He Called Me Omega, Then Begged for My Help

“Kneel.”

The word wasn’t just spoken; it was detonated. Vincent’s voice dropped an octave, vibrating with the ancient, compelling power of an Alpha Command. It hit me like a physical blow to the chest, forcing the air from my lungs.

I tried to stand my ground, to turn and walk away with what little dignity I had left, but my body betrayed me. It was as if gravity had increased tenfold directly over my shoulders. My knees slammed into the unforgiving concrete with a bone-jarring crack, landing right next to the scattered, glittering remains of my father’s watch.

“Apologize,” Vincent growled, his eyes flashing a predatory crimson that cut through the greyness of the Seattle morning. “Tell Kennedy you’re sorry for assaulting her.”

My wolf, usually so quiet she was almost nonexistent, whimpered and curled into a tight ball in the back of my mind. The biological urge to submit to an Alpha was overwhelming, a suffocating blanket of instinct that screamed at me to bare my neck and beg for forgiveness. *Obey. Submit. Survive.*

“I...” The word stuck in my dry throat. I looked up at Kennedy. She was examining her manicure, looking bored, as if my public humiliation was nothing more than a mild inconvenience delaying her brunch.

The anger flared hot and bright in my gut, cutting through the supernatural fog of his command. *No.* I hadn’t assaulted anyone. He had stolen from me. He had broken me. He had given away the only piece of my father I had left.

“Say it!” Vincent roared, the pressure intensifying until my bones ached. Passersby were staring, giving us a wide berth, sensing the volatile aura rolling off him.

I bit my lip. Hard. The sharp sting of pain grounded me. I tasted copper. I looked up at him, blood trickling down my chin from where I’d broken the skin, and locked my jaw. I wouldn’t speak. I wouldn’t give him this one last piece of my soul.

For a second, a flicker of uncertainty crossed Vincent’s handsome face. Alphas weren’t used to Betas resisting a direct command. It unnerved him. He took a step back, the red fading from his irises, replaced by disgust.

“Get out of here,” he sneered, breaking the hold suddenly. The pressure vanished, leaving me gasping on the pavement. “You’re pathetic. If I see you near us again, Riley, I will end you.”

***

I spent the next week living like a ghost in the back of *The Golden Crumb*. I slept on empty flour sacks and washed in the breakroom sink before the morning shift arrived. But I wasn’t idle. The first thing I did was walk to the bank and cancel the joint credit card—the one under my name, the one I had paid off every month for three years while Vincent built his credit score on my back.

Friday night, I was scrubbing the display cases, trying to earn extra cash, when my phone buzzed in my apron pocket. A notification from my banking app lit up the screen.

*Transaction Declined: Le Canard. Amount: $4,200.*

A cold, grim satisfaction settled in my chest. I knew exactly what was happening. Vincent was hosting his celebratory dinner for the senior partners tonight. He loved to play the big shot. He would have ordered the most expensive wine, the wagyu beef, confident that *my* credit limit would cover his ego, just as I always had.

I could picture it perfectly. The waiter returning with a polite, pitying smile. *I’m sorry, sir, the card was declined.* The silence falling over the table. The heat rising in Vincent’s neck as the partners exchanged glances.

My phone started ringing. *Vincent Calling.*

I stared at the screen, watching his name flash. He needed me to authorize the charge. He needed me to save him. He probably thought he could yell at me, threaten me, or sweet-talk me into unfreezing the account for "just one night."

I pressed the red "Block Contact" button.

He would have to ask Kennedy to pay. He would have to admit to the woman he left me for—and his new bosses—that he couldn’t foot the bill. It was a small victory, petty perhaps, but it tasted sweeter than any pastry I had ever baked.

***

The sweetness didn’t last.

Three nights later, I woke up to the sound of the world ending.

I was curled up in the storage closet, using my wool coat as a blanket, when the front window of the bakery exploded inward. The crash of safety glass shattering was deafening, followed immediately by the heavy, rhythmic thud of boots on the tile.

I scrambled backward, pressing myself into the darkest corner behind a stack of sugar bags, my hand clamped over my mouth to stifle a scream.

“Smash it all,” a deep, gravelly voice grunted. “Boss said make it hurt. He wants her to learn.”

These weren’t thieves. They were rogues. Hired muscle.

The sounds of destruction were methodical and terrifying. The crunch of metal as the industrial mixers were tipped over. The sickening crack of the glass display cases I had just polished hours ago. The hiss of gas lines being ripped out of the wall.

I squeezed my eyes shut, hot tears leaking out. This wasn’t my bakery, but the owner, Mrs. Higgins, had been like a mother to me. She had given me a job when no one else would. Vincent knew that. He wasn’t just hurting me; he was destroying the only sanctuary I had left. He was burning my life to the ground because I dared to embarrass him.

The smell of aerosol paint filled the air, acrid and chemical, choking me in the small closet.

“That should do it,” the voice sneered. “Let’s go.”

I waited ten minutes after the back door slammed shut before I dared to crawl out. My legs were shaking so badly I could barely stand. I stepped into the main room and covered my mouth, a sob tearing through my throat.

The bakery was a ruin. Glass covered every inch of the floor like driven snow. The ovens were dented beyond repair, the dough for tomorrow’s morning rush trampled into the dirt.

But it was the wall behind the counter that made my blood run cold.

In jagged, angry red spray paint, dripping down the pristine white tile like fresh blood, were four words that promised this was only the beginning:

*KNOW YOUR PLACE, OMEGA.*