The Bullied Omega's Return

Chapter Six

Turns out, the only thing worse than being sold to werewolf Gilead is being ghosted by the guy who saved you from being sold to werewolf Gilead.

I'd been in this godforsaken cottage for what felt like seventeen years but was probably closer to two days, and Damien Blackwood was officially MIA. Every creak of a floorboard, every whistle of wind through the ancient window frames sent my heart into gymnastics mode, but none of them materialized into a brooding Alpha heir with inexplicable heroic tendencies.

"This is what I get for trusting someone whose personality traits include 'mocks my existence' and 'engaged to my evil twin,'" I muttered to the dusty living room, which had become my unwilling therapist. "Stellar character judgment, Arianna. Really top-notch."

My birthmark pulsed in what I chose to interpret as sympathetic agreement.

The cottage was proving to be a special circle of limbo—not quite hell, not quite safety. More like purgatory with suspicious water stains and a collection of John Grisham novels that suggested whoever stayed here last was really concerned about corrupt lawyers. I'd already devoured The Pelican Brief and The Client, my brain desperate for any distraction from the Schrödinger's betrayal situation I found myself in.

I'd peek out the windows periodically, only to see patrol wolves circling the property like furry security guards. No sign of Damien, though. Just betas with bad attitudes and, occasionally, what looked like Northern Alliance representatives—recognizable by their distinctive silver arm bands and general aura of "we traffic omegas for fun and profit."

My meals consisted of stale ramen I'd discovered in a kitchen cabinet and military-grade MREs stashed under the bed—because nothing says "rustic cottage charm" like food designed to survive nuclear winter. The beef stew MRE tasted like someone had described beef to a chemist who'd never actually eaten meat but was enthusiastic about the concept.

"If I die here," I announced to a particularly judgmental-looking corner spider, "make sure they put 'Betrayed by Hot Werewolf, Died Eating Synthetic Beef' on my tombstone."

The spider did not acknowledge my epitaph request.

As another day crawled by with the speed of a geriatric snail, I cracked open The Rainmaker, hoping that more legal intrigue would distract me from the fact that my supposed rescuer had either abandoned me, been captured, or was planning something so convoluted that it required leaving me to slowly lose my mind in Forgotten Cottage Weekly's featured property.

I was halfway through the book when the wall clock—my only tenuous connection to the passage of time—gave up the ghost with a pathetic little click. I glared at it accusingly.

"Et tu, Timex?" I sighed, flopping back on the musty sofa. "Fine. Join the betrayal party. Everyone else has RSVP'd."

Without the clock, time became even more abstract. I finished The Rainmaker in what felt like both minutes and days. My birthday was approaching—I could feel it in my bones, in the restless energy humming through my veins, in the way my birthmark seemed to emit its own heat now rather than just reflecting my emotions.

Something was changing. I felt simultaneously more awake and more on edge than I ever had, like someone had replaced my blood with espresso and my nervous system with live wires. Wolf senses I'd barely noticed before were suddenly dialed to eleven—I could hear mice in the walls, smell the difference between the eastern and western winds, feel the vibrations of paws on the ground outside before I even saw the patrols.

The Omega Protocol. The Northern Alliance. My father's betrayal. My sister's engagement. All of it was coming to a head, and here I was, reading about fictional lawyers while hiding in a cottage that was beginning to feel less like a sanctuary and more like a stylishly distressed coffin.

I was contemplating the possibility of fighting my way out—a plan with approximately zero chance of success given the patrol patterns I'd observed—when I heard it. A sound at the front door. Not the wind. Not branches. Something deliberate.

My entire body went rigid, nostrils flaring as I scented the air. Not Damien. The scent was similar—wolf, male, alpha notes—but distinctly not the pine-and-amber signature I'd been unconsciously waiting for.

With the silence and speed of someone whose survival instinct had finally kicked into gear, I slid under the bed, grateful for once for my omega size that made tight spaces navigable. The front door opened with a whisper of well-oiled hinges, and footsteps—careful, measured—made their way across the living room.

I held my breath as the bedroom door pushed open, revealing a pair of expensive sneakers—the kind that cost more than my monthly food budget. The shoes approached the bed, paused, and then their owner set down a large duffel bag with a muffled thump.

"Arianna?" a voice called softly. "It's Jackson. I'm alone."

Jackson Thorne. Damien's right-hand man, fellow Alpha-in-training, and owner of exactly one facial expression: smugly amused. I'd cleaned his quarters exactly once before requesting a transfer after he'd "accidentally" spilled an entire protein shake on freshly mopped floors while maintaining eye contact the entire time.

I stayed silent, watching his feet shift weight from one foot to the other.

"Look, I know you're here. I can smell you," he continued, his tone somewhere between exasperated and urgently hushed. "Damien sent me."

My heart did a complicated little two-step at the mention of Damien's name, which I immediately filed under "emotions to unpack never."

"Damien can't make it," Jackson explained to what he thought was an empty room. "Alpha Richard's got him under surveillance. Assigned him every busywork task in the pack registry to keep him occupied. His father got suspicious after he spoke up for you at the council meeting."

That tracked. Richard Blackwood didn't strike me as the type to let filial rebellion slide, especially when said rebellion involved defending the pack's marked pariah.

"There's money in the bag," Jackson continued, nudging it with his foot. "Clothes too. Damien said to tell you he's sorry, but this is the best he can do right now."

I remained motionless beneath the bed, watching Jackson's designer sneakers pace a small circuit around the bedroom. Something didn't feel right. Jackson and I had never exchanged more than ten words, and most of those had been him ordering me to re-clean something I'd just finished. Now he was Damien's trusted messenger?

"My brother's on patrol tonight," he added. "Squad leader for the west gate during the birthday and engagement celebration. He'll look the other way while I get you out."

I eyed the duffel bag, trying to decide if this was a trap or genuine assistance. The money part seemed plausible—Damien came from old werewolf money, the kind that made trust fund babies look like coupon-clippers. But Jackson as his chosen emissary? That detail clanged like a false note in an otherwise believable symphony.

"My sister Jenna is an omega too," Jackson said, his voice softening in a way that seemed calculated. "She's only ten. I understand what's at stake."

That was the first I'd ever heard of Jackson having a sister. The Thornes were notorious for producing alpha males with the personality depth of aggressive puddles. An omega sister would have been gossip fodder for years.

"I'll be at the west gate during the celebration," he said finally, apparently giving up on getting a response. "Two hours, starting at midnight. If you want out, that's your window. After that... well, I hear the Northern Alliance has nice accommodations for cooperative omegas."

The threat, veiled as it was in fake concern, made my decision for me. I remained completely still as Jackson took one last look around the room and left, his footsteps fading as the front door clicked shut behind him.

I waited fifteen long minutes before sliding out from under the bed, approaching the duffel bag like it might contain a live cobra. When I finally unzipped it, I found clothes that looked suspiciously like they'd come from the omega dormitory storage—basic, utilitarian, and absolutely devoid of personality. Beneath them was an envelope that, when opened, revealed a stack of cash that would make a drug dealer whistle appreciatively.

The money, at least, seemed genuine. But everything about Jackson's visit felt off—like watching a movie where the audio is half a second behind the video. Just enough to make your brain scream that something's wrong.

I repacked the bag, my mind racing. If this was a trap, it was elaborate. If it wasn't, I needed to be ready to move come midnight. Either way, I needed a plan B, C, and probably the rest of the alphabet.

I had just decided to set up a makeshift alarm system using empty ramen cups and fishing line I'd found in a kitchen drawer when another sound froze me in place. Again, the front door—but this time, opened with less care, more urgency.

"For the love of all things furry," I muttered, diving back under the bed with the practiced ease of someone whose survival lately depended on furniture-based camouflage.

These footsteps were different—heavier, less measured. They moved directly to the bedroom with purpose, no hesitation.

The door swung open to reveal boots—expensive, but worn. Practical. Not the pristine sneakers Jackson had sported.

"Arianna Reyes?" a deep voice called. "I know you're here. I'm Caleb Rivers, Damien's cousin from Eastern Star pack."

A new player enters the game. Fantastic. Next thing you know, the Avengers would show up looking for the Infinity Stones.

"Damien sent me to get you out," this Caleb person continued. "Jackson isn't working for him—he's working with Alpha Richard. It's a trap."

Of course it was. Because nothing in my life could ever be straightforward. Not even betrayal could be uncomplicated.

"The Northern Alliance representatives know about this cottage," Caleb pressed. "They'll be here within the hour. We need to move now."

I remained silent, cataloging what I knew about Eastern Star pack, which amounted to approximately three facts: they were old allies of Silver Fang, they ran territory about two hundred miles north, and they had a reputation for being slightly less draconian about omega rights. Slightly. As in, they used golden handcuffs instead of iron ones.

"Look, I get that you don't trust me," Caleb sighed. "Smart. But Damien told me to tell you something. He said it would prove he sent me."

I held my breath.

"He said to tell you, and I quote, 'People play the roles they're given, but sometimes they can choose different parts.' Does that mean anything to you?"

It did. They were the last words Damien had said to me before disappearing for two days, leaving me to survive on military rations and legal thrillers. Words no one else would know.

But then again, if Damien had been caught, if Alpha Richard had questioned him...

"He also said your birthmark isn't a curse, it's a key," Caleb added, sounding increasingly impatient. "And that he's sorry he was such an asshole for so long, but he had to keep his father from suspecting. Whatever that means."

That... was unexpected. And sounded disturbingly genuine—both the apology and the cryptic birthmark comment.

I was about to respond, maybe even emerge from my under-bed fortress, when the bedroom window exploded inward in a shower of glass and splintered wood.

A massive black wolf landed in the center of the room, teeth bared, eyes glowing amber in the dim light. It shifted instantly, morphing from beast to man with the fluid grace of an elite werewolf, revealing none other than Alpha Richard himself, naked and radiating enough fury to heat a small planet.

"Found you," he snarled, eyes fixed on the bed I was hiding under. "Did you really think a few days of hide and seek would save you from your destiny, little omega?"

Before I could react, Caleb's expression hardened with a resolve that would make martyrs look indecisive. He locked eyes with me for one brief, electric moment.

"RUN, ARIANNA!" he shouted, his voice cracking with urgency. Then he launched himself at Richard with the reckless abandon of someone who'd just maxed out their heroism credit card and didn't give a damn about the interest rate.

The collision was brutal—all muscle and fury and the kind of impact that makes you wince in sympathetic pain. Caleb's body slammed into Richard's with enough force to send them both crashing into the wall, plaster raining down like supernatural dandruff.

"GO!" Caleb managed to yell again as he grappled with the Alpha, somehow maintaining human form even as Richard's massive body. "I'll hold him—just RUN!"

I didn't need to be told a third time. Scrambling out from under the bed, I snatched the duffel bag and bolted for the door, my birthmark blazing like I'd swallowed a star that was trying to escape through my cheek.

Behind me, I heard the unmistakable sounds of transformation—bones cracking, fabric tearing, human grunts giving way to lupine snarls. The last thing I saw as I reached the doorway was Caleb, mid-shift himself now, throwing his rapidly changing body between me and Richard with the kind of self-sacrifice usually reserved for movie finales and award ceremonies.

He was buying me time with his life, and we both knew it.

The night air hit my face like a promise as I burst from the cottage, legs pumping, lungs burning, the weight of my destiny—and a bag full of cash—propelling me into the darkness beyond.