The morning of the first official Omega Council meeting arrived like the hush before a storm—not violent, but full of pressure, possibility, and change.
Scottland stood by the window in the sunroom, her fingers gently playing with the wooden flower pin Wren had given her. The warmth of sunlight brushed across her shoulders, but her thoughts were far from calm.
This wasn't just a meeting.
It was a beginning.
She took a breath and turned to face the room. Wren was already arranging chairs in a wide, welcoming circle. The floor was swept clean. Tea, juice, and small pastries lined the side table. The space felt safe. Soft. Like something new.
"You ready?" Wren asked, her voice light but her eyes steady.
Scottland nodded slowly. "As I'll ever be."
The door opened gently, and Rose walked in, followed by Lila, Ana, and a few of the younger girls. Then more trickled in—some with hesitant steps, others with eyes full of curiosity. They found seats, greeted each other with quiet nods, and waited.
No one had to be here. That had been the first rule.
Attendance wasn't mandatory.
Every voice was welcome, but only if it came by choice.
By ten past the hour, more than thirty Omegas sat in the sunroom.
Scottland took a deep breath, stepping forward to where everyone could see her.
"Hi," she began softly, her voice wobbling only slightly. "I know most of you, but for anyone I haven't met—I'm Scottland. And… I'm an Omega. Like you."
No one laughed or rolled their eyes. They listened. They leaned in.
"This is the first meeting of the Omega Council," she continued. "There's no formal structure yet, no titles. Just a group of us trying to figure out what comes next."
She looked around the room and saw dozens of faces reflecting pieces of herself—cautious, hopeful, fierce, tired.
"I want to begin by asking you something simple," she said. "What do you want to feel when you walk into a room like this?"
Silence at first.
Then a hand lifted. It was Ellie.
"Safe," she said softly. "I want to feel safe."
Someone else: "Heard."
Another: "I want to feel like I belong."
Whispers. Nods. Agreements.
Scottland felt her throat tighten. "That's what we're building here. A space where we feel safe. Heard. Where we belong."
Wren stepped in, holding a small basket. "We thought it might help to have a suggestion system. If there's something you want to bring up anonymously, you can write it down and drop it here."
Some nodded. A few looked relieved.
They spent the next hour discussing practical things—mealtimes, common rooms, how to share chores fairly, how to help new arrivals. Scottland watched how quickly the girls came alive when asked their opinion. Ideas sparked. Debates rose—but respectfully. The younger ones watched with wide eyes as older Omegas spoke with conviction they never would've dared use back in their old packs.
It wasn't perfect. It was messy, passionate, sometimes tangential. But it was theirs.
And that mattered more than anything else.
Afterward, as the room emptied and laughter trailed down the hallway, Wren turned to her, grinning.
"You were amazing."
"I didn't even say much," Scottland replied, a little dazed.
"That's what made it work."
Scottland let the moment wash over her. Not long ago, her voice had been something others took from her. Now, it was something she shared.
And people were listening.
That afternoon, Scottland went to the garden behind the main house. The roses were blooming early, their petals thick with fragrance. She knelt down near the climbing vines and ran her fingers through the soil, grounding herself.
"May I?"
She looked up to see Grant standing a few feet away, dressed casually in jeans and a soft gray henley that hugged his broad frame. His blue eyes held that familiar mix of warmth and awareness.
She smiled. "Of course."
He crouched beside her, silent for a few beats as they pulled weeds together in comfortable quiet.
"I heard it went well," he said finally.
Scottland brushed dirt from her palms. "It did. They showed up. They spoke. I still can't believe it."
"I can," he murmured.
She looked at him, brow raised.
"You've been quietly holding this pack together since the day you arrived," he said. "You've done more than you know."
Scottland didn't respond right away. She just leaned into his shoulder. "I didn't think I'd ever feel useful. Or needed. Or… respected."
"You are. In every way."
He pressed a kiss to her temple, and she closed her eyes.
That night, as the house settled into quiet, Scottland wandered back into the sunroom to clean up the leftover mugs. The basket of anonymous notes caught her eye. She hesitated, then reached in and pulled one out.
The handwriting was shaky, uncertain.
"What do we do when memories hurt more than anything else?"
Scottland sat down in one of the chairs, her hands trembling slightly. She reached for another.
"I haven't slept through the night since I left my old pack."
And another.
"I don't know how to be touched without flinching. Even hugs are hard."
Her chest ached.
She remembered nights curled up in the farthest corner of her cot, biting her tongue to keep from crying aloud. She remembered how the silence wasn't peace—it was survival. She remembered thinking she would never feel safe in her own skin.
Wren walked in quietly and sat beside her.
"You read them?" she asked softly.
Scottland nodded. "Some of them are…"
"I know."
They didn't speak for a while.
Then Scottland whispered, "We need more than meetings. We need healers. Therapists. Safe touch practices. Night circles. Something."
Wren nodded. "I was thinking the same."
Scottland looked up. "Do you think the Alphas will support it?"
"They'll support you," Wren said without hesitation.
Scottland blinked. "That's not what I—"
"They will," Wren said again, firmer. "Because you've earned it. And because Grant would tear down the sky if you needed him to."
Scottland laughed softly, but it was a bit watery.
She looked back at the notes.
"We can't fix everything," she murmured.
"No," Wren agreed. "But we can start somewhere."
The next morning, Scottland stood before the Alpha Council.
Grant sat to her left, his expression unreadable but proud. The other Alphas—Ezra, Cain, Lena, and Petra—watched her with interest.
"I'm not here as your mate's Omega," she said, her voice clear. "I'm here as someone representing dozens of girls who've been through hell."
She placed the basket of notes on the table.
"These are voices. Raw, afraid, but still willing to speak. They're asking for support. Not pity. Not control. Just help."
Ezra reached for one of the notes and read it silently.
Petra looked over her glasses. "What are you proposing?"
"A trauma-informed wellness team," Scottland said. "Voluntary. Quiet. Confidential. Therapists. Counselors. Meditation guides. Night companions for those afraid to sleep alone."
Lena raised a brow. "You want to rebuild an entire healing system."
"I want to build one," Scottland corrected. "Because it's never existed before. Not for us."
Grant's eyes never left her.
Cain leaned back in his chair. "And who would lead it?"
Scottland hesitated. "Me. With others. With Wren. With anyone who wants to help, not who's told to."
The room was silent.
Then Grant spoke. "I endorse this without reservation."
"So do I," Ezra added.
One by one, the others agreed.
And Scottland, once silent and forgotten, walked out of the council room knowing she'd just helped change everything.
That night, after dinner, she stood on the back porch with Grant. The stars were starting to appear, dotting the sky like quiet promises.
He slid his arms around her from behind, resting his chin on her shoulder.
"Do you feel it?" he asked.
Scottland tilted her head. "Feel what?"
"The shift. You're becoming something powerful."
She turned in his arms. "I don't want power."
He cupped her face gently. "You don't crave it. That's what makes you worthy of it."
She swallowed. "I just want them to be okay."
"And because of you," he said softly, "they're getting closer to that."
She leaned into his chest, breathing him in, grounding herself in his scent and heartbeat.
For the first time, she wasn't just surviving.
She was shaping the world she wanted to live in.
And she wasn't doing it alone.