Rejected by the Beta, Claimed by the Alpha King

Elara POV:

The sun had long set, casting long, dancing shadows across my bedroom floor. I was sitting by the small fireplace, brushing out my hair, when the door swung open without a knock.

My brother stood in the doorway, his broad shoulders filling the frame. His scent, a heavy musk of damp earth and authority, invaded my small space.

"You made a spectacle of the elders today," he snapped, stepping inside and closing the door.

I continued running the wooden brush through my hair, not looking at him.

"You rejected Vance in front of everyone. Do you have any idea how that makes the high ranks look?"

"It makes them look as if they tried to force an unwilling female into a mating," I replied smoothly.

My brother pinched the bridge of his nose, exhaling a frustrated breath. "Vance is an exceptional fighter. He is a high-ranking Beta warrior." He stepped closer, his tone softening into what he probably thought was a comforting, brotherly voice. "Mating with him would guarantee your safety. It would strengthen the pack's bloodline."

A wave of profound exhaustion washed over me. I set the brush down on the vanity and turned to face him.

"If you are so fond of him, brother, you are more than welcome to take him as your mate."

My brother choked on his next breath. His face froze, the patronizing lecture dying instantly on his lips. He stared at me, his eyes wide with shock at my disrespect.

Before he could recover and start yelling, I noticed the wooden tray he had placed on my small table. On it sat a slab of roasted venison, its rich, bloody juices still weeping onto the wood. It was Lyra's favorite meal after a hunt. Warriors needed heavy, raw meat to fuel their fast metabolism and their Shifts. Omegas, however, found our constitutions ill-suited for such coarse fare. We thrived on cooked vegetables, broths, and light poultry.

He had brought me Lyra's leftovers, thinking he was being a generous older brother.

I stood up and walked over to my wooden chest at the foot of my bed. I opened it and pulled out a heavy, carved wooden box. I walked back and placed the box right next to the bleeding venison.

"What is this?" my brother asked, his brow furrowing.

"Open it," I said.

He flipped the metal latch. Inside lay a thick necklace made of jagged wolf teeth, and a heavy, fur-lined combat cloak. They were his birthday gifts to me from the past three years.

"I am returning them," I said quietly.

"Elara, these are expensive. That cloak is made from a northern bear."

"It is too heavy for me to lift, let alone wear," I pointed out. "And the teeth scratch my collarbones." I gestured to the meat. "And I cannot digest venison. It makes me violently ill."

My brother stared at the items, a complicated mix of guilt and anger crossing his face.

"While you are at it," I added, "please take the two hunting hounds you tied behind my window last month. They terrify me."

"Are you trying to draw a line between us?" he demanded, his voice thick with hurt.

"I am simply stopping the charade," I said, looking him dead in the eye. "I am not Lyra. I don't like the things she likes. I am an Omega."

The room fell into a heavy, suffocating silence, thick with unspoken things. My brother slowly closed the wooden box.

"You are making a mistake with this Royal City nonsense," he finally said, his voice tight. "The Alpha King, Silas, is a butcher. He rules with blood and silver." Silver. The only metal that could burn a werewolf's flesh and halt our rapid healing.

"In seven days, King Silas will travel to the Moon Temple on our borders for the spring blessing," my brother continued. He picked up the box and the tray of meat. "I will arrange for you to stand in the courtyard when he passes. Once you feel his aura, you will beg to come back to Vance."

He turned and walked out, the heavy door clicking shut behind him.

I stood alone in the quiet room. Meeting the tyrant King in seven days.

The dream had shown me the Moon Temple too—a fleeting glimpse of golden eyes piercing through the fog, a presence so overwhelming it had silenced even the vision of my own death. The Moon Goddess had not shown me that moment by accident. But she had not shown me what followed. The King's gaze in my dream held no warmth—only the cold, assessing stare of a predator deciding whether something was prey or merely beneath his notice. His attention, I realized, was a double-edged blade. To be noticed was to be in danger. But to be ignored was to be forgotten—and a forgotten Omega in the Royal City would not last a week.

A thin, sharp smile touched my lips, a sliver of ice in the dim light. Let him come. I would give him something to notice—but on my terms, not his.