The summons comes before sunrise.

I'm still in my quarters—a narrow room in the Omega wing with a cot, a chair, and a window that doesn't lock—when someone pounds on the door hard enough to rattle the frame. I know before I open it that it's going to be bad. No one knocks like that unless they're delivering orders they know you won't want to hear.

Donna Reyes stands in the hallway, her weathered face pulled into the carefully neutral expression she wears whenever she's been told to do something she doesn't agree with but won't refuse. She's the senior Omega overseer, which means she assigns our duties and makes sure we complete them without causing problems for the higher-ranked wolves. She's not cruel. But she's not kind either. She's practical, and practicality in this pack means doing what you're told.

"Briana," she says, her voice flat. "You've been reassigned. Alpha's orders."

My stomach drops. I don't ask what the assignment is. I already know it's going to be designed to break me.

"Stone floors," Donna continues, not meeting my eyes. "Outside the Alpha's office. On your knees. By hand."

There it is. The pettiest, most humiliating task Zayd could dream up without officially violating pack protocol. Scrubbing floors is Omega work. Doing it on your knees, within sight and earshot of the Alpha himself, is theater. It's a message written in lye soap and bruised skin: you defied me, and this is what defiance costs.

I don't argue. Arguing with Donna won't change anything. She's not the one who gave the order.

But I'm also not going to do it.

I spend the next two hours in the pack's records hall, a dusty room in the east wing that smells like old paper and neglect. Most wolves avoid it—too boring, too tedious—which makes it the perfect place to dig through the bylaws no one's bothered to update in decades. I find what I'm looking for buried in a subsection about Omega labor rights, a phrase so dry and bureaucratic I almost miss it: *Omegas may petition for reassignment to essential pack services if current duties conflict with health or safety standards.*

It's a technicality. A loophole designed for situations that probably don't exist anymore. But it's there, written in ink that's older than Zayd's authority, and that makes it law.

I draft the petition on a scrap of paper, my handwriting cramped and hurried, and take it directly to Elder Rowan's residence before I can second-guess myself.

Rowan answers the door himself, a stooped man with silver hair and eyes that have seen too many pack disputes to be surprised by anything. He reads my petition in silence, his expression unreadable, then looks at me over the top of the page.

"The Healer's den," he says slowly. "You're asking to be reassigned there."

"Yes, Elder."

"Under Shane Crawford's supervision."

"Yes."

He studies me for a long moment, and I force myself to hold his gaze without flinching. Finally, he nods once, sharp and final.

"Approved. Effective immediately."

I don't wait for him to change his mind. I walk straight to the Healer's den, my hands still aching from the morning's scrubbing I'd started before abandoning it, and push open the door.

Shane is at the worktable, organizing dried herbs into labeled jars, and he looks up when I enter. His expression doesn't change—he's too controlled for that—but something shifts in his eyes. Recognition. Concern.

"Briana," he says quietly, setting down the jar. His gaze drops to my hands, and I realize for the first time that they're bleeding. The skin across my knuckles is raw and split, the lye soap having eaten through the old calluses I thought would protect me.

I don't say anything. I don't know what to say. I just stand there, holding my ruined hands out like an offering I didn't mean to make.

Shane crosses the room in three strides and takes my hands in his, so gently I barely feel the touch. His fingers are warm, steady, and he doesn't ask questions. He just guides me to the chair near the window and kneels in front of me, reaching for a clean cloth and a basin of water that smells faintly of lavender.

He works in silence, cleaning the blood and dirt with careful, deliberate movements. The water stings, but I don't pull away. There's something almost hypnotic about the way he moves—methodical, patient, like he has all the time in the world and I'm the only thing that matters in it.

When the wounds are clean, he reaches for a tin of salve, something pale green that smells like mint and something else I can't name. He smooths it over the broken skin with his fingertips, and the pain dulls almost instantly.

"This will help," he murmurs, his voice low and soothing. "You'll need to keep them wrapped for a few days."

He binds my hands with soft linen strips, his touch so careful it makes my chest ache in a way that has nothing to do with the injuries. When he's finished, he doesn't let go right away. He just holds my wrapped hands in his, his thumb brushing lightly over the fabric.

"You're safe here," Shane says, and the words land with a weight I wasn't expecting. "He can't touch you in this den."

I want to believe him. I want to believe there's anywhere in this pack where Zayd's reach doesn't extend. But I've learned better than to trust safety when it's offered.

Still, for the first time in days, I let myself breathe.

The corridor is crowded when Amanda finds me.

I'm carrying a basket of fresh linens from the Healer's den back to the storage room—one of the endless small tasks Shane assigns me that keep my hands busy and my mind mercifully occupied. The hallway smells like pine soap and the faint musk of wolves passing through between shifts. I keep my head down, navigating the foot traffic with the practiced invisibility I've honed over the past year.

Then she steps directly into my path.

Amanda Herrera stands there like she's been waiting, her designer boots planted on the stone floor, arms crossed beneath breasts that are definitely enhanced by whatever expensive bra high-ranking she-wolves wear. Her dress is cashmere, dove gray, and probably costs more than I've earned in six months. Zayd's scent clings to her—cedarwood and dominance—so fresh it's obvious they've been together recently. She wants me to notice. I do.

"Briana." Her voice is bright, performative, pitched just loud enough that the wolves passing behind her slow down to listen. "I've been meaning to talk to you."

I shift the basket to my hip, keeping my expression neutral. "Amanda."

Her smile sharpens. "I wanted to thank you, actually. For making things so easy."

I don't take the bait. I just wait.

"I mean, stepping aside like you did." She tilts her head, the motion calculated to show off the perfect curve of her neck—unmarked, I notice, which means Zayd hasn't sealed their bond yet. "It must have been hard, realizing you weren't enough for an Alpha. But honestly, you did him a favor. He needed someone who could actually stand beside him, not some wolfless—" She pauses, letting the word hang. "—freak who can't even shift."

The wolves behind her go still. I can feel their attention like a physical weight.

I meet Amanda's eyes and let the silence stretch just long enough that her smile starts to falter. Then I speak, my voice dry and unbothered.

"You know what's interesting, Amanda? You're wearing a thousand-dollar dress and his scent like a badge, but you're still out here in a public hallway, picking a fight with the Omega he supposedly doesn't care about." I shift the basket again, casual. "If I didn't know better, I'd think you were worried."

Her face flushes. "I'm not—"

"Because here's the thing." I take a small step forward, close enough that she has to tilt her chin up to hold my gaze. "If you actually had him, you wouldn't need to prove it to me. You'd just have him. But instead, you're standing here, in my way, wearing his scent like a costume and throwing around insults a middle schooler would be embarrassed by." I pause, letting the words settle. "So who's this performance really for, Amanda? Me? Or you?"

She opens her mouth. Closes it. Her hands have curled into fists at her sides, and the flush has spread down her neck.

I don't wait for her to recover. I step around her, the basket still balanced on my hip, and walk away without looking back. The crowd parts to let me through, and I can feel their eyes tracking me—some amused, some shocked, most just hungry for the drama.

I don't care. I'm already thinking about the next thing I need to do.

---

The pack courtyard is busiest in the late afternoon, when the day's work is winding down and wolves gather to socialize before the evening meal. It's a sprawling stone space ringed by benches and planters, with the Alpha's balcony overlooking it from the second floor. I know Zayd uses that balcony. I've seen him up there, watching the pack like a king surveying his kingdom.

That's why I choose this moment.

Shane is already at one of the benches when I arrive, reviewing notes in a leather-bound journal. He looks up when I approach, and something in his expression shifts—surprise, maybe, or concern.

"Briana," he says quietly. "Everything all right?"

I sit down beside him, closer than I normally would, close enough that our shoulders almost touch. "Fine," I say, keeping my voice light. "Just needed some air."

He studies me for a beat, then nods slowly. He doesn't push. He never does.

I lean in slightly, pretending to look at the notes in his journal, and let my arm brush against his. "What are you working on?"

"Inventory," Shane says, his tone steady but quieter now. "Checking stock before the next supply run."

I make a soft sound of acknowledgment, then let myself laugh—quiet, genuine—at something he's written in the margin, a small joke about one of the herbs. The sound feels strange in my throat, unfamiliar, but Shane's mouth curves into a faint smile in response.

I can feel Zayd's gaze from the balcony like a brand on my skin.

I don't look up. I just touch Shane's arm lightly, my fingers resting there for a heartbeat longer than necessary, and let the afternoon sun warm the space between us.

The moon is full when the pack gathers at the northern edge of our territory for the monthly run. I can smell the anticipation in the air—sharp, electric, undercut by the musk of wolves preparing to shift. The clearing is packed with bodies, high-ranked warriors clustered near the front, Deltas and Gammas forming a loose middle ring, and us Omegas pushed to the edges like an afterthought.

I stand near the tree line with Carla and two other Omegas, my arms wrapped around myself against the October chill. The sound starts low—a ripple of cracking bone and tearing sinew as the first wolves begin their shifts. Fur erupts along spines. Limbs elongate and reshape. Within minutes, the clearing is filled with wolves of every size and color, their eyes gleaming in the moonlight.

I don't shift. I can't. I just stand there, watching, feeling the familiar ache of exclusion settle in my chest.

Then Zayd's voice cuts through the night, amplified by his Alpha tone.

"Crawford!" He's already shifted—a massive dark-furred wolf with hazel eyes that burn even in this form. His voice reverberates through the pack bond, reaching every wolf present. "Stay back with the Omegas where you belong. Let the real warriors run."

Laughter ripples through the gathered wolves. I see Shane near the front, still in human form, his expression carefully neutral. He doesn't respond. He just inclines his head slightly, acknowledging the command without submitting to the humiliation Zayd's trying to force on him.

But I can see the tension in his shoulders. The way his jaw tightens.

Zayd leads the pack into the forest with a howl that shakes the trees, and the warriors follow in a surge of fur and muscle. The sound of their passage fades quickly, leaving us Omegas and Shane standing in the suddenly empty clearing.

Shane turns to leave, heading back toward the pack house, and I watch him go with my hands clenched at my sides.

---

Ten minutes later, the first scream echoes through the forest.

It's not a howl. It's a yelp of pain, high and panicked, and it cuts off abruptly. Carla grabs my arm, her eyes wide.

"What was that?"

I don't answer. I'm already running toward the tree line, my boots pounding against the dirt. I can hear shouts now, the sound of wolves snarling and snapping, and my heart is hammering so hard I can barely breathe.

I break through the underbrush and freeze.

Zayd has Shane cornered against a massive oak, his wolf form towering over Shane's human one. Shane's back is pressed to the bark, his hands raised in a gesture that's not quite surrender but close. Zayd's fangs are bared, saliva dripping from his jaws, and waves of Alpha dominance roll off him so thick I can feel them from twenty feet away.

The other wolves have formed a loose circle, watching. No one intervenes.

Zayd snaps his jaws inches from Shane's throat, a clear threat, and Shane goes very still. His face is pale but his eyes are steady, locked on Zayd's.

I don't think. I just reach.

I've never done this before—never had a wolf to teach me how. But I know what a mind-link feels like from the stories, from watching other wolves communicate silently across distances. I close my eyes and push, hard, focusing every ounce of will I have on Shane's presence.

*Shane. Are you safe?*

The connection snaps into place like a door slamming open. I feel Shane's surprise, sharp and immediate, followed by something warmer—relief, maybe, or gratitude. His voice echoes in my mind, clear and steady.

*I'm fine, Briana. Stay back.*

But Zayd felt it too. I see the exact moment the link registers—his massive head whips toward me, his eyes blazing with shock and fury. The Alpha aura falters, just for a second, and Shane uses the opening to slip sideways, putting distance between himself and those fangs.

Zayd shifts back to human form so fast it's almost violent. He's naked, covered in dirt and sweat, and his expression is murderous.

"You," he snarls, stalking toward me. "You mind-linked him? You don't even have a wolf, you pathetic—"

"I don't need a wolf to care whether someone gets torn apart," I snap back, my voice shaking but loud. "Unlike you, apparently."

The watching wolves go utterly silent. Zayd stops three feet away, his chest heaving, and for a moment I think he's going to hit me.

But Shane is there suddenly, stepping between us, his presence a wall Zayd can't quite cross without making this an outright challenge.

"Enough," Shane says quietly. His voice is calm but there's steel underneath. "The run is over, Alpha. Your point is made."

Zayd's hands curl into fists. His gaze burns into mine over Shane's shoulder, promising retribution I'll feel later.

Then he turns and stalks back into the forest, leaving the rest of us standing in the wreckage of whatever authority he thought he had.