Sweet Alpha

Jacob’s Island wasn’t supposed to exist anymore.

According to official records, the slums had been cleared in the early 20th century. Maps called it gentrified. Politicians called it reborn. But if you took the wrong turn under the Southwark Bridge and followed the wet whisper of the Thames, you’d find it—the real Jacob’s Island. A sunless pocket of brick, rust, and survival that the world chose to forget.

Collin Davies walked those forgotten alleys every morning before the sun rose, the sharp chill of October clinging to his jacket like a second skin. He carried himself like someone used to being unseen—back straight, eyes lowered, steps soundless on the mossy stone.

He was twenty-two, though the way he moved made him seem older—measured, weary, careful. His skin was milk-white, with a softness that hadn’t entirely faded despite the grime and cold. His hair, grown long enough to curl at the nape, was a rich brown with warm undertones that caught the light when he passed broken windows.

Collin was an Omega, but that wasn’t something he ever announced. Not here.

In Jacob’s Island, the people who noticed Omegas were the ones you didn’t want noticing you.

His job, if you could call it that, was waiting tables at the lower end of Bermondsey’s riverbank. A half-legal hotel built into the shell of an old warehouse, The Dagger’s Rest catered to a special kind of client—quiet men in expensive coats, voices like razors, hands too smooth to have ever worked an honest job. Human traffickers, smugglers, men who made others disappear.

Collin knew better than to look at them too long. But he noticed everything.

He noticed the ones who lingered in the dining hall, talking about “cargo” and “temperaments.” He noticed when they tipped him too much, or not at all. He especially noticed the way they watched him. Like they knew he wasn’t just an underfed waiter in cracked leather boots.

But he never ran. Not because he wasn’t afraid—but because there was nowhere to run to.

His younger sibling, Micah, waited for him back in the mold-stained flat they shared with two other families. Micah was twelve, fever-prone, and still believed Collin could fix anything. That belief was the only thing keeping Collin from giving in to the temptation of disappearing into the cold river.

He entered The Dagger’s Rest at 6:00 AM sharp, nodding to Elma at the counter. She never spoke unless you paid her. No one did.

Inside, the lobby was all dim lighting and fake luxury—chipped marble counters, velvet wallpaper peeling like old skin. Collin tied on his black apron and checked his reflection in the hallway mirror. Tired eyes, faint shadows under them. Thin jaw. Mouth tight with quiet resentment.

He pulled a pair of gloves from his pocket and slipped them on.

He hated being touched.

By 6:30, the usual crowd began filtering in. One of them—broad, blond, with a crooked tooth—tapped his silver spoon on the table and snapped his fingers at Collin.

“Omega,” he said, not kindly. “Coffee.”

Collin didn’t flinch. He just poured the coffee, met the man’s eyes for a heartbeat too long, and walked away.

That was his rebellion—quiet, sharp, deliberate. Enough to keep his pride intact. Not enough to get him killed.

He overheard whispers near the kitchen.

“Trial run tonight. Warehouse by the docks.”

“Shipping out by dawn.”

“The Greek port—Akti something. Safe and discreet.”

Collin’s breath caught. His pulse pounded against his ribs.

He knew that port name. He’d heard it before. From that sharp-dressed Alpha who sat alone in the corner last week, staring at cargo manifests and drinking nothing but black tea.

Collin had dared to ask his name. The Alpha had smiled politely.

“Mr. Kairis,” he’d said, then added, “but it’s best if you forget me.”

He hadn’t.

Now, as the whispers crawled into his ears like smoke, Collin realized what was happening. Someone was moving people. Testing routes. And they wanted him to hear it.

When his shift ended at 2:00 PM, Collin stepped outside into the fog-heavy afternoon and turned down the alley. But someone was already there—blocking the path. A man in a black coat. Not from the hotel.

“Collin Davies?”

The name struck like a gunshot.

He bolted.

His boots slapped against wet stone. He turned corners, leapt over crates, skidded through trash-choked lanes. The air burned in his lungs, the cold slicing at his throat. But he wasn’t fast enough.

A sting at his neck. A sharp hiss.

Then, nothing.

Just darkness swallowing the sky.