Rejected by My Alpha for the Rogue Omega

Three days before the Harvest Moon Banquet, Aidan called a ranked-wolf assembly.

I sat in the Luna's chair—still mine, technically—while the Gamma, Delta commanders, and Beta filed in. Clara arrived last, smoothing her skirt as she took her seat beside her mate. Jocelyn slipped in behind Aidan, standing just off to his left, her hands folded in front of her.

Aidan didn't waste time. He stood, and the room went quiet.

"For the Harvest Moon Banquet," he said, "Jocelyn will serve as special advisor to the Alpha for all ceremonial proceedings."

The words landed clean and final. No preamble. No explanation. Just a title that didn't exist in any pack charter I'd ever read, spoken like it had always been there.

I felt the bond pulse—warm, satisfied, proud. Aidan was pleased with himself. Pleased with her.

Clara's voice cut in before anyone else could speak. "That's inspired leadership, Alpha." She beamed at him, then at Jocelyn. "Fresh perspective is exactly what we need."

A few wolves nodded. The Gamma's jaw tightened, but he said nothing. The Beta glanced at me once, then looked away.

Jocelyn's smile was soft, grateful, perfectly calibrated. "I'm honored to serve the pack however I can."

I sat very still. My wolf stirred beneath the suppressant—a low, compressed growl that had nowhere to go. I breathed through it. Pressed my hands flat against my thighs. Did not shift.

Aidan's eyes swept the room, landing on me last. "Any objections?"

The silence stretched. No one spoke.

"Good," Aidan said. "Dismissed."

I stood with the rest of them and walked out. No one followed me.

---

The night before the Banquet, I woke at four in the morning.

Barnaby lifted his head as I slid out of bed, his dark eyes tracking me across the room. I pulled on a robe and walked barefoot down the corridor to the kitchen.

The pack house was silent. No guards, no movement, just the faint creak of old wood settling in the cold. I lit a single candle and set it on the counter.

This was my ritual. Every new moon for six years. Measure the herbs. Crush them in the mortar. Heat the bowl over the flame until the tincture turned dark and bitter. Drink it down in three swallows and feel my wolf go quiet again, compressed into something small and manageable.

I measured the herbs tonight. I crushed them. I held the bowl over the flame and watched the liquid darken.

Then I set it down.

I stood there in the candlelight, my hands on the counter, and I didn't drink it.

Barnaby padded into the kitchen and pressed his weight against my leg. I rested one hand in his coat and stared at the bowl.

My wolf was still quiet—years of accumulated dosing didn't wear off in a single night—but something in my chest had shifted. A decision I didn't have words for yet. A door I had opened without meaning to.

I picked up the bowl and poured the tincture down the sink drain. I watched it disappear. I did not brew a new one.

Then I walked to the cabinet and retrieved the wolfsbane dish—the one Jocelyn had brought weeks ago, the one Aidan had made me apologize for rejecting. I wrapped it carefully in a clean cloth and tucked it inside the inner pocket of my Luna ceremonial jacket, hanging in the wardrobe.

Barnaby followed me back to the bedroom. I climbed into bed and lay there in the dark, my heart beating steady and sure.

I did not sleep.

---

The morning of the Harvest Moon Banquet, I opened my journal.

I sat at the wardrobe with the floorboard pried up and Barnaby warm against my knee, and I wrote.

I listed every alliance Ironvale held. Every treaty. Every contact name and term Aidan had never learned, never asked about, never thought to question. The southeastern renewal. The northwestern border arrangement, signed at 4:47 on a Tuesday. The eastern trade corridor he called his masterstroke. The Lycan court connections that existed only because I had reached them using a name I hadn't spoken aloud in six years.

I wrote it all down. Every detail. Every debt.

At the bottom of the final page, I added one sentence: *If I do not come back to this journal, let the record stand.*

I closed it. Slid it into the inner pocket of my ceremonial jacket beside the wolfsbane dish.

Then I dressed. The Luna garments were heavy—formal, embroidered, designed to be seen. I fastened every clasp. Smoothed every fold. Looked at myself in the mirror and saw a stranger wearing my face.

Barnaby sat by the door, watching.

I knelt beside him and scratched behind his ears. "Stay," I said quietly.

He whined once, low in his throat.

I kissed the top of his head and stood. Then I walked out and closed the door behind me.

---

Two hours before the Banquet, I passed Aidan's office and heard voices inside.

I didn't stop. I didn't knock. I just kept walking, my footsteps silent on the corridor carpet.

But I heard Jocelyn's voice through the door—soft, trembling, distressed.

"She confronted me this morning, Alpha. Privately. She said she would expose me to the pack. I don't know what I did wrong."

A pause. Then Aidan's voice, low and tight. "What exactly did she say?"

"That I didn't belong here. That I was—" Her voice broke. "I'm frightened. I trust you to protect me, but I don't know what she'll do tonight."

Silence.

Then Aidan: "I'll handle it."

I kept walking. I didn't look back. My hands were steady. My wolf was still quiet.

But something cold and final settled into my chest.

Tonight, he would handle it.

Tonight, I would let him try.