The Bullied Omega's Return

I knew it was going to be one of those days the minute Victoria's perfectly manicured fingernails clicked against my bedroom door at 5 AM. Not knocked—clicked—like little death beetles tapping out a rhythm that spelled my doom. The sound jolted me from a dream where I was running through moonlit forests, free and powerful instead of what I really am—the pack's favorite punching bag. Reality crashed back with all its familiar weight: the damp basement walls, the threadbare blanket that did nothing against the perpetual chill, the ache in my bones from yesterday's endless chores. "Get up." Victoria didn't bother waiting for a response before pushing the door open. My stepmother stood backlit by the hallway light, her silhouette perfect and predatory. Even at this ungodly hour, she looked flawless—honey-blonde hair cascading over her silk robe, not a single strand out of place. "Luna Catherine needs help preparing for tonight's council dinner." I blinked sleep from my eyes, trying to process her words through the fog of exhaustion. "What time—" "I volunteered you to be there by six." Her lips curved into that smile that never reached her ice-blue eyes. "The Luna specifically requested someone who knows their place. I told her my stepdaughter excels at being invisible." Of course she did. My birthmark throbbed in response, a violet pulse that sent sparks of humiliation crawling under my skin. I swallowed it down like bitter medicine, along with the reminder that Catherine Blackwood—the Luna of Silver Fang pack—was everything Victoria had once been and still pretended to be. The perfect wife to the perfect Alpha, with their perfect son Damien, living their perfect lives while the rest of us orbited them like cosmic garbage. "I have a calculus test today," I whispered, already knowing it wouldn't matter. My voice sounded pathetically small even to my own ears. Victoria's laugh sliced through the pre-dawn darkness, sharp enough to draw blood. "Oh, sweetie. As if you're going to college." She leaned against my doorframe, designer silk robe hugging curves that had trapped my father and half the pack's attention. "Education is for wolves with futures. You're just..." she paused, examining her flawless manicure, "maintenance." The word landed like a boot to my chest. I bit the inside of my cheek until I tasted copper—better than letting her see me cry. Better than giving her the satisfaction. "Luna Catherine mentioned the south hallway floors need scrubbing before the Alpha Council arrives. The last omega apparently missed some... spots." Victoria's eyes gleamed with malicious delight. "I assured her you'd be much more thorough. You've had plenty of practice on your knees, haven't you?" My stomach twisted itself into knots. The south hallway was massive—gleaming marble that stretched for what felt like miles through the packhouse. Scrubbing it would take hours, which meant I'd be lucky to make it to school by lunch. Which meant missing my test. Which meant another failing grade that would make my already pitiful GPA plummet further. "Can't someone else—" "Wear something..." her eyes crawled over my body like invasive insects, "less pathetic, if that's possible. You're still technically a Reyes, even if you are defective." With that parting shot, she glided away, her footsteps soundless on the stairs leading up to the main house where she and my father slept in separate bedrooms—him because he'd never recovered from losing his Alpha status, her because she couldn't bear to share space with failure. After the click of her bedroom door echoed through the house, I pressed my face into my pillow and screamed until my lungs burned. The fabric came away smeared with concealer—the expensive kind I'd stolen from Sophia's vanity to cover my mark. Fat lot of good it did now. I forced myself into the tiny bathroom attached to my basement room—the one luxury I'd been granted after Victoria had claimed my mother's death during childbirth had somehow "contaminated" my presence in the main house. The pipes groaned and shuddered before spitting out lukewarm water. I caught my reflection in the cracked mirror above the sink and immediately wished I hadn't. My skin looked almost translucent in the harsh fluorescent light, dark circles like bruises beneath my eyes. The birthmark—that goddamn violet-black crescent moon that stretched from my temple to jaw—seemed to pulse against my pallid skin. I traced it with trembling fingers, feeling the slight ridge where the color deepened, wondering for the millionth time what cosmic joke had marked me this way while my twin sister emerged perfect. "Three more days," I whispered to my reflection, the words a desperate prayer to a deity who'd never shown any interest in my existence. "Just three more days until it's all decided." My eighteenth birthday. The day when wolves receive their formal place in the pack hierarchy. The day when whatever tiny scraps of freedom I still possessed would be stripped away completely. The rumors about marked omegas weren't encouraging—relegated to the packhouse kitchens for life, or worse, sent away to "breeding programs" where our tainted bloodlines could be useful without being seen. I splashed cold water on my face, covered the birthmark with a thick layer of concealer, and pulled my dark hair forward to shadow my face. The girl in the mirror looked haunted, hunted, hollowed out. Good enough for scrubbing floors. By 5:45 AM, I was hurrying through the morning mist toward the packhouse—the sprawling mansion at the center of Silver Fang territory where Alpha Richard, Luna Catherine, and their son Damien lived in splendor. Where my family had lived, once upon a time, before my father proved too weak to hold his position and Richard Blackwood had challenged and defeated him. The pack guards at the entrance barely glanced at me as I slipped through the service door. They knew me—everyone knew the marked omega, the living reminder of what happens when the Moon Goddess curses a bloodline. Their indifference was almost a mercy compared to the active disgust I usually received. Luna Catherine was waiting in the kitchen, supervising the breakfast preparations with the efficiency of a military general. Unlike Victoria, who wore her beauty like a weapon, Catherine Blackthorn's power lay in her commanding presence. She was tall and lean, with salt-and-pepper hair pulled into a severe bun and eyes that missed nothing. "You're three minutes late." She didn't look up from the clipboard in her hands. "The cleaning supplies are in the utility closet. I want that hallway gleaming before the first council members arrive at noon. That gives you—" she checked her watch, "less than six hours. I suggest you start immediately." "Yes, Luna," I murmured, keeping my eyes downcast as protocol demanded. Omegas never made direct eye contact with the Alpha or Luna unless specifically commanded. "And Arianna?" Her voice stopped me as I turned to go. "Victoria mentioned you've been... struggling... with your place lately. Remember that your behavior reflects on your father's bloodline. What little respect he still commands depends on you performing your duties without complaint." The reminder was unnecessary but effective. My father might have fallen from Alpha status, but he was still on the pack council, still clinging to the tattered remains of his reputation. My behavior could still hurt him—a fact Victoria leveraged constantly to ensure my obedience. "I understand, Luna." The words tasted like ash on my tongue. "Good girl." The dismissal was clear. I found the utility closet and gathered my weapons—a scrub brush that had seen better days, a bucket, harsh cleaner that would leave my hands raw, and knee pads that were more decorative than functional. Then I made my way to the south hallway, that gleaming expanse of imported marble that stretched the entire length of the packhouse's first floor. The work was mind-numbing and painful. I started at the far end, filling my bucket with hot water and cleaner that made my eyes water, then dropping to my knees to scrub in small, methodical circles. Each movement sent jolts of pain through my wrists and shoulders, the strain immediate and familiar. This wasn't my first time being "volunteered" for the worst of the pack's menial labor. Time blurred as I worked, the sun gradually climbing higher outside the tall windows, casting patterns across the wet floor that I followed like breadcrumbs marking my slow progress. By eight o'clock, my knees were screaming despite the pads, my back a solid mass of knotted muscles, my hands red and cracked from the harsh chemicals. I was so focused on my misery that I didn't hear them coming until it was too late. "Well, if it isn't Cinderella, minus the fairy godmother and the happy ending." Damien's voice hit me like a physical blow. I froze, still on all fours, water dripping from the brush in my hand, creating dark splotches on the just-cleaned floor. Slowly, I looked up. The Alpha's son stood at the entrance to the hallway, flanked by his usual entourage—Kyle and Jackson, his beta enforcers, and Macy who'd been trying to climb into his bed since freshman year. All of them in designer clothes, all of them immaculate, all of them smirking at the pathetic spectacle I made. "Shouldn't you be in school?" The question slipped out before I could stop it, immediately regretted. Damien's golden eyes narrowed, a flash of annoyance quickly replaced by cruel amusement. "I'm on the honor roll. I can afford to miss a few classes." He sauntered closer, his Italian leather shoes leaving marks on my clean floor. "The better question is why you're here instead of failing another calculus test. But I think we both know the answer to that, don't we?" Kyle snickered. "Some people are just naturally good at being on their knees." "It's like, evolutionary," Macy added, twirling a lock of her highlighted hair. "Omegas literally evolved to serve. It's like, science." I dug my fingernails into my palms, focusing on that specific pain rather than the humiliation burning through me like acid. "I need to finish this before ten," I said flatly, turning back to my bucket. "Oh, you need to work? Don't let us stop you." Damien's voice dripped with false concern. "In fact, we'll help." Before I could react, his foot lashed out, connecting with my bucket and sending dirty water flooding across the section of floor I'd just spent an hour scrubbing. The soapy liquid spread in a dark stain, ruining everything. "Oops." His smile was all teeth and malice. "Looks like you missed a spot." The laughter that followed cut deeper than any physical wound. I stared at the mess, at the wasted hours of effort, and something inside me—some tiny, forgotten ember of pride—flared to life. "What is wrong with you?" I hissed, rising to my feet despite every instinct screaming to stay down, stay small. "What did I ever do to make you hate me so much?" The hallway went silent. Challenging an Alpha's son—even with words—was unthinkable for an omega. Jackson and Kyle exchanged uneasy glances. Macy's mouth dropped open in shock. Damien's expression darkened, the playful cruelty replaced by something colder, more dangerous. He stepped closer, invading my space until I could feel the heat radiating from his body, smell the expensive cologne that couldn't quite mask his natural scent—pine and amber and power. "You existed," he said simply, his voice pitched low enough that only I could hear. "You walked around with that mark on your face, pretending to be normal, pretending to belong, when everyone knows you're just a cosmic mistake the Goddess regrets creating." Each word was a blade sliding between my ribs, finding all the soft, vulnerable places I'd tried so hard to protect. Tears pricked at the corners of my eyes, but I refused to blink, refused to give him the satisfaction. "Three more days until you're officially pack property, Dark Moon," he whispered, using the nickname that had followed me since childhood. "And then we'll all find out exactly what you're good for. Maybe they'll send you away to the breeding programs. Maybe they'll keep you here as a cautionary tale. Either way, your sad little life is about to get much, much worse." Something shifted in his expression then—a momentary flash of... what? Not quite regret. Not quite doubt. Whatever it was vanished before I could identify it. "Clean this up," he said louder, stepping back and gesturing to the mess he'd created. "And remember who you are. What you are." With that, he turned and walked away, his friends trailing after him like obedient satellites. I remained standing until they disappeared around the corner, then slowly, methodically sank back to my knees in the puddle of dirty water. I don't know how long I knelt there, staring at nothing, feeling the dampness seep through my jeans to my skin. The birthmark on my cheek pulsed with heat, a steady throb that matched my heartbeat. For a brief, disorienting moment, I thought I saw a violet glow reflected in the puddle before me—the mark illuminating with inner light—but when I blinked, it was gone. Just my imagination. Just the light playing tricks. Just another hallucination born from exhaustion and hunger and the constant, grinding pressure of being Silver Fang pack's omega whipping girl. By the time I finished recleaning the hallway, half the morning was gone, and the first council members were arriving. I slipped out through the service entrance, grabbed my backpack from where I'd hidden it in the bushes, and started the long walk to school. My clothes were still damp in patches, my hands raw and bleeding in places where the skin had cracked, my knees bruised beneath my jeans. I arrived just as lunch period was ending, slipping into the crowded cafeteria like a ghost. No one noticed me—no one except Sophia, my twin, my mirror opposite, my daily reminder of everything I wasn't. She sat at the center table with the pack elites, her black hair catching the light, her laugh carrying across the room like wind chimes. Like me, but perfect. Unmarked. Chosen. Our eyes met briefly across the crowded space. For a second—just a second—I thought I saw something flicker in her gaze. Recognition? Pity? Guilt? Then Damien slid onto the bench beside her, his arm draping possessively around her shoulders, and whatever I'd imagined was gone, replaced by her practiced indifference. I grabbed an apple from the lunch line and retreated to my usual corner table, the one perpetually empty except for me. My stomach growled painfully, reminding me I hadn't eaten since yesterday's dinner, but the thought of food made me queasy. Instead, I pulled out my calculus textbook and tried to make sense of the formulas on the page, knowing I'd have to beg my teacher for a makeup test, knowing she'd say no because this was the third time this semester I'd missed an exam. My birthmark throbbed against my cheek like a second heartbeat, hot and insistent and alive. I reached up to touch it, feeling the slight ridge beneath my concealer, the subtle warmth that seemed to be growing more pronounced as my eighteenth birthday approached. Three more days. Three more days until the pack council officially assigned me my permanent place in the hierarchy. Three more days of this limbo before I discovered just how much worse my life could actually get. "Moon Goddess," I whispered, not caring who might see my lips moving in desperate prayer, "if you're out there, if you're listening... please don't let them break me." But the only answer was the bell signaling the end of lunch, the indifferent shuffle of students heading to class, and the cold certainty that deities—like everyone else in my life—had better things to do than worry about one marked, unwanted omega.