My Alpha Tried to Drown Me

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.