The Rejected Omega's Secret Royal Lycan Bloodline

Aden POV

The phone slipped slightly in my sweaty grip. I stared at the glowing screen until my eyes burned, half-expecting the string of zeros to vanish into thin air. One hundred million dollars. It wasn't a cruel glitch. It was a weapon.

I slowly lowered the device and looked around my pathetic dorm room. The peeling wallpaper. The garbage bags overflowing with crushed aluminum cans I’d collected just to survive. And then, my eyes fell to my own chest. The cheap white fabric of my T-shirt was stained with dried blood and dirt from Dixon’s combat boot, the thick black ink screaming *WOLFLESS LOSER*.

Yesterday, those words had broken me.

I closed my eyes, and the memories from the locker room flooded my mind. Sylvia’s sickeningly sweet moan against Dixon’s neck. Her mocking laughter as she called me a scentless, wolfless puppy. The suffocating, arrogant weight of Dixon’s Alpha pheromones trying to force me into submission, and Brennon’s cruel fifty-dollar tip fluttering to the wet tiles.

But the crushing despair that had choked me for two years was entirely gone.

In its place, a terrifying, glacial calm settled over my mind. Deep in my marrow, the dormant Lycan stretched its massive, shadowy limbs. The heat in my veins wasn't the impotent frustration of an Omega anymore; it was the ancient, calculating fury of an apex predator waking up to a world of prey. I didn't want to weep over a broken heart. I wanted to hunt. I wanted to watch Dixon Cooper choke on his own arrogance.

I clenched my fists, feeling a terrifying new strength humming beneath my bruised skin. I could destroy them. With this money and the Sharpe name, I could buy the Black Moon Pack and burn it to the ground.

But as the violent fantasies flared in my brain, a different memory pierced the darkness.

A warm smile. A gentle hand offering me a sandwich when I hadn't eaten in two days.

*Brooklyn Taylor.*

The university basketball coach. In a world ruled by vicious Alpha pheromones and brutal Pack hierarchies, she was the only one who looked at me like a person, not a disease. She was a Healer from a neutral Pack, and she had stepped between me and Dixon’s Warriors more times than I could count, demanding they treat me with basic dignity.

Today was her twenty-eighth birthday.

I took a deep breath, forcing the predatory red haze back down. If I let this ancient rage completely take over, I would be no better than Dixon—just a monster with a bigger bank account. Before I tore my enemies apart, I needed to anchor my humanity. I needed to honor the one person who had shown me grace when I had absolutely nothing.

I was going to buy her the greatest gift this city had to offer.

I gripped the hem of my ruined T-shirt and ripped it over my head. I threw the marked fabric into the trash can, watching it crumple among the empty beer cans. It felt like shedding a dead, pathetic skin. I walked to the tiny sink, splashing freezing water on my face and scrubbing the dried blood from my jaw.

I pulled on a clean, faded gray hoodie and my worn-out sneakers. They were still the clothes of a beggar, but the boy wearing them was dead.

I shoved my cracked phone into my pocket and unlocked my door. I was heading to The Azure Galleria, the most exclusive luxury shopping district in Jork City. It was a sanctuary for high-ranking wolves, a place where the air was thick with expensive perfumes and pure Alpha dominance. A place where a "wolfless" stray like me was strictly forbidden.

I stepped out into the crisp morning air, my jaw set. Let them judge my clothes. Let them sneer at my lack of scent. The trial was over.