Make Me Yours - The Alpha's Omega Mate

My name is Lainey, and I wake up every morning to the sound of rain hitting thin metal, the steady drumming against the trailer roof loud enough to remind me where we ended up and soft enough that I can pretend, if I keep my eyes closed, that it is just weather and not consequence. The roof rattles when the wind picks up, and sometimes the entire structure shifts slightly on its blocks like it is reconsidering whether it wants to stay upright another season, and I lie there staring at the stained ceiling while the noise settles into something rhythmic and familiar, because if I focus on that pattern then I don’t have to think about anything else. I sleep on the couch because the bedroom belongs to Mom and it always will, and I have learned to fold myself around the sagging dip in the cushions so my spine does not ache too badly when I stand, and every morning I push myself upright slowly and roll my shoulders once before my feet hit the cold floor, because routine makes everything feel like it is still mine even when the rest of my life is not. The air smells faintly of damp earth and cheap coffee grounds, and I know Mom is already awake before I see her because I hear the kettle click off in the tiny kitchen space and the soft shuffle of her boots. I picture her tying her hair back and pulling on her thin jacket, moving carefully so she doesn’t wake me even though she knows I wake before her most days anyway, and the thought settles heavy in my chest because she has never stopped trying to shield me from what already happened. Dad died two years ago defending the Alpha, and the pack still calls it honorable like that word paid the bills afterward, and I remember the way he used to lace his boots at the edge of our old porch and tell me that loyalty was the spine of a wolf and that it mattered more than comfort or money or rank, and I believed him because he believed it with everything he had. Loyalty did not save our house, and it did not save our status when the old Alpha retired and Ezra took over, because the first changes were not reforms that sounded noble but fees and penalties, and suddenly the land my father built on was no longer ours and we were reduced to omega status like we had always belonged there. We moved into this trailer because it was what we could afford after the pack took everything else back, and respect vanished quickly while pity replaced it, and pity is worse because it looks like kindness but feels like dismissal. This morning is my eighteenth birthday, and it should feel different because eighteen means my wolf settles fully and the bond can form if my mate is near, but when I sit up and swing my feet onto the cold floor while rain streaks down the narrow window, my stomach feels tight in a way that has nothing to do with hunger. Today I will know my mate if he is here, and if he is here then I already know what happens next, because no high-ranking male is going to choose an omega who now lives at the edge of the territory like an inconvenience, and rejection would be cruel but clean while what scares me is something far less simple. I fold my blanket carefully and smooth the crease with my palm before walking into the bathroom, because if the blanket is straight then the day feels manageable, and I flick on the light and stare at myself in the warped mirror while I brush my teeth, taking in the dark circles under my eyes and the faint scar on my chin from when Dad made me practice defensive pivots and I misjudged the gravel. He never trained me like an omega, because he trained me like a fighter and expected me to move like one. I shower quickly because hot water costs money and the pipes groan if I turn the handle too far, and steam fills the small space while rain continues hammering the roof, and I scrub my skin like I can rinse the anxiety out of my bloodstream, but it stays lodged low in my stomach. When I step out, I wrap myself in the thin towel and dress in my cleanest jeans and the faded sweater that used to belong to Dad, and the fabric hangs loose but I like the weight of it across my shoulders because it feels like armor even if no one else sees it that way. Mom pauses at the door before she leaves and cups my face gently, whispering happy birthday like the words might shatter if she says them too loud, and I force a smile because she deserves that much from me even if I cannot give her certainty. Then she is gone, boots splashing through mud as she heads toward another shift she does not have the energy for, and I grab my bag and start the walk to school. Rain soaks through my hair and trickles down my neck while gravel crunches under my shoes, and the packhouse looms in the distance with its polished windows glowing warm, but I do not look at it for long because staring at it does not change where I sleep now. School smells like wet fur and cheap perfume and hallway disinfectant, and wolves shake water from their jackets near the entrance while laughing too loudly about nothing, and I keep my head up because Dad told me once that shrinking is a choice and I refuse to give anyone the satisfaction of thinking I made it. At my locker I twist the combination and yank the door open, and I barely register the sharp vanilla scent before Madison slams into me from behind hard enough that my forehead cracks against the metal and stars burst across my vision. Pain flares hot and immediate, and I spin around pressing my hand to the back of my head. “What the hell,” I snap. Madison smiles like she has been waiting for this moment all morning. “Learn your place,” she says sweetly, and she shoves me again like she expects me to absorb it quietly. Blood fills my mouth where I bite my tongue, and something inside me snaps, not loudly and not dramatically but cleanly and decisively. “You don’t get to push me around,” I tell her evenly, and when she lunges again I catch her wrist without thinking and twist the way Dad taught me years ago, controlled and precise. She yelps and wolves scatter backward while she swings wild with her free hand, and I block and pivot and drive my shoulder into her center before hooking her leg and sending her crashing onto the tile hard enough that the sound echoes down the hallway, and I drop my knee to her chest and hold her there while she snarls up at me. For a second the hallway goes silent, because no one expected the omega to move first or finish it. “Enough,” someone barks, and hands grab my arms and haul me back before I can decide whether to say something worse. Of course I am the one marched down the corridor and of course she stays behind surrounded by friends who look offended on her behalf, because omegas are easier to discipline and easier to blame. When we reach the administrative office, I expect the principal or at least a warning, but instead Beta Declan stands there with his arms folded and an unreadable expression on his face. He looks at me once. “Come with me,” he says, and it is not a request. The walk to the packhouse feels longer than usual, and the rain has slowed to a drizzle that sharpens every scent in the air while I am painfully aware that if the Beta himself is escorting me then this is not a minor issue that ends with detention. Warmth wraps around us the moment we step through the grand doors, and the weight of hierarchy presses against my skin like something tangible, reminding me exactly where I stand. We climb the stairs and my heartbeat grows louder with each step, and when we stop outside the Alpha’s office I catch a thread of scent slipping from beneath the door that is deep and warm and unmistakably powerful. My wolf stirs uneasily beneath my skin. Declan knocks once and pushes the door open. Ezra sits behind his desk with dark hair falling slightly over his forehead and papers arranged neatly in front of him like nothing in his world ever shifts unexpectedly, and when he looks up his expression is controlled and unreadable. “Explain,” he says, his voice low and measured. I open my mouth to defend myself and to say Madison attacked first and I did not start anything, but the words die in my throat the moment his scent hits me fully. Recognition slams into my chest so hard it steals my breath, and the bond ignites with brutal clarity while my knees almost buckle under the force of it. Mate. The word does not need to be spoken aloud because it echoes through me heavy and undeniable, and Ezra goes still for half a second, just long enough for me to see the flicker in his eyes that tells me he feels it too. He knows. Alpha Ezra is my mate, and the way his expression closes immediately after tells me everything I need to know, because nothing about this is going to be simple.