take you.

A harsh, silent laugh shook his frame, pulling at whatever injuries lay beneath the bandages. His face contorted briefly in pain before he mastered it. You believe in fairy tales, Silver Fang. Alphas protect their investments, not their problems.

The cynicism hit like a slap, not because it was cruel but because it was familiar—the exact philosophy I'd lived by at Silver Fang. Trust no one. Expect nothing. Survive by being invisible.

But Crescent Moon had shown me another way was possible. Small kindnesses offered without expectation. Protection given freely, not as a transaction.

This isn't like other packs, I signed, trying to convey my own journey from disbelief to cautious hope. I almost died. They saved me. Not because I'm useful. Because they believe every wolf matters.

Remy watched my hands, expression unreadable. When he finally responded, his signs were slower, deliberate. Your pack threw you away. Your mate rejected you. Rogues gutted you. Yet you still believe?

The question struck deep, unearthing doubts I'd been trying to bury. Did I truly believe? Or was I just desperate enough to accept any kindness, any haven, after a lifetime of rejection?

I'm learning to, I admitted. It's hard. But these wolves are different.

Ha. His hands shaped the laugh his voice couldn't produce. Wolves are wolves. Some just hide their teeth better.

Before I could respond, the monitoring equipment beside him began beeping more rapidly. Remy's breathing had accelerated, his scent sharpening with anxiety despite his outward calm.

The door opened as Velma stepped in, assessing the situation with a quick glance. "That's enough for today," she said firmly. "He needs rest, and you've still got healing to do yourself."

I nodded reluctantly, understanding but frustrated at the interruption. Just as I turned to leave, Remy's hand shot out, grabbing my wrist with surprising strength. His eyes locked onto mine, intense and suddenly vulnerable.

They said you survived having your organs pulled out, he signed one-handed, not releasing me. How?

The question seemed to hold more weight than its simple words suggested. Not merely how had I physically survived, but how had I found the will to continue when violation went bone-deep.

Luna Emily found me in time, I signed. And I was too stubborn to die.

A ghost of a smile touched his lips. Good, he signed, finally releasing my wrist. Me too.

The connection in that moment—the shared understanding of what it meant to cling to life when death might have been kinder—felt like a thread stretching between us, tenuous but real.

As I left the medical building, the afternoon sun warm against my skin, I couldn't shake the feeling that meeting Remy had shifted something inside me. His skepticism was a mirror of my own doubts, yet his determination to survive despite everything reflected the stubborn spark that had kept me fighting.

"How'd it go?" Zoe materialized beside me as I crossed the central green, her uncanny ability to appear precisely when something interesting was happening still a mystery after weeks of friendship.

I shrugged, not wanting to betray Remy's confidence by discussing details.

"That bad, huh?" Zoe linked her arm through mine, automatically adjusting to my slower pace. "Well, don't keep me in suspense. Is he as gorgeous as everyone's saying? Alicia from kitchen duty claims he looks like that human actor from the vampire movies."

I rolled my eyes but couldn't help smiling at her incorrigible gossip-hunting. Pretty, I admitted. But hurt. Badly.

Zoe's expression sobered. "Figured as much, given all the security. Word is Blackwater's alpha personally supervised his 'discipline.'" She made air quotes around the last word, disgust evident in her tone. "Some packs really are still living in the dark ages."

We walked in silence for a moment, the weight of shared knowledge heavy between us. Traditional packs like Silver Fang and Blackwater operated on principles established centuries ago—alphas ruled absolutely, betas served as their enforcers and administrators, and omegas existed to care for the pack's needs, with no rights of their own.

Especially omegas who were different. Marked. Defective.

"Library again?" Zoe asked as we approached the fork in the path that would take us either toward our cabin or the main community buildings.

I nodded. The Crescent Moon library had become my sanctuary, its comprehensive collection of werewolf history and lore a source of both comfort and challenge as I reassessed everything I'd been taught.

"You and those dusty old books," Zoe teased gently. "Find anything useful in your mark research yet?"

I shook my head, frustration bubbling up anew. Have you seen Remy's mark? I signed, the memory of its intricate pattern still fresh.

"No, they whisked him straight to medical. Didn't even get a glimpse." Zoe's curiosity was palpable. "What's it like?"

Beautiful, I signed. Like art. Not like mine.

"Hey." Zoe stopped walking, turning to face me fully. "Your mark is beautiful too. Just because those Silver Fang assholes couldn't appreciate it doesn't mean it's not."

I looked away, unable to meet her fierce defense of something I'd hated my entire life. The birthmark that had set me apart from my perfect twin, that had made me a target for Victoria's cruelty, that had ultimately cost me everything I'd ever wanted—how could that be beautiful?

But the memory of Remy's eyes lingering on my mark without disgust or pity nagged at me. He'd looked at me with recognition, not revulsion.

"Speaking of art," Zoe continued, graciously changing the subject, "Jenny mentioned you're getting pretty good at those little crochet animals. She thinks you could sell them at the full moon market if you wanted."

The idea startled me. Selling something I'd created? Earning my own money? Such independence had been unthinkable at Silver Fang, where omegas received only what the pack deemed necessary for their basic needs.

Maybe, I signed, unexpectedly pleased by the thought. If I make enough.

"That's the spirit!" Zoe grinned. "Entrepreneurial Ari—I like it."

As we reached the library steps, Zoe gave my arm a gentle squeeze. "I've got training with Roland, but dinner later? Cassia's attempting lasagna, and I promised to provide moral support when it inevitably goes wrong."

I smiled, nodding my agreement. These casual plans, this easy acceptance—it still felt surreal after years of rigid schedules and mandatory service.

"Cool. See you at six." With a jaunty wave, Zoe headed toward the training fields, her energetic stride a stark contrast to my more measured pace.

The library welcomed me with familiar quiet and the comforting scent of old paper and wood polish. I nodded to Martha, the elderly beta who maintained the collection with fierce devotion, and headed for the section on werewolf biology where I'd been researching birthmarks.

To my surprise, Kieran sat at the small table in the corner, surrounded by maps and what looked like surveillance photos. He glanced up at my approach, acknowledging me with a curt nod.

"Bookworm," he greeted me, the nickname almost affectionate coming from someone so typically distant. "Back for more mythology nonsense?"

I raised an eyebrow at him. Not nonsense if it exists in multiple sources, I signed, settling into the chair across from him.

"Multiple sources can share the same wrong information," he countered, but without heat. "Found anything useful?"

I shook my head, gesturing toward his maps. You?

"Maybe." His expression grew serious. "Survivor we found gave us more details about the operation. Signs point to high-level involvement—someone with pack connections and human world influence."

My heart quickened. Silver Fang?

"Possibly." Kieran's gaze sharpened. "You ever hear of someone called 'The Collector' at Silver Fang?"

I frowned, searching my memory. The name wasn't familiar, but something about it tickled at the edges of recollection—perhaps something overheard during my years of invisible service.

Not directly, I signed slowly. But Victoria mentioned 'collection' sometimes. When omegas disappeared. 'Well, this one's for the collection.'

Kieran leaned forward, suddenly intent. "What exactly did she say? This could be important."

I closed my eyes, trying to recall conversations from years ago—snippets heard while serving dinner or cleaning Victoria's rooms.

Soon for the collection, I signed as the memory crystallized. When talking about troublemakers. Or marked ones. Like Lani, an omega with birthmark that covered her entire back. She was otherwise gorgeous. She worked in the laundry with me, but one day, she was just gone.

"f*****g hell," Kieran muttered, a rare break in his composed facade. "That confirms our suspicion. Multiple packs are involved, not just isolated incidents."

Cold dread settled in my stomach. You think the trafficking is coordinated? Between packs?

"Between certain pack leaders, yes." Kieran shuffled through his papers, pulling out a photograph. "This is Alpha Dominic of Blackwater—Remy's former alpha."

The image showed a powerfully built wolf with silver-streaked dark hair and a face that might have been handsome if not for the cold calculation in his eyes. Something about his expression sent a shiver down my spine—too similar to the way Victoria had looked when planning particularly creative punishments.

"Dominic has visited Silver Fang multiple times in the past year," Kieran continued. "Always for private meetings with Richard and Victoria."

My hands stilled in shock. For what?

"That's what we need to find out." Kieran's voice had dropped to barely above a whisper, though no one else was nearby. "But given what we know about the disappearances from both packs, and the trafficking operation we uncovered..."

The implication was clear and horrifying. Pack alphas—wolves sworn to protect their members—selling omegas to human hunters and worse. My stomach lurched at the thought of Maria and Liam in such hands, at the realization that my own alpha might have been complicit in their disappearance.

But aren't alphas bound by oath? I signed, desperate for some other explanation. Pack protection is sacred.

Kieran's laugh was short and bitter. "Sacred oaths mean nothing to wolves who see omegas as commodities rather than pack members. To them, it's no different than culling livestock—removing the defective ones for profit."

The clinical description hit like a physical blow, forcing me to confront the reality I'd always tried to deny—that at Silver Fang, omegas like me hadn't truly been considered pack. We'd been possessions, tools, occasionally pets—but never equals, never truly wolves deserving of protection.

I need to tell Gabriel, I signed urgently.

"Already has a meeting scheduled for tonight." Kieran began gathering his materials. "You should join us. Your insider knowledge could be valuable."

The invitation surprised me. At Silver Fang, omegas were excluded from anything resembling pack business or strategic discussion. Even here at Crescent Moon, I'd been largely focused on recovery, not yet integrated into the pack's operational structure.

You really want my help? I clarified, certain I'd misunderstood.

Kieran looked at me directly, his green eyes serious. "You survived Silver Fang for eighteen years, navigating a system designed to crush you. You know their patterns, their weaknesses. And you care about the missing omegas personally." He shrugged. "That makes your perspective valuable."

The matter-of-fact assessment—acknowledging both my trauma and the strengths it had forged—left me momentarily speechless. No one at Silver Fang had ever seen my survival as anything but stubbornness, my knowledge as anything but irrelevant.

"Meeting's at eight in Gabriel's office," Kieran said, standing. "After dinner. Don't be late."

As he left, I remained seated, thoughts churning with each new revelation. Silver Fang potentially trafficking omegas. Blackwater's Alpha connected to my former pack. Remy's arrival possibly part of a larger pattern we were just beginning to understand.

And through it all, the strange sense that my presence at Crescent Moon wasn't merely chance—that Luna Emily and Alpha Gabriel finding me bleeding out in the forest hadn't been simply good fortune, but something closer to destiny.

Destiny. I almost laughed at myself for the fanciful thought. Five weeks of safety and suddenly I was thinking in terms of fate and purpose, as if the Moon Goddess herself had orchestrated my survival.

And yet... the coincidences were mounting. My narrow escape from death. The discovery of trafficking operations connected to Silver Fang. Remy's arrival with his own distinctive mark. The research that kept suggesting birthmarks weren't random defects but signs of something more.

With renewed determination, I pulled the book I'd been studying yesterday from the shelf. "Lunar Blessings: The Meaning of Marks," its faded cover proclaimed. Most of it read like superstition—claims that certain patterns indicated elemental affinities or magical abilities that modern wolves dismissed as folklore.

But one passage had caught my attention:

"When the Goddess marks two wolves with mirroring patterns, their fates become intertwined—bound not by the traditional mate bond, but by shared purpose. These 'mirror-marked' pairs are rare, appearing only in times of great change or danger to wolfkind. Together, they form a key—unlocking paths that neither could open alone."

My fingers traced the illustration accompanying the text—two wolves with complementary marks that formed a complete pattern when joined. I thought of Elijah's mark, how it curved around his right eye then spanned down his cheek where mine covered almost the left side of my face in a crescent moon shape. Not quite mirrored, but oddly complementary.

Coincidence, most likely. The desperate pattern-seeking of a mind trained to find meaning in suffering.

And yet, as I closed the book and headed back to prepare for dinner, I couldn't shake the feeling that meeting Remy—broken, beautiful Remy with his amber eyes and matching stubborn will to survive—was somehow significant in ways I didn't yet understand.

Hope, I decided, was a dangerous but necessary indulgence. Hope that Maria and Liam might still be rescued. Hope that Silver Fang's crimes would be exposed. Hope that the marks we carried might mean something more than defect or shame.

Hope that, despite everything, there might be a place in this world where wolves like us belonged.