From Broken Omega To The Alpha's Fierce Queen

Esther POV:

Panic is a luxury. I couldn't afford it.

I took a deep, shuddering breath, then another, forcing the air into my starving lungs. The practiced calm of my previous life—a life spent navigating treacherous pack politics and hiding my own pain—began to settle over me.

I walked to the window, my bare feet silent on the plush carpet. Down below, crossing the moonlit expanse of the formal gardens, was a tall, solitary figure. Archer. He moved with a purpose, his long strides eating up the ground, heading toward a low, stone building at the far end of the estate.

The command center. The heart of the Fitzpatrick pack's security and military operations.

Of course. He was the Alpha. He had duties far more pressing than a hysterical bride.

He wouldn't be coming back tonight. Not after what I'd done.

And that meant Jonah was coming.

I knew it the way I knew my own heartbeat. In my previous life, the moment Archer's footsteps had faded down the hall, his cousin had slithered in. The same night. The same hour. A drunk wolf who had been waiting in the shadows, watching, counting the minutes until his prey was left alone.

A chill that had nothing to do with the night air crept over my skin. This house was full of enemies I knew and, I was sure, enemies I had yet to discover.

But this time, I was not helpless. This time, I was the one waiting.

I needed a weapon.

My eyes scanned the opulent room. Everything was too soft, too decorative. Then I saw it, on the heavy mahogany desk in the corner. A letter opener. It was old, made of heavy brass, with an ornate handle and a blade that tapered to a wicked point.

I picked it up. The cool, solid weight of it in my palm was a small comfort. I clutched it tightly, the metal a stark contrast to the trembling in my hand.

Okay. A plan.

First, survive tonight. Jonah would come. He always came when the Alpha was away. I would be ready.

Second, wait for dawn. Find Archer. Try to explain. I would stick to the "nightmare" story. It was the only version of the truth he might possibly believe.

Third, contact my family. I had to warn them, to start putting things in motion. My father was a good man, but too trusting. He wouldn't see the danger until it was too late.

I locked the door. The click of the latch was small and final. In my previous life, I had never thought to do it in time.

Then I positioned myself. Not on the bed. Not in the center of the room where he would expect to find a frightened bride. I melted into the shadows beside the heavy velvet curtains, the letter opener held low along my forearm, and I waited.

As I waited, I found myself pressing my thumb against my lips, a nervous habit I thought I'd lost a lifetime ago.

A sound from the hallway. Right on time.

Footsteps. Shuffling, unsteady. And a low, muffled laugh that made the blood in my veins turn to ice.

I knew that laugh. I would know it in the deepest pits of hell.

Jonah Fitzpatrick.

My heart slammed against my ribs—but not with the same fear. This time, it was the steady, pounding rhythm of a huntress who hears her prey approaching.

I adjusted my grip on the letter opener, my knuckles aching from the pressure. I was already where I needed to be.

The doorknob rattled.

It didn't turn. I'd locked it.

"Esther?" Jonah's voice oozed through the thick wood, slurred with alcohol. "Come on, little bird. Open up. I know my cousin isn't in there. Don't be lonely."

My breath hitched. My entire body went cold.

Inside, I was stone. But not from fear. From the cold, crystalline focus of a woman who had died once already and would not be broken again.

Thump. Thump.

Jonah began to bang on the door, his patience gone. "I know you're in there, you little bitch! Open the door! You think marrying my cousin makes you some kind of queen? You're just a backwoods Omega. You're here to serve." His words grew fouler, more explicit.

I trembled, a storm of rage and fear warring within me. This was how it started last time. His drunken visit. My terrified silence. My failure to fight back.

Not again. Never again.

I heard a faint metallic scrape. A grunt of effort. Then a sharp crack of splintering wood.

From his pocket, Jonah had produced a pry tool. A flat, sturdy piece of metal meant for forcing open doors. The old lock, elegant but not designed to withstand brute force, gave way with a shuddering groan.

The door swung open with a violent crash. Jonah stumbled in, a foul cloud of whiskey and smug entitlement preceding him. A leering, predatory grin was plastered on his face.

"There you are," he slurred, his eyes scanning the room, not yet seeing me in the shadows by the door. He took a step toward the large, empty bed.