They didn’t knock. Why would they? Omegas don’t get the courtesy of warning.
“Time to go,” the first guard said, not even looking at me. His voice was flat, bored—like he was reading a grocery list.
“Go where?” I was stuffing clothes into my satchel, hands shaking despite my best efforts to look composed.
The second guard—tall, scarred across his left cheek—finally met my eyes. “Does it matter?”
Fair point. I slung the satchel over my shoulder. “Can I—”
“No.” Scar-face grabbed the bag and hurled it into the mud outside my door. When I instinctively reached for it, his boot came down hard on the leather, grinding it deeper into the muck.
“Oops,” he said, not remotely apologetic.
I stared at him. “Really?”
“Really.” His smile was all teeth, no warmth. “Welcome to your new life, princess.”
The “room” they gave me wasn’t a room. It was more like a closet that gave up on life. Behind the laundry huts where the frost clung to rotted wood like it was trying to hold the whole structure together through sheer spite.
“Home sweet home,” Scar-face announced, shoving open a door that looked like it had been assembled by drunk toddlers.
I stepped inside. Four damp walls, dirt floor, and a sheet folded in the corner like someone’s half-hearted attempt at hospitality. No window. No cot. Just the smell of mildew and broken dreams.
“Where’s the bed?” I asked.
“You’re looking at it.” He pointed to the sheet.
“That’s not a bed. That’s a surrender flag.”
“Same thing, really.” The door slammed shut with a finality that made my chest tight.
In the silence that followed, something inside me just… folded. Like origami made of hope and bullshit.
By morning, my stuff had vanished. Not misplaced—vanished. Like a magic trick performed by assholes.
“Hey,” I cornered Mira by the laundry lines. “Have you seen my father’s blade? The pendant from my mom?”
She wouldn’t look at me. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Mira. Come on. It’s me.”
“Is it?” She finally met my eyes, and what I saw there was worse than anger. It was pity. “Because the Lucy I knew wouldn’t have gotten herself Omega’d over some stupid pride bullshit.”
“Stupid pride—”
“Just let it go, okay? They’re gone. Move on.” She walked away, leaving me standing there with my mouth open like I was catching flies.
Great. Even my best friend was giving me the breakup speech.
Meals became a spectator sport I wasn’t allowed to play. I’d lurk behind the barn door like some kind of feral cat, watching everyone else eat while my stomach performed death metal solos.
“Look, it’s Ghost Girl,” I heard Marcus whisper to his buddies, loud enough for me to catch. “Wonder if she eats scraps like a real omega.”
His friends laughed like he’d just delivered the comedy gold of the century.
I waited until they were done, then approached the leftover trays. Cold meat, congealed whatever-the-fuck soup, bread harder than my life choices. Gourmet dining at its finest.
“Hungry?” Valen’s voice behind me made my spine go rigid.
I didn’t turn around. “What gave it away? The obvious drooling?”
“The desperation.” He moved closer, and I could smell that expensive cologne again. “All this suffering, Lucy. When all you have to do is ask nicely.”
“Ask for what?” I grabbed a piece of the concrete bread, mostly out of spite.
“Forgiveness. Submission.” His breath raised the hair on my neck. “Me.”
I finally turned to face him, and his smile was the kind that made you want to check for exit signs. “I’d rather eat dirt.”
“Can be arranged.” He reached past me for an apple, his arm brushing mine deliberately. “But dirt’s not very nutritious. Not like a proper meal. In the main hall. At my table.”
“With you.”
“With me.”
“Hard pass.”
His smile widened. “We’ll see how long that lasts.”
The workload was biblical. Scrubbing floors, washing blood-soaked armor until the metallic smell lived in my nostrils, hauling firewood that left my arms looking like I’d been wrestling with angry cats. Every task designed to break me down piece by piece.
“This is ridiculous,” I muttered, dunking another blood-crusted breastplate into the wash basin. The water turned rust-colored immediately.
“What was that?” Elder Careth appeared beside me like a bad omen. “Did you say something?”
“Just commenting on the weather.”
“Funny. Sounded like complaining.” She leaned closer, her voice dropping to a whisper. “Omegas don’t complain, dear. They’re grateful for any work they’re given.”
“Right. Super grateful. This is basically Christmas morning for me.”
Her hand cracked across my cheek before I saw it coming. “Gratitude. Practice it.”
I touched my stinging face, tasting blood where I’d bitten my tongue. “Noted.”
But as she walked away, I muttered under my breath, “Bitch.”
Valen’s visits became routine. Predictable as sunrise and twice as unwelcome.
“All this suffering,” he said one afternoon, appearing behind me as I polished boots in the barracks. “When all you have to do is crawl back.”
I straightened, forcing my shoulders square even though every muscle ached. “You want a pet, get a dog.”
“I want you.” His voice was soft, which somehow made it worse. “Broken. Grateful. Mine.”
“Well, two out of three ain’t bad.” I turned to face him. “I’m definitely broken. Jury’s still out on grateful.”
His smile was sharp enough to cut glass. “I don’t need your love, Lucy. Just your submission.”
“Yeah? Well, I don’t need your bullshit. But here we are.”
He leaned closer, close enough that I could see the gold flecks in his brown eyes. “This can end anytime you want. One word. One gesture.” His finger traced along my jawline. “One kneel.”
I jerked away from his touch. “Dream on.”
“Oh, I do.” He laughed. “Every night.”
That evening, violet sky bleeding into night, I was hanging blood-soaked tunics behind the barracks when two warriors walked past, voices carrying in the wind.
“Prince Cassian Vale,” one of them said, voice dropping to that conspiratorial whisper people used for ghost stories. “They say he’s coming for the summit.”
My hands stilled on the clothesline.
“The cursed one?” The second warrior snorted. “Dude’s supposedly insane. They say his wolf’s too big to control. Killed his own mate in a rage. Tore her throat right out.”
“Bullshit.”
“That’s what I heard. Plus, he’s been living alone in the northern territories for what, three years? Nobody sees him, nobody talks to him. He’s basically a myth at this point.”
They kept walking, their laughter fading into the distance.
But I couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. Because that name—Cassian Vale—hit me like lightning striking twice in the same spot.
I’d heard it before. In dreams that left me gasping. In stories whispered around campfires when I was small. In warnings my father used to give when the wind howled too loud.
Cassian Vale. The last Dire Alpha Prince. The cursed one.
And if the rumors were true, he was coming here.
