Scottland – Roger Pack Territory
The iron scent of bleach and blood clung to Scottland's skin.
She knelt on the stone floor of the main house, scrubbing dried stains from the baseboards, her arms raw from the rough fabric of the rag and the bite of cold water. Her wrists ached. Her knees had long since gone numb.
She didn't dare stop.
Beta Lorn stood at the end of the hallway, arms crossed, eyes on her like a predator watching its prey. One wrong move, and he'd strike. He always did.
Scottland didn't speak. She didn't make noise. She didn't exist, not really.
Omegas in the Roger Pack weren't people. They were tools. Toys. Servants. Breeders.
And Scottland, just eighteen and barely past her first heat, was all of the above.
She focused on the floor, on the scrub-scrub-scrub of her hand. On the bruises hidden beneath her sleeves. On the weight of her long, blonde hair, limp and tangled from days without a real bath.
Her stomach clenched as hunger twisted deep inside her. She hadn't eaten since yesterday—a stale biscuit and cold broth. She didn't ask for more. That, too, was a mistake.
The scent of meat roasting in the kitchens wafted through the corridor, and Scottland's mouth watered without permission. Her wolf whimpered quietly in the back of her mind, but she pressed it down. Her wolf knew better than to rise.
Footsteps echoed above her—sharp alpha boots clacking on the balcony. Deep voices followed, laughter laced with arrogance. Someone had arrived. A guest. An important one.
Scottland didn't lift her head. But her heart beat faster. New alphas meant new danger. New eyes. New hands.
She kept scrubbing.
A sharp voice barked a command nearby. Someone cursed. Then the doors at the end of the hall creaked open, and a cold wind swept inside.
Scottland smelled it before she heard him.
Power. Clean, crisp pine. Rain on stone. Strength without rot. The scent of dominance, yes—but not cruelty.
Her body froze.
Her nose twitched involuntarily. Omegas were made to respond to scent. It was in their blood. In their instincts. And this one—
This one wrapped around her like silk and heat and moonlight.
Then he walked in.
Scottland – Before the Arrival
She had dreamt once.
Of being a healer. Of learning names for the stars and the shapes of herbs. Of keeping little ones safe from fevers. Her mama had been a soft-voiced woman with sad eyes and quiet hands. She'd braided Scottland's hair every morning before chores and whispered the old songs when the others weren't listening.
Then her mama was gone—dead in a border raid—and Scottland was left alone at eleven.
From that day on, Scottland became a ghost in the pack's shadows.
Her first heat came early, shy and confused at just twelve years old. There was no ceremony. No guidance. She was locked in a storage room for three days, alone with nothing but old blankets and her own shame.
When it ended, the whispers began. The alphas started to look at her longer.
She learned silence quickly after that.
Now, years later, she scrubbed the floor not as punishment—but because she was useful again. She had hips and breasts and the look they liked. She was no longer invisible.
She just wished she were.
Alpha Grant – Entering the Roger Pack
The Roger Pack reeked of rot.
Alpha Grant walked through the rusted gates, his boots crunching on gravel as two enforcers flanked him nervously. He didn't bother to glance at them. They weren't threats. They barely registered as wolves compared to his pack.
The Gray's Pack—his pack—was the oldest and strongest bloodline in the country. His ancestors were kings before the Council dismantled the old thrones. Royalty ran through his veins, even if he wore modern clothes and met with diplomats instead of monarchs.
He didn't need to flex his power to be felt. The weight of his aura rolled off him like storm clouds, and lesser wolves instinctively moved out of his path.
He was here for business—an alliance negotiation to be polite about. But his wolf had been restless all week, tugging at his insides, pacing for no reason Grant could name.
Now, standing inside the Roger Pack's compound, he understood.
Something's here, his wolf growled.
They were led toward the main house, where Alpha Roger waited. The man was everything Grant disliked: bloated with false pride, smug behind his thinning hair and beady eyes. He smiled too much. Smelled of sweat and ambition.
"Alpha Grant," Roger said, his voice oiled with fake charm. "The Gray's Pack honors us with their presence."
Grant gave a tight nod. "Let's get to the point."
Roger chuckled. "No need to rush. We've prepared a feast. A show of hospitality, of course."
Grant's jaw clenched. "Lead the way."
But as they passed into the main hall, the scent hit him.
He stopped mid-step.
Sweet. Hidden. Wronged.
It wrapped around him like a song half-heard, soft and aching. Beneath the layers of soap and pain, there was something pure. Something his wolf recognized.
His head turned on instinct.
There—on her knees near the wall, hands raw and red—was a girl.
Young. Small. Blonde hair falling like a veil around her face. She didn't look up. But Grant's heart roared.
Her scent was faint, but it pierced him.
Mate.
The word slammed through him like thunder.
She didn't move, but her body went still—unnaturally still. She felt it too. He saw it in the way her breath caught, the way her fingers trembled on the rag.
The bond was awakening.
Grant took a slow step forward. "Who is she?"
Roger followed his gaze, then scoffed. "That? One of our omegas. Not worth much. Doesn't speak. Looks pretty, but there's not much in her head. Useless, really."
Grant's eyes narrowed.
"She has a name," he said flatly.
Roger waved a hand. "Scottland, I think. Picked up as a stray. She's not for sale, if that's what you're asking."
"I wasn't."
Grant forced himself to step away, but the scent lingered, clawing at his control. His wolf paced and snarled, demanding he turn back. That he take her. Protect her.
But not yet. Not here. Not like this.
He couldn't risk her safety by acting rashly.
Not with so many watching.
But as they walked down the hall, Grant looked back once.
And she was looking at him.
Just for a second.
Wide blue eyes, full of fear. Full of something else.
Recognition.
Then she dropped her head, and he lost her again.
But it was too late.
She was his.
Scottland – That Night
The barracks were silent.
Other omegas slept around her, scattered across the floor on thin pads, too exhausted to dream. Scottland sat curled in the corner, arms wrapped around her legs, her chin on her knees.
She hadn't moved since returning from the main house.
Her heart still hadn't slowed.
She could feel him.
The alpha.
She didn't know his name, but she didn't need to. Her body knew. Her instincts screamed. The bond had cracked open something inside her—something old and aching and long-silent.
Fated.
That's what he was.
Her Fated Mate.
Tears slid silently down her cheeks.
She'd never believed she'd have one. She was born in the wrong pack. Broken. Dirty. Used.
Fated Mates were for others. For free omegas. For loved ones. Not for girls like her.
But she felt it.
When he looked at her, he hadn't seen a servant. He hadn't seen a thing.
He'd seen her.
The way he stepped forward. The way his scent curled around her like a shield. The way her wolf stilled in his presence.
He was hers.
And for the first time in years, Scottland let herself believe in something.
Not in freedom.
Not in peace.
But in him.
Alpha Grant – Guest House, Later
Grant stood at the window of the guest house, arms crossed over his chest, staring into the moonlit trees.
"She's in that house," he said quietly.
Behind him, Beta Marcus looked up from where he was inspecting their weapons. "The girl?"
"She's my mate."
Marcus stood. "Moon above."
"I know."
"You sure?"
Grant turned, his eyes glowing faintly in the dark. "I've never been more sure of anything."
Marcus exhaled. "This complicates things."
"It changes everything."
He looked back out the window, voice steel.
"We're not leaving this pack without her."