the alpha who leaves nothing alive
The night burned.
Rose tore through the outer barricade like it was made of bone and prayer. Wood splintered under her claws, iron snapped beneath her weight, and bodies fell before screams could fully form. The moon hung heavy and red above her—watching, judging, powerless to stop her.
Weak, she thought as another warrior lunged.
She caught him mid-strike, fingers closing around his throat. The crack was wet and final. His body hit the dirt like discarded meat.
Fear rolled through the tribe in waves—sharp, sour, intoxicating. She breathed it in deeply. It clung to her fur, soaked into her skin.
This is what they are, she told herself. This is what they’ve always been.
Running figures blurred past her vision—women dragging children, elders stumbling, warriors dropping their weapons before she even reached them. No formation. No discipline.
No alpha worth killing.
She moved faster.
Blood painted her arms, warm and familiar. Each kill was precise, efficient. Rose didn’t rage—not anymore. Rage was sloppy. Rage got you killed. This was something colder. Cleaner.
They never learn, her mind murmured. They build walls. They pray to old gods. They call themselves packs.
She drove her claw through another chest and felt the heart give way.
But they are prey.
The center of the tribe lay ahead—fires overturned, tents collapsing, screams choking into silence. Her ears twitched.
Something was wrong.
They weren’t defending the inner huts.
Rose slowed, nostrils flaring. The fear was still there—but underneath it, something else lingered. Steady. Controlled.
Unafraid.
Her steps carried her toward a solitary hut at the far edge of the camp, untouched by the chaos. No guards. No wards. No desperate last stand.
Her lips curled.
Arrogant, she thought. Or stupid.
She shoved the door aside.
Inside, the air was calm. Warm. Lit by a dying ember of a fire. Furs lay neatly arranged across the floor—and on them, a figure slept.
An omega.
Rose froze.
He was on his side, breathing slow and even, chest rising like the world outside didn’t exist. No tension in his body. No fear-scent. No tremor in his limbs.
Impossible.
Her presence should have crushed him. Omegas whimpered in her shadow. Omegas begged. Omegas broke.
She stepped closer.
Nothing.
Her claws flexed unconsciously.
Wake up, her mind snarled. Look at me.
As if answering the thought, his eyes opened.
Calm. Gray. Clear.
They met hers without widening. Without fear.
He didn’t scramble away. Didn’t bare his throat. He simply studied her—head tilting slightly, like she was an interruption rather than death incarnate.
“…You’re loud,” he said quietly.
Her heart stuttered.
No one spoke to her like that.
“I was sleeping.”
Rose said nothing. Her mind raced, instincts screaming contradiction. This omega should be dead already. He should be bleeding, begging, broken.
Instead, he sat up slowly, unbothered by the blood coating her fur.
“My name’s Nick,” he continued, voice even. “You’re Rose. The rogue alpha.”
Her pupils narrowed.
He knows me.
“I’m guessing,” Nick added, stretching like a man waking from a nap, “you’re here to wipe us out.”
Rose finally found her voice—low, edged with threat.
“You should be terrified.”
Nick shrugged. “Maybe.”
Her nostrils flared.
That was when it hit her.
His scent.
Not omega-weak. Not submissive. It rolled through her senses like a storm locked behind steel doors—restrained power, honed and ancient. It coiled around her instincts, tugging something deep in her chest she had buried long ago.
Her breath caught.
No…
Memory surfaced. Whispers she’d heard across battlefields. Names spoken only by those who survived wars.
The Three Warlords.
Her claws slowly lowered.
Third strongest, her mind finished grimly.
Nick watched her reaction with faint amusement.
“…You figured it out,” he said.
For the first time in years, Rose felt something dangerous bloom beneath her ribs.
Not fear.
Not hunger.
Something worse.
Interest.
