Rejecting Alpha for an Omega

Elena' POV

I was buried in page three of Intercultural Linguistics when my phone screen lit up.

Unknown number. I stared at it, my pen frozen over my half-finished translation exercise. Outside the dorm window, snow had started falling—heavy flakes that looked almost violent under the streetlights. The weatherman called it a once-in-fifty-years blizzard. Anyone with half a brain would be tucked in bed by now.

Clearly, I had no brain. I answered.

"Miss Cross?" The voice was cold, professional. Male. "This is Officer Kane from the Shifter Enforcement Division. Damon Vance was involved in an incident tonight at the Neon Den. He's currently in our custody. We need you to come down immediately."

My brain stuttered. "I... what? What happened?"

"Altercation with rogue wolves. Violation of Veil protocols. He listed you as emergency contact." A pause. "You're his fiancée, correct?"

Fiancée. The word tasted like spoiled fruit in my mouth.

"I'm coming," I said.

I didn't think. I just grabbed my coat—a thin wool thing that would do absolutely nothing against negative fifteen degrees—and bolted.

The dorm monitor blocked me at the side exit. Ella, human, sixty-something, permanently suspicious of every girl under her roof.

"Where do you think you're going?" She blocked the door with her body, arms crossed. "It's almost midnight. Meeting some boy?"

My face burned. I hated being misunderstood, hated the way she looked at me like I was just another stupid college girl sneaking out for a hookup.

"My friend's in trouble," I mumbled. "I have to—"

"Friend." She snorted. "That's what they all say."

I pushed past her and ran. I didn't have time for explanations.

The cold hit me like a fist.

I stood on the curb for ten minutes before a taxi finally stopped.

My teeth were already chattering. "123 Fifth Avenue, please."

I pressed my hands between my thighs, trying to warm them. It never worked. My body temperature ran two to three degrees lower than normal—some metabolic condition, the doctors said, gave me iron pills that did absolutely nothing. The truth was simpler and stranger: bloodline-induced natural coldness.

I didn't know that yet.

No one did.

I watched the city blur past through frost-covered windows. Altercation with rogue wolves. That meant he'd shifted, or nearly shifted. That meant humans might have seen. That meant the Veil—the treaty that kept our world hidden from theirs—had been compromised.

That meant Damon was in deep shit.

Why me? The question circled my brain like a trapped animal. We hadn't completed the ritual. We weren't even really together. We were just... stuck. Bound by an ancient blood pact our grandfathers made before we were born, a promise written in ceremonial silver and signed in their wolves' names.

Then I understood. Damon didn't want the Vance family to know about his mistake.

Randy Vance, Damon's grandfather, ran his pack like a military operation. Zero tolerance for embarrassment. Zero forgiveness for weakness. If he found out his golden heir had lost control in public, the consequences would be unthinkable. Probably literally hell—the Vances still practiced the old punishments. Silver chambers. Sensory deprivation. Things that left scars you couldn't see.

I was convenient. I'd keep my mouth shut. I always did.

Enforcement headquarters looked like a boring law office from outside—gray concrete, tinted windows, the kind of building you'd walk past without a second glance. That was the point.

Inside was different. Sterile. Cold. The front desk had a scanner and a guest book—I watched the red light sweep over me, registering my identity: Elena Cross. Cross Pack.

The wolf behind the desk nodded. "Third floor, conference room B. Officer Kane is waiting."

I took the elevator. In the reflection on the metal doors, I looked small and pale, dark circles under my eyes from too many late nights studying. I'd been trying to cover my natural hair color with dye—the silver-white ends kept growing back, and I kept cutting them off. Same with my eyes. The purple ring around my pupils was barely visible under brown contacts, but I still wore them.

Freaks get rejected, my father always said. Freaks don't marry into good families. So don't be a freak.

The elevator dinged.

Officer Kane was a big guy, the kind of Alpha whose wolf pressed against his skin even in human form. Graying hair, dark brown eyes that had seen too much, a scar across his jaw that looked like claw marks.

"Miss Cross." He shook my hand. His palm was warm. Mine was ice. "This way."

He led me to a window. Through it, I could see an interrogation room—one-way glass, I realized. Inside sat Damon.

I held my breath.

He looked... wrong. Shirt torn, blood-stained. A fresh cut across his temple, already half-healed but still angry-red. His right hand was swollen, knuckles split. He sat perfectly still in the metal chair, staring at nothing, jaw tight.

I'd seen him angry before. Drunk. Reckless. Stupid. But I'd never seen him look defeated.

"What happened?" My voice came out smaller than I wanted.

Kane pulled out a tablet, swiped through surveillance footage. "Twenty-hundred hours, the Neon Den. Your... fiancé was there with a female companion. Three rogue wolves approached their table. Words were exchanged. One of them said something about the woman. Damon attacked."

He showed me the video. Grainy, black-and-white, but clear enough.

Damon smashing a bottle across someone's skull. Blood spraying. Chairs flying. Through it all, he kept himself between the rogues and someone else—a woman with long chestnut hair, her face turned away from the camera.

"The problem," Kane continued, "is that multiple humans witnessed it. Two reported seeing his eyes change color. One claims his teeth grew." He gave me a meaningful look. "The Veil was compromised. That carries serious consequences."

The woman in the video.

My throat felt tight. "Who... who is she?"

"After the fight, they left together. We tracked Damon down an hour later, but the woman was gone." Kane looked at me. "You're listed as his emergency contact."

Kane made me sign a stack of forms. Liability waivers. Veil protection agreements. A promise that the Cross family would ensure this "incident" remained contained.

My hand shook as I signed. My scholarship barely covered tuition. How the hell would I pay enforcement fees?

Figure it out later. Just get him out.

Finally, Kane nodded. "He's free to go. But tell him—next time he wants to play hero for some girl, find a place without human witnesses."

Some girl.

Not his fiancée. Not me.

Damon emerged from processing twenty minutes later. When he saw me, genuine surprise crossed his face.

"Elena." He ran a hand through his hair. "Shit. I didn't think they'd actually call you."

Emergency contact. That's me.

"Are you okay?" I asked quietly.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm fine. Just a misunderstanding that got out of hand." He rolled his shoulders, wincing slightly. "Thanks for coming down. Really. I owe you one."

I forced myself to ask. "The woman in the video. The one you were with..."

Damon's expression smoothed into something practiced. Easy. "Oh, that? Just a client from the company. I was helping her with some business negotiations, took her out for drinks. Those assholes at the bar started harassing her, saying disgusting shit, and I just—" He shrugged. "You know me. Can't stand watching someone get pushed around."

Client. Business negotiations.

The lies sat between us like broken glass.

"I could come with you," I heard myself say. "Make sure you get home safe."

"Nah, I'm good." He was already pulling out his phone, checking messages. His thumbs moved fast across the screen, typing something. "It's late, and this storm is only getting worse. You should head back to campus before the roads get completely blocked."

He glanced up, gave me that charming smile that probably worked on everyone else. "Seriously, Elena. Go home. Get some sleep. I've got this handled."

He walked past me toward the exit.

I stood there, watching him leave.

Don't follow. Don't be clingy. Don't make a scene.

I followed anyway.

The cold slammed into me the second I stepped outside. The blizzard had intensified—wind howling, snow coming down in sheets, visibility maybe ten feet. I pulled my coat tighter. It did nothing.

I saw Damon cross the street, shoulders hunched against the wind.

I saw the car parked at the curb.

Fire-engine red. Sleek. Custom job with reinforced plating and blacked-out windows.

Not his car. Damon drove a midnight blue supercar with the Vance family crest on the door panels.

The driver's door opened. Damon ducked inside.

For just a second—less than a heartbeat—the interior light flashed on before the door slammed shut.

I saw her, the same one from the video.

Long chestnut hair. Delicate profile. Black leather jacket. She was in the passenger seat, turning toward him as he got in. Damon's hand reached up, fingers cupping her face with a tenderness I'd never seen from him. She leaned into his palm like it was home.

The light went out.

The engine roared to life.

Red taillights disappeared into the white chaos of the storm.

I stood on the sidewalk, snow gathering on my shoulders, ice forming in my hair.