Marked by the Enemy Alpha

Thalia The nightmare always starts the same way. I'm seven years old again, hiding beneath my mother's bed while the world burns. Through the gap between the mattress and floor, I watch boots—black, polished, merciless—march through our home. I hear my father's roar cut short. My brother's scream. My mother's final, desperate plea: "Run, Thalia. Run." But I never run. Not in the dream. I just lie there, frozen, while Alpha King Draeven's voice echoes through the halls like death itself: "No survivors. The Silver Crest Pack ends tonight." I wake gasping, my worn blanket twisted around me like a burial shroud. Dawn breaks gray and cold over the omega quarters—a cluster of dilapidated shacks at the edge of Crescent Moon Pack territory. The "lucky" ones get rooms in the main house. People like me? We get rotting wood and leaking roofs, close enough to serve but far enough to forget. I press my fingers against the scar on my ribs—three lines, courtesy of Beta Marcus's claws last month when I "moved too slowly" bringing his breakfast. The physical pain faded weeks ago. The humiliation? That's permanent. Five years, I think, forcing myself upright. Five years of bowing my head, swallowing my rage, pretending to be no one. Because that's exactly what I am now. Not Thalia Silvercrest, daughter of an Alpha, heir to a proud bloodline. Just Thalia. Omega. Invisible. Disposable. I splash freezing water on my face from the cracked basin and catch my reflection in the clouded mirror. Hollow cheeks. Dark circles under eyes that used to sparkle with my father's confidence. Hair that my mother once braided with silver ribbons, now hanging limp and dull. "You look like a ghost," I whisper to my reflection. Maybe because I am one. The pack house kitchen is already chaos when I arrive—omegas rushing between stoves and counters, preparing breakfast for two hundred wolves who'll never learn our names. I slip into my station near the back, keeping my head down, my movements efficient. "Thalia!" Yara appears at my elbow, her copper curls escaping from a messy bun. She's the only friend I have here, the only person who sees me as something more than furniture. "Did you hear? About tomorrow?" "The Blood Moon Ceremony." I keep my voice flat, focused on chopping vegetables. "Hard to miss when everyone's been talking about nothing else for weeks." "Not just the ceremony." Yara leans closer, her voice dropping. "He's coming. The Alpha King himself." My knife slips. The blade nicks my finger, blood welling bright red. "Careful!" Yara grabs my hand, wrapping it in a clean towel. But she's watching my face, and I know she sees what I'm trying to hide. The fear. The rage. "Why would he come here?" I manage. "Crescent Moon is nothing special." "Alliance negotiations with Alpha Garrett, apparently. But the timing..." She bites her lip. "Thalia, what if tomorrow—what if the Blood Moon reveals your fated mate?" I laugh, but it sounds broken even to my ears. "An omega's fated mate? You mean my future owner? My chain?" "Not all mates are chains." Yara's optimism is almost painful. "Mine could be someone kind. Yours could be—" "A higher-ranked wolf who'll use me and discard me? Or worse, someone who'll actually care, and I'll have to watch them die too?" I pull away, resuming my work with jerky movements. "Fate has a cruel sense of humor, Yara. I'm not holding my breath for happy endings." But even as I say it, my free hand drifts to my chest, pressing against the lump beneath my shirt. My mother's necklace—a delicate silver moon on a chain, hidden where no one can see it. The only proof that I was ever someone. That I came from somewhere. That I mattered. Beta Marcus appears in the kitchen doorway during lunch prep, and the entire room goes silent. He's attractive in the way poisonous things often are—sharp features, cold eyes, power radiating from every pore. He scans the room slowly, deliberately, and when his gaze lands on me, it lingers. Too long. My skin crawls. I know that look. I've seen it before, in the moments before pain. "You." He points at me. "Alpha's study. Tonight. He wants the floors scrubbed before the King arrives." It's not a request. It's a command wrapped in the illusion of one. "Yes, Beta." I bow my head, the picture of submission. He smiles—predatory, knowing. "Good girl." I taste bile. That night, I'm scrubbing Alpha Garrett's study on my hands and knees when I hear them—Beta Marcus and the pack's Gamma, talking in the hallway. "Think the King will find his mate at the ceremony?" The Gamma sounds amused. "Unlikely." Marcus's voice is closer. "Though imagine the chaos if he did. The great Draeven Stormborn, bound to some random wolf. Probably an omega, the way fate likes its jokes." They laugh. I scrub harder, my jaw clenched so tight it aches. Draeven Stormborn. The monster who murdered my family. The king who built his empire on the graves of packs like mine. If fate is cruel enough to make him my mate, I'll reject him. I'll die before I let that murderer touch me. 'But what if you can't?' a traitorous voice whispers. 'What if the mate bond is too strong? What if you're trapped?' I press my forehead against the cold floor, my mother's necklace heavy against my heart. The Blood Moon comes tomorrow. And with it, the Alpha King who destroyed everything I loved. I should run. Disappear into the wilderness before dawn, never look back. Instead, I find myself wondering—what if fate is cruel enough to bind me to him? And what would I do then?