-Vaughn Blackmore:
— Two Months Later
By the time two months had passed, the camp had stopped feeling like a place I was visiting and started feeling like something I was surviving.
Not comfortably. Not easily. But consistently.
There was a rhythm to it that settled into my bones, whether I liked it or not. Waking up before the sun even thought about rising, the air still cold and biting against my skin as I stepped outside. Training until my muscles screamed, until my lungs burned so badly it felt like I was inhaling fire instead of oxygen. Eating just enough to keep going. Then doing it all over again.
At first, it had nearly broken me.
The first week, I had hit the ground more times than I could count. My body simply hadn't been built for this kind of pressure—not naturally. Every drill felt like it was designed to expose exactly what I was, to peel me open in front of everyone and prove that I didn't belong there.
I remember the way my arms shook the first time I tried to hold my own in sparring. The way my vision blurred when I pushed too hard. The quiet looks from the others—some curious, some doubtful, some just waiting for me to quit.
But I didn't.
I never did.
By the second week, I learned how to control my breathing, how to pace myself just enough to avoid collapsing completely. By the third, I stopped being the obvious weak link. I was still behind—still not as fast, not as strong—but I wasn't the one dragging everyone else down anymore.
That mattered.
More than I wanted to admit.
I found small things to hold onto. Familiar faces. Repeated conversations. A place at the edge of a group that didn't fully accept me, but didn't push me away either.
Darien, an alpha, was the easiest to talk to. He didn't treat me like I was fragile or like I was something strange to study. He just… talked. About training, about the instructors, about how much everything sucked in a way that made it easier to laugh it off.
Cole, also an alpha, talked too much, but it filled the silence in a way that made things feel less tense. He asked questions he probably shouldn't have, said things without thinking, but there was no real malice behind it.
Marcus, another alpha, said the least, but he noticed everything. The way I moved, the way I adjusted my cap, the way I stayed just a little more guarded than everyone else.
We sat together sometimes after training, bodies sore, exhaustion weighing down every movement. I always kept my cap low, the fabric brushing against my fox ears, keeping them hidden. It wasn't shame—not exactly—but it was easier this way. Easier than feeling their attention shift, easier than giving them one more reason to remember what I was.
Most days, it almost felt normal.
Almost.
Then Ryland Grayson arrived.
The change wasn't loud. It didn't come with announcements or formal introductions. It was quieter than that, more subtle. The kind of shift you felt before you fully understood it.
People stood a little straighter. Conversations dipped slightly in volume. Attention shifted, not dramatically, but enough that it was noticeable if you were paying attention.
I hadn't been—at least, not at first.
"Hey," Cole muttered beside me that morning, nudging my arm lightly as we stood near the edge of the training field. His tone had changed just enough to catch my attention. "Look."
I followed his gaze.
Ryland Grayson didn't look like someone who needed to prove anything.
That was the first thing that stood out.
He wasn't trying to impress anyone. He wasn't posturing or showing off or making a point of his presence. He walked onto the field as he had always been there, like this space already belonged to him and everyone else was just temporarily sharing it.
His movements were controlled, precise, every step measured without looking stiff. There was a kind of quiet confidence in the way he carried himself—not loud, not aggressive, but undeniably there.
People noticed.
Of course they did.
Darien shifted slightly beside me, his gaze fixed on him. "That's Ryland Grayson," he said under his breath. "Next head Alpha of his pack."
I didn't respond right away. I was still watching.
Trying to figure out why something about him didn't sit right with me.
He greeted a few people, nodding when spoken to, exchanging brief words with one of the instructors. Nothing about it stood out as rude or arrogant. If anything, he seemed… composed. Calm in a way that should have been reassuring.
"Doesn't seem like a big deal," Cole shrugged after a moment.
I almost agreed.
Almost.
Then Ryland's gaze shifted.
It moved across the field casually, like he was just taking everything in—and then it stopped.
On me.
It wasn't obvious enough for anyone else to react to. It wasn't dramatic. Just a glance.
But it lingered.
Long enough for something in my chest to tighten. Long enough for my instincts to sharpen, something quiet and warning settling low in my gut.
I held his gaze for a fraction of a second before looking away, my fingers adjusting the brim of my cap without thinking.
Something about that look stayed with me.
Even after he moved on.
—
The first time he spoke to me, it wasn't in front of anyone else.
It was later that day, after training, when most people had already started clearing out. The air was thick with the smell of sweat and dust, the fading noise of the field settling into something quieter.
I was by the racks, re-racking weights, my arms still slightly unsteady from the strain. My focus was on the bar in my hands, on the simple, repetitive motion of putting things back where they belonged.
I didn't hear him approach.
"Blackmore."
My name.
Low. Controlled. Not loud, but it didn't need to be.
I turned.
He was closer than I expected.
Up close, the calm I had noticed earlier was still there—but now I could see what was underneath it. Something sharper. Colder. The kind of look that didn't just see you, but assessed you. Measured you.
Judged you.
"You're the Omega," he said.
Not a question.
A statement.
I held his gaze, my posture straightening just slightly without meaning to.
"Yes."
His eyes moved over me slowly, deliberately, taking in everything. My stance. My build. The cap pulled low over my head.
It didn't feel like curiosity.
It felt like an evaluation.
"And they let you stay," he added.
There was something in the way he said it—so casual, so detached—that made it worse than if he had laughed.
"It's a training for everyone," I replied, keeping my voice steady.
One of his eyebrows lifted slightly, just enough to show that he didn't believe that.
"An Alpha training camp, you're not an alpha, not even beta," he said.
My grip tightened around the bar.
"I'm still here," I answered.
He tilted his head slightly, considering that for a second.
"That doesn't mean much," he said calmly.
The words landed heavier than they should have.
Because he believed them.
Because part of me knew everyone else probably did too.
"You don't know anything about me," I said, the edge in my voice sharper now.
"No," he agreed easily. "I don't."
There was a pause.
Then his gaze sharpened just slightly.
"But I know enough."
The silence that followed wasn't comfortable. It wasn't neutral. It pressed in, heavy, suffocating in a way I couldn't explain.
Then he stepped past me.
Just like that.
Like the conversation was already over.
Like I wasn't worth any more of his time.
"Try not to slow everyone else down," he added as he walked away.
I stood there for a second longer than I should have, my jaw tight, something hot and sharp building under my ribs.
That was the moment it clicked.
He wasn't calm.
He wasn't neutral.
He just didn't think I mattered enough to react to.