Chapter 1

Prologue

The memory of my mother answering the phone is etched in my mind like a vivid painting. The tone of her voice was a blend of unwavering resolve and emotional distance as she communicated with the person on the line, directing them to retrieve me. In that precise moment, it felt as though my entire universe shattered into countless fragments, leaving me feeling lost and bewildered.

The moment she shifted her gaze in my direction, the earth-shattering announcement crashed into me with the force of a thousand bricks - “You will be departing to be a part of a new family,” she declared, a family that was meant to provide for me. Amidst the playful chaos of my siblings running around, their carefree laughter reverberating through the walls of the house, I found myself rooted to the ground. Tears cascading down my cheeks, enveloped in a cloud of confusion as to why I was deemed unwanted. I am acutely aware that I am the sole Omega among the five children that my father brought into this world before his untimely departure.

The words of my mother pierced through my soul like a razor-sharp blade, inflicting a profound wound that seemed to seep into the depths of my heart. The pain, already unbearable, surged with each syllable as she coldly declared, “You are not my child, and you never will be. Since your father's passing, I no longer have any obligation to care for you.” The icy chill in her voice sent shivers down my spine, as I struggled to comprehend the sudden transformation in her demeanor. Just as her hurtful words threatened to crush my spirit entirely, a sudden knock on the door shattered the suffocating silence that enveloped the room. With a disarming smile plastered on her face, she greeted the unexpected visitor and hastily mentioned that she would gather my belongings for my imminent departure.

As the storm of emotions rages within me, threatening to break through my fragile exterior, I find myself struggling to contain the tears that threaten to spill over. Seeking solace, I wrap my arms tightly around myself, trying to find some semblance of comfort in the chaos that surrounds me.

Despite my attempts to keep my distress hidden, my siblings are quick to pick up on my inner turmoil and rush towards me with open arms, offering their warm embraces in a gesture of support and understanding. However, their well-intentioned actions are abruptly halted by the stern growl of our alpha mother, who hands me a small bag containing my belongings, a stark reminder of the uncertain future that lies ahead.

Just when it seems like all hope is lost, a police officer emerges as a beacon of light in the darkness, exuding a sense of calm and reassurance that instantly puts me at ease. With a gentle touch and soothing words, he guides me towards a waiting car, ushering me away from the only home I have ever known. As the familiar sights and memories fade into the distance, a wave of sadness washes over me, mingled with a sense of apprehension for what lies ahead in this new chapter of my life.

As I gradually regain consciousness, a surge of panic courses through me when I realize that I am no longer in the familiar confines of a car's back seat. Instead, I am now confined within the chilling walls of a dimly lit and damp basement or dungeon, sending a chill down my spine as I come to terms with the grim reality of my situation.

Before I can even begin to process the gravity of the situation, a sudden and unbearable pain shoots through my body, causing me to cry out in agony. The sharp sting of a needle piercing my skin leaves me gasping for air, but my pleas for help go unanswered as the perpetrators swiftly move on to the next innocent victim.

In this nightmarish place, time seems to lose all meaning, leaving us all in a state of perpetual fear and confusion. The days blend into nights, and the passage of time becomes a hazy blur, shrouding us in a veil of uncertainty and dread.

The darkness of the basement envelops us, making us feel trapped and suffocated. The only source of light comes from a flickering bulb hanging above, casting eerie shadows that seem to dance across the damp walls. Fear, despair, and the unmistakable scent of blood linger in the air, a constant reminder of the horrors we have endured.

Our innocence was cruelly ripped away from us, leaving us scarred and broken in ways that words cannot describe. Time becomes a mere concept as we are subjected to unspeakable atrocities that haunt our every waking moment. Within the cold and unforgiving walls of our prison, our cries for mercy echo in vain, falling on deaf ears that offer no solace or reprieve.

The tormentors, with their malevolent presence, seem to feed off our fear and despair, growing stronger with each passing moment. Their insidious whispers echo in the darkness, planting seeds of doubt and despair in our minds. We are trapped in a never-ending cycle of torment, unable to break free from their grasp.

As we struggle to maintain our sanity in the face of such relentless torment, we are constantly reminded of our own vulnerability. The tormentors seem to revel in our suffering, taunting us with their twisted games and cruel tricks. We are left to wonder if there will ever be an end to this nightmare, or if we are doomed to be forever at the mercy of these nameless creatures.

I wake up with sixteen years weighing on my chest and the first thought that crosses my mind is: maybe today will be different. My birthday hangs in the air like a question mark, something that could either puncture or lift this perpetual balloon of hope I keep inflating. I stretch my fingers toward the ceiling, watching the pale morning light filter through the budget blinds that never quite close all the way. Sixteen. The age when some girls get cars, some get parties, and omegas like me get extra pamphlets about "heat safety" slipped under our doors by well-meaning school counselors.

Rolling onto my side, I survey my bedroom – my sanctuary and my prison all at once. The industrial-strength air fresheners perched on every surface make the room smell like nothing at all, which is the point. Can't have an omega's scent wafting out windows or through vents, especially not one approaching maturity. The locks on my windows are reinforced, triple-bolted with a small alarm system wired to the house's main panel. "For your protection," Cassandra had said when they were installed last year, her smile not quite reaching her eyes.

On my desk, a stack of omega literature fans out like playing cards: "Understanding Your Cycle," "Alphas & You: Maintaining Boundaries," and my personal favorite, "Scent Suppression: A Modern Omega's Guide to Dignity." I haven't had my first heat yet – I'm what the doctors call a "late bloomer" – but Cassandra's been preparing for the eventuality since my father died three years ago, as if my biology is a ticking bomb rather than a part of me.

I swing my legs over the edge of the bed, toes curling against the cold floor. Today feels different. Not because Cassandra will suddenly transform into the mother figure I've been craving, but because sixteen feels like a milestone worth marking, even if it's just for me.

The bathroom mirror reveals the same face as yesterday – unremarkable brown eyes, a splash of freckles across my nose that I've never managed to make peace with, and hair that can't decide if it wants to be wavy or straight. But today, I dig through the small cosmetics collection I've slowly accumulated from drugstore clearance aisles. The mascara is clumpy and the blush is a shade too bright, but I apply them with surgical precision, as if proper makeup application might somehow unlock the secret to being valued.

"Happy birthday," I whisper to my reflection, practicing a smile that doesn't look desperate or forced. The girl in the mirror looks back skeptically. She's seen this routine before – the hope, the inevitable disappointment, the quiet tears into a pillow that won't judge me for wanting something as simple as acknowledgment.

I try on and discard three different outfits before settling on jeans that don't have obvious wear at the knees and a sweater that Cassandra once commented didn't make me look "quite so washed out." It's as close to a compliment as I've gotten regarding my appearance.

My fingers tremble slightly as I fasten the thin silver chain around my neck – my mother's, or so my father told me before he died. It's all I have of her, this woman who disappeared when I was too young to remember her face. Sometimes I wonder if she knew what I would present as, if she sensed the omega in me and ran before she had to deal with it.

The house is quiet as I make my way downstairs, each step a negotiation between hope and self-preservation. Past birthdays flash through my mind – the thirteenth, when Cassandra simply placed a box of suppressants on my plate instead of breakfast; the fourteenth, when she was "too busy" with her charity committee to come home; the fifteenth, unmarked except for a curt reminder about an upcoming doctor's appointment.

Set your expectations at floor level, Tink, and you won't have far to fall.

The kitchen smells of coffee and something sweet – cinnamon? My stomach tightens with cautious anticipation as I round the corner. Cassandra stands at the counter, her ash-blonde hair swept into its usual immaculate bun, not a strand daring to rebel against her control. She's already dressed for work in a tailored gray suit that probably cost more than everything in my closet combined.

"Good morning," I say, the words carrying more weight than they should.

Cassandra turns, and I'm startled by the smile on her face – a real one that crinkles the corners of her eyes. "Justine," she says, using my full name as always, "happy birthday."

I freeze, my brain refusing to process this deviation from the expected script. "Thank you," I manage, my voice embarrassingly small.

"I've made coffee," she continues, gesturing to the pot. "And there's a cinnamon roll. I remembered you like them."

The pastry sits on a plate at my usual spot, store-bought but still a concession to the day. I slide into the chair, half expecting the floor to open up beneath me or the roll to vanish like a mirage.

"I have a special surprise planned," Cassandra says, checking her expensive watch. "For after school. Something to mark the occasion properly."

My heart stutters. "A surprise? For me?"

"Of course for you." She laughs, the sound practiced and perfect like everything else about her. "It's not every day my stepdaughter turns sixteen."

The way she says "stepdaughter" hasn't changed – clinical, like acknowledging a position rather than a relationship – but I'm too busy processing the concept of a surprise to dwell on it.

"Thank you," I say again, more firmly this time. "That's really... nice of you."

Cassandra's smile tightens infinitesimally. Something flickers in her green eyes – a calculation, perhaps, or a rehearsal of what comes next. She moves toward the door, heels clicking against the tile, but pauses beside me. "Enjoy your day, Justine. We'll celebrate properly this evening."

As she leans down to collect her purse, I catch her scent – expensive perfume layered over something sharper. My omega senses, usually dulled by suppressants, pick up a trace of anxiety mixed with grim determination. A warning prickle runs up my spine.

But I push the feeling away. This is what I've wanted, isn't it? Acknowledgment. Celebration. A step toward something that resembles a normal relationship. And if there's something off in her scent, something in her too-perfect smile that doesn't quite ring true – well, that's just Cassandra being Cassandra. Always a little tense, always a little distant.

The door closes behind her, leaving me with a cinnamon roll and the dangerous spark of hope. I take a bite, letting sugar dissolve on my tongue, and tell myself that today, finally, might be the day something changes.