The first week in Wolf Fang Pack felt like a lifetime in hell.
Every corner whispered with hatred. Every stare carried venom. The air itself seemed to thicken around me, pressing down until I could hardly breathe. No matter where I walked, I felt their eyes burning into my back—judging, mocking, despising. To them, I was not a woman. I was not a wolf. I was nothing but a cursed outsider who had stolen their Alpha's attention in the most shameful way possible.
The Bluemoon slut.
The lowborn whore.
The mistake that carried the Alpha's heir.
I heard it all. I felt it in the way conversations dropped when I entered a room, in the way laughter rose after I left. The poison in their words seeped deeper than claws ever could.
The packhouse was a prison carved from stone and pride. To anyone else, it was a monument—grand halls draped with banners, its walls echoing with the footsteps of warriors, its corridors adorned with carved wolves that glared down like silent judges. But to me, it was nothing but a gilded cage. The ceilings stretched so high they made me feel small, insignificant. The polished floors reflected back my weary figure like a mockery of who I had once been. Every shadow seemed to whisper that I didn't belong.
The den I once called home had been humble, yes—crude even, by their standards—but it had been warm. Safe. It had smelled of pinewood and soil, of familiarity and love. This place smelled of power, dominance, and the silent reminder that I would never be part of it.
On the third day, I carried a basket of fresh laundry down to the lower courtyard. My arms ached under the weight, but I welcomed the sting—it grounded me, gave me something real to hold onto. That was when two young she-wolves stepped into my path, their smiles sharp as glass.
"Look at her," one hissed, eyes trailing from my unkempt hair to the gentle swell of my stomach. "Thinking she's special because she's carrying the Alpha's child."
The other leaned close enough that her breath brushed my cheek, cloying and sweet like rotting fruit. "You're nothing, omega. Do you think giving birth to his heir makes you Luna? Pathetic."
I lowered my gaze, clutching the basket tighter, willing my voice not to break. "I never claimed to be anything," I whispered.
The first wolf snorted, her lip curling. "Good. Because you're not."
The shove came before I could brace for it. Hard hands slammed into my shoulders, and the basket tumbled from my arms, scattering Alpha Jacob's clothes across the dirt. My knees hit stone, scraping open, but I bit back the cry that clawed at my throat. Pain was safer than defiance.
As I scrambled to gather the clothes, dust coating my palms, movement caught my eye. Jacob.
He stood across the courtyard, tall and commanding, the late sun catching on his dark hair. His gaze found me instantly, pinning me in place. My chest tightened, a fragile hope sparking that maybe—just maybe—he would step forward. That he would chastise the wolves who had mocked me, show them I was not to be humiliated.
But he didn't move.
He only watched.
And somehow, that hurt worse than the fall.
By the fifth day, the whispers had turned to threats. Wolves "accidentally" slammed into me in the halls, their laughter following as trays of food spilled to the floor. When I bent to clean, no one helped. No one ever helped.
And then there was Lyanna. Beautiful, untouchable Lyanna. She didn't need claws to wound me. Her weapon was her voice, smooth and sharp, laced with venom.
"You don't belong here," she told me one evening as we passed in the corridor. Her gown flowed behind her, regal in a way I could never be. She smiled, but her eyes were knives. "Sooner or later, Alpha Jacob will realize it too. Then where will you run, little omega?"
Her words sank deep, festering like a wound I couldn't heal. I wanted to retort, to tell her she had no claim over me, over the child inside me—but fear sealed my lips. Silence was my only shield.
That night, I lay in the darkness of my chamber, the air thick and suffocating. My wolf stirred uneasily, pacing within me, restless beneath the weight of my dread. Then, a softer stir—a flicker of life deep inside my womb. My child. Our child. The only being in this place who did not hate me.
I pressed a trembling hand over my stomach, tears burning at the corners of my eyes. "I'll protect you," I swore, voice breaking into the silence. "Even if no one protects me."
But danger came faster than I expected.
On the seventh day, I was sent to fetch water from the stream at the edge of the pack's territory. A chore, they said. A necessity. But the two warriors who flanked me weren't guards—they were chains. Their eyes never left me, as though expecting me to run at the first chance. Perhaps I would have, if I had somewhere to go. But there was no place left for me.
The forest pressed close around us, heavy with the scent of moss and damp earth. My ears twitched at the rustling of leaves, my wolf bristling in warning. Then I smelled it. Bitter. Wrong. Rogues.
They stepped from the shadows—three of them, ragged and wild-eyed, their teeth bared in hungry grins.
"An omega," one sneered, eyes glinting with cruel delight. "And pregnant, too. What luck."
My heart lurched, my breath catching in my throat.
The warriors surged forward, snarls ripping from their throats, but the rogues fought like demons, driven by desperation. Claws tore, teeth snapped, the air thick with the metallic tang of blood. I stumbled backward, clutching my stomach, terror clawing at my chest.
One rogue broke free, his gaze locking onto me. He moved with terrifying speed, lunging across the stream. I tried to run, but my foot slipped on the slick bank, and I hit the ground hard. The world spun as his shadow loomed over me, claws raised for the killing blow.
And then he was gone.
Jacob.
He was a storm incarnate, a whirlwind of fury and power. One moment the rogue was above me, the next Jacob's hand had pierced his chest, ripping him away like he was nothing more than paper. The sickening crack of bone echoed as the body hit the ground. Jacob's eyes blazed with lethal fire as he tore through the remaining rogues, his movements too fast, too brutal to follow.
When silence fell, broken only by the drip of blood into the stream, I lay trembling on the ground. My body shook with fear, my breath ragged as my gaze rose to him. His chest heaved, his shirt torn and stained red—but none of it was his blood.
His eyes found me, sharp and merciless. "Are you trying to kill the child?" His voice was ice, colder than the river rushing nearby.
"I—I didn't—" My throat tightened, tears burning. "I didn't know—"
His hand clamped around my arm, yanking me to my feet. Pain shot through me, but I bit it back. His grip was bruising, unyielding, his presence suffocating.
"You are weak. Careless. Useless. If you can't protect yourself, then you don't deserve to carry my heir."
His words cut deeper than any claw. My chest ached, my wolf whimpering in despair.
But for a fraction of a second, as his gaze dropped to my stomach, something flickered in his eyes. Something I couldn't name. Not softness—never softness—but not pure steel, either. It was gone before I could be sure, replaced with that same unyielding cold.
Without another word, he dragged me back toward the packhouse. His hand on my arm was not a guide—it was a leash.
That night, when I lay in the suffocating dark, my body sore and my heart shattered, I pressed my palm over my stomach again. The ache inside me burned, but through it, I clung to one fragile truth.
For the first time, Jacob hadn't let me die.
Not for me.
Never for me.
But for the child.
And for now…that was enough.