The Omega's Desperate Escape

Bleach fumes scorched through my sinuses, but beneath the chemical burn, something darker bloomed—the copper-sweet scent of my own rage, carefully banked. Tomorrow I turned fifteen. Tomorrow the moon would strip away uncertainty and reveal what blood and bone already knew. "Missed a spot, orphan." Pink designer boots halted beside my bucket. Carly. The Beta's daughter who'd never known the ache of lye-burned fingers or the particular humiliation of kneeling in other wolves' filth. I drew the brush across black-veined grout, counting each stroke. Seventeen tiles between me and the drain. Six months since my aunt's throat opened under rogue claws. Two hundred and twelve days of swallowing pride like broken glass. "What do you think you'll be?" Blonde hair cascaded as she crouched, bringing the cloying scent of vanilla body spray and privilege. "Beta like your dead mommy? Or maybe..." The word hung between us, unspoken but heavy as a stone. My grip stayed steady. The brush whispered against ceramic. "That's what I thought." She rose, nudging the bucket with practiced cruelty. Gray water sloshed across my knees, soaking through worn denim. "See you at dinner. Try not to smell like toilet when you serve us." Twenty shower stalls stretched before me, reeking of morning testosterone and dominance games. Three hours until the evening training session. I waited until her footsteps faded before allowing myself one long exhale. Then I smiled. Steam rose from the fresh bucket of scalding water. In its surface, I saw not my own reflection but possibilities—spreading like cracks through ice, inevitable as sunrise. * The kitchen's industrial rhythm swallowed me whole. Moira commanded her domain from the massive stove, gray hair twisted tight, movements economical as a predator's. "You're late." "Carly—" "Potatoes. Alpha wants roasted venison for tomorrow." Alpha Brennan's birthday celebration. Every wolf within a hundred miles would crowd the great hall, drunk on moonshine and the promise of watching an orphan's fate unfold. I selected a peeler, testing its edge against my thumb. Sharp enough. Around me, omega women moved in practiced synchronization, vegetables surrendering to their blades. The unpresented worked the edges—hauling, scrubbing, invisible. They gave me wide berth. Orphan luck was contagious. "Billie." Moira's voice cut through steam and sizzling fat. "Alpha's study. He has guests." The tray held coffee black as winter nights and enough pastries to feed six grown wolves. My stomach clenched—breakfast had been yesterday's soup dregs and stale bread—but hunger was just another tool. Everything could be a tool if you held it right. The packhouse hallways whispered with history. Dead Alphas watched from gilded frames. Dead Lunas smiled their frozen smiles. My aunt's portrait wore black ribbon like a scar. I memorized the curve of her jaw, the steel in her gaze that had kept the worst of them at bay. Until it hadn't. Two knocks. Precise. Deferential. "Enter." Alpha Brennan occupied space the way mountains occupied horizons—massive, immovable, casting shadows that swallowed smaller things. Marcus flanked him, our pack's enforcer whose eyes tracked movement like a wolf tracks bleeding prey. Three visiting Alphas barely registered my existence. I placed the tray on the sideboard. Turned to leave. "Wait." Every muscle locked, but I made it look like obedience. "Come here, girl." I approached through air thick with dominance and barely leashed violence. Marcus's attention crawled across my skin like cold fingers. "Tomorrow's your birthday." Alpha Brennan's voice rumbled from his chest, more growl than words. "Fifteen." "Yes, Alpha." "Your aunt spoke for you while she lived." Leather creaked as he shifted his bulk. "But dead Lunas offer poor protection. If you present omega tomorrow, you'll need someone else. Someone strong enough to keep the wolves from your door." Marcus smiled. All teeth. All hunger. "We'll discuss it after the celebration." Dismissal rang clear as a bell. "Send Moira my compliments on the pastries." I retreated with measured steps. Down the hallway where my aunt's eyes followed. Through the kitchen where Moira pretended not to notice my trembling hands. Out the back door where forest stretched endless and unforgiving—no roads, no towns, just ancient trees and older laws. The peeler remained in my pocket. I traced its edge, feeling how easily sharp things could draw blood if you weren't careful. Or if you were. Tomorrow I turned fifteen. Tomorrow the moon would force truth from my bones, would name me Beta or Omega or the rare, precious Alpha that orphan girls never became. Tomorrow Alpha Brennan would try to collar me with his enforcer's claim. Tonight, beneath stars that didn't care about pack law or orphan girls, I began collecting sharp things. The forest knew how to keep secrets. So did I.