Chapter 10: The Omega's Secret
The dark of the den was not quiet. It breathed.
Taichi crouched on the bed of soft, dry moss Elara had pointed to, his back against a cold, root-veined wall. The air was dense with the smell of wet soil and old secrets. A soft, blue-green glow emanated from clusters of fungus clinging to the ceiling, painting everything in underwater shadows. Every few seconds, a distant, muffled sound would trickle down—a snarl, a sharp cry, the crash of something heavy through underbrush. Each one made him flinch.
He was useless here. A pet hidden away while the alphas fought. The thought curdled in his stomach, hot with shame.
His ears strained, twitching at every drip of water, every scuttle in the far recesses. Where was Van? Where was Yamato? That last howl had been too close.
To distract himself, he examined the space. It was clearly a refuge, stocked with folded furs, clay pots of water, and bundles of dried herbs. In a niche near his head, something caught the faint light. It was a small, square object, worn soft at the edges.
He picked it up. It was a photograph, impossibly out of place. The image was faded, bleached by time, but he could make out a smiling teenage girl with wheat-colored hair standing in front of a rollercoaster, a modern cityscape blurry behind her. Elara. She hadn’t been lying.
A deep, resonant ache settled in his chest. She had a life. Rides, cities, jeans. Now she was here, an omega in a den of wolves, helping to stash away the newest stray.
The sound of scrambling earth at the entrance shot through him. He shoved the photo back, heart jackhammering. Was it Elara? Van?
A figure half-fell, half-crawled into the den, gasping. It wasn’t anyone he recognized. This man was lean, with matted brown hair and wild, frightened eyes that locked onto Taichi immediately. He wore tattered leathers, and the coppery scent of blood hit Taichi a second before he saw the dark stain blooming across the man’s side.
The stranger bared his teeth, a weak attempt at a snarl that ended in a wince. “Where is she?” he rasped. His accent was thicker, rougher than Van’s.
“Who?” Taichi’s voice was a dry crackle.
“The omega. The traitor.” The man pushed himself up, leaning heavily against the wall. “She runs with the Frostpeak pack now. She’ll die with them.”
This was Blackwood. Taichi’s mind raced, a jumble of fear and Van’s commands. Stay hidden. But he was found. The man’s eyes darted around the den, assessing its sparse contents, then landed back on Taichi with dawning, contemptuous understanding.
“You’re the thing. The human puppy they’re all snarling about.” A bloody grin split his face. “You don’t smell like much. Just fear and… them. Pathetic.”
Anger, sharp and surprising, cut through Taichi’s terror. “You’re bleeding out in your enemy’s den,” Taichi said, the words coming out steadier than he felt. “Who’s pathetic?”
The man’s grin vanished. With a speed that belied his injury, he lunged, closing the short distance. A rough hand clamped around Taichi’s throat, squeezing just enough to steal his breath. The man’s scent was overpowering—sweat, forest, and iron.
“I can snap your neck before your alphas even know I’m here,” the Blackwood scout hissed. “Maybe I should. A message.”
Taichi clawed at the hand, his vision spotting. He couldn’t speak. He kicked out, his foot connecting weakly with the man’s injured side.
The scout grunted in pain, his grip loosening for a crucial second. Taichi gulped air and did the only thing he could think of. He didn’t try to fight back. Instead, he went utterly still, letting his body go limp in the man’s grasp, and whimpered. It was a high, broken, utterly submissive sound that came from some deep, instinctual place he didn’t know he had.
The scout froze. The aggression in his eyes flickered, replaced by a split-second of confusion. It was a gamble, a play from a completely different rulebook.
“Please,” Taichi whispered, looking down, baring the line of his neck. “Don’t. I’m not… I’m not a fighter.”
The scout’s breath hitched. The hand on Taichi’s throat didn’t tighten again. He was waiting, wound tight, for a trick.
“They’ll kill you if they find you here,” Taichi pressed, his voice a shaky thread. “I can… I can say I didn’t see you. If you go. Now.”
“Why?” the man spat, but the fury was bleeding out of him, replaced by pain and exhaustion. “You’re theirs.”
“I don’t want anyone to die,” Taichi said, and it was the truest thing he’d said since he arrived in this world.
A long, tense silence stretched between them, broken only by the scout’s ragged breathing and the far-off echoes of the skirmish. The scout’s gaze bored into him, searching for deceit. Finally, with a defeated curse, he shoved Taichi away.
Taichi stumbled back onto the moss, coughing.
The scout clutched his side, his face pale. “You’re a fool,” he muttered, but the venom was gone. He eyed the entrance, then the water skins. “Water.”
After a heartbeat, Taichi nodded toward the pots. “Take one.”
The scout snatched a skin, drinking deeply, his eyes never leaving Taichi. He wiped his mouth, a new wariness in his expression. “The alphas. Van and the golden one. They’re strong. But strong draws challenge. You’re a weight around their necks. You’ll get them killed for real.” He tossed the empty skin down. “Or you’ll get yourself taken. Blackwood has uses for pretty, broken things.”
Before Taichi could respond, a clear, piercing howl rang out—Van’s. It was close, triumphant. The scout’s eyes widened. He turned and scrambled back up the entrance tunnel, disappearing into the shifting shadows.
Taichi was left alone again, the ghost of the man’s hand on his throat, the taste of his own fear thick on his tongue. The scout’s words swirled in his head: A weight. A pretty, broken thing.
The light from the fungi seemed suddenly cold. The den felt less like a shelter and more like a hole in the ground. He wasn't just hiding; he was a liability. A problem to be managed, a weakness to be exploited.
Boots scraped at the entrance, followed by the familiar, comforting scent of pine and cold stone. Van dropped down into the den, his presence immediately filling the space. A fresh cut marred his cheekbone, and his clothes were smeared with dirt, but his eyes were alert. They found Taichi instantly.
“You are unhurt?” Van’s voice was a low rumble of concern.
Taichi nodded, unable to speak. Yamato slid down behind Van, a bruise flowering on his jaw, but his smirk was back in place.
“Blackwood’s scouts are running with their tails singed,” Yamato announced, rolling his shoulders. “Boring, really. They barely put up a—”
“A Blackwood scout was here,” Taichi said quietly.
The air in the den went solid.
Van was across the space in two strides, his hands on Taichi’s shoulders, his gaze scanning him for injury. “Where? When?”
“Just now. He was injured. He came in looking for Elara. He… he left.”
“He left,” Yamato repeated, his playful tone utterly absent. “He saw you, alone, and he just left?”
Taichi nodded, his throat tight. “I told him to go. I didn’t… I didn’t fight.”
Van’s golden eyes searched his face, seeing too much. “What did you do, puppy?”
The word, usually a balm, now felt like a label. Taichi looked away, toward the tunnel where the scout had fled. “I showed him I wasn’t a threat. I let him go.”
A long silence. Yamato let out a low whistle. “You negotiated with a Blackwood scout in our den. Unbelievable.”
Van’s thumb stroked the side of Taichi’s neck, over the faint, blossoming pressure marks left by the scout’s fingers. His expression was unreadable, a storm behind a calm mask. “He marked you.”
“It’s nothing.”
“It is not nothing.” Van’s voice was final. The possessiveness in it should have been comforting, but it felt like another chain. “His scent is all over you. His threat.” Van released him, turning to Yamato. “They know he is a pivot point. This was a probe. The next will not be so gentle.”
Yamato’s jaw tightened. “We keep him closer.”
“You can’t,” Taichi said, the words bursting out of him. He stood, his legs trembling. “Don’t you see? That’s what he said. I’m a weight. I’m here, hiding, while you’re out there getting cut and bruised. I’m just… a thing to be protected.”
Van turned back, a fierce light in his eyes. “You are ours. That is not a burden. It is a fact.”
“Facts don’t stop knives,” Taichi whispered.
Yamato moved then, crouching in front of him, his blue eyes startlingly serious. “Listen to me. That scout is probably half-dead in a thicket right now, wondering how he got out-negotiated by a puppy. You think weakness did that? It was clever. It was survival. Our way isn’t the only way.” He flicked one of Taichi’s real, soft ears. “But our way means you let us do the protecting. That’s the deal.”
The deal. Submission for safety. It was the bargain he’d always craved, but here, now, it tasted different. It felt passive. Helpless.
Van’s hand returned, cupping the back of his head, a firm, anchoring touch. “The pack will question this. The scent of an enemy on you.” He leaned down, until his breath warmed Taichi’s lips. “We will answer them. But first, we remove it.”
The intention was clear. A claiming, a re-establishing of scent. It was logical, primal. But as Van’s mouth found his, a kiss that was more possession than comfort, Taichi’s mind was still in the tunnel, watching a wounded enemy disappear into the dark. He had survived. Not by force, but by something else. Something that felt, for the first time, like his own.
He kissed Van back, clinging to the solid reality of him, even as a quiet, treacherous thought took root.
What if he didn’t want to just survive?