Siren Ink

Prologue

Hale

“Fuck this,” I mutter, shoving the heavy exit door open.

My foot catches on a crack in the concrete, and the world tilts before I slam hard into the ground. Pain shoots up my palms and knees. I scramble back to my feet, heart racing, and brush at my jeans as heat floods my face.

Perfect. My only pair of jeans without rips now has a jagged hole and a smear of blood.

“Why can’t I catch a fucking break?” I whisper, my voice cracking under the weight of everything I’ve been holding in.

I storm through the parking garage, footsteps echoing as I sink deeper into my own misery. Life has never exactly played fair with me, but I really thought that just this once it might ease up. Isn’t hard work supposed to count for something? Perseverance? Grit?

This apprenticeship was my last shot.

Okay. Maybe that’s dramatic.

But I’m exhausted. Tired of getting knocked down and kicked again while I’m already bleeding. I did everything right. I practiced for hours every day. I sacrificed sleep, comfort, and fun. And the way Mr. Calder talked, the position was basically mine; all I had to do was complete a workshop.

What he forgot to mention was that it wasn’t just a workshop. It was a competition.

Still, I’d felt good about my chances. Not every eighteen-year-old spends their free time tattooing melons and leather until their hands cramp. I’m good. I could be great. I just needed one thing to go my way.

The exit door slams behind me. Fast footsteps follow. I don’t need to hear his voice to know who it is. “No congratulations, Fylgja?”

Aksel fucking Winther.

God’s gift to mankind. Walking migraine in human form.

We met when he moved here in fourth grade. He had brand-new designer clothes, a perfect smile, and golden-boy charm that had everyone eating out of his hand. Everyone loved him instantly. I hated him on sight.

The asshole sat in my spot and stared at me like I was an idiot when I told him to move. I felt his stare on me when I finally chose a different seat. It’s like I could hear him judging me for my ratty jeans and too-small sneakers. His look screamed money, while mine screamed for help.

People love comparing sirens and krakens. We both live in the water, so that must mean we are the same. Right. Because proximity equals similarity. I live near a rusted-out trailer. That doesn’t mean I am one. Fucking idiots.

And of course, he presented as an alpha freshman year. Because why wouldn’t he? Who even presents that early? Show-off.

Everything has always come so easily to overconfident kraken. While I clawed and scraped for every scrap, doors just… opened for Aksel. Like this apprenticeship.

They say life isn’t fair, but does it really have to fuck me without even the courtesy of lube? Black eyes and broken limbs were part of my everyday existence and fighting to live in a life I don’t even want is… exhausting.

Krakens and sirens may have been enemies centuries ago, but that isn’t the world we live in now. No. My hatred of Aksel runs deeper than his species. Blaming history would be convenient. Unfortunately, I know better.

I rush for my car, desperate to avoid whatever smug victory lap he’s about to take, but his hand lands on my door before I can open it.

I sigh, slow and heavy, then turn around and cross my arms over my too-thin chest. I tilt my head up to meet his dark teal eyes.

He’s smirking.

That infuriating, self-satisfied smirk I’ve wanted to punch off his face for years.

He towers over me in a black T-shirt and jeans that probably cost more than my shitty Ford Escort. His blond hair is perfectly tousled, falling into his eyes in that effortless, I-woke-up-like-this way. I’d bet money he uses some overpriced gel to make it look accidental.

“I’ve told you a million times not to call me that, dick,” I snap, meeting his amused gaze with a glare. “And do you really think I owe you congratulations when you stole my fucking spot?”

I shove him away, my heart pounding hard enough to rattle my ribs.

He lifts his hands in mock surrender, rolling his infuriatingly sparkly eyes. “Is it stealing if I earned it fair and square, Fylgja?”

That nickname again.

I shove him harder this time. He stumbles back a few steps, and for once, the calm arrogance cracks. Good.

He’s bigger than me. He always has been. Food’s never been a guarantee in my life, and puberty feels like it barely glanced in my direction. But I’m not afraid of him. Growing up with an alpha father who thought fear was a parenting tool burned that right out of me.

“Earned it?” I sneer. “I worked my ass off for this apprenticeship. Two years of nothing but practice. I deserved it. There’s no way you beat me fairly.” My voice shakes, but I don’t stop. “Your daddy probably paid your way in. I needed this. Fuck you and fuck your stupid nickname.”

His expression darkens as he steps into my space.

I don’t remember moving, but suddenly my back is against the car, his chest pressing into mine. My breath catches, traitorous and sharp. My stomach flips.

Fear? Anger? Something worse?

I hate it. I hate that my body reacts at all. Why does the person I despise most have to be exactly my type?

“Fuck you, Hale,” he snarls.

Relief flickers; at least he finally stopped with the nickname. He’s so close I can feel his breath against my face, warm and furious, smelling faintly of cinnamon. His eyes trace my face like he’s memorizing it, like he’s looking for something.

Then he shoves me once more, hard, and storms away.

I suck in a lungful of air and hold it, counting slowly before letting it out. My heart is trying to claw its way out of my chest as I watch him go.

I’m not checking him out. I’m just… making sure he actually leaves.

Scout’s honor.

Aksel slams the door of his obnoxious, blacked-out Camaro. The engine purrs to life, and he peels out of the garage like he’s got something to prove.

“Nice car, Daddy’s Boy,” I mutter once he’s gone.

My hands are shaking when I open my own car door. I sink into the cracked seat, fingers curling around the steering wheel. It takes a few tries before the engine turns over, rattling like it might give up out of spite, but it starts.

I love this stupid car, blue velvet interior and all.

I pull out of the parking garage and into traffic, shifting uncomfortably as a strange feeling crawls under my skin. Something’s off. I can feel it.

At the red light, it finally hits me. I’m wet.

Like, really fucking wet.

Like, if I don’t get my shit together soon, there’s going to be a damp spot on my jeans and absolutely no way to explain that with dignity. This is the downside to being an omega. Everyone in a five-mile radius knows when you’re turned on.

“No,” I mutter, glaring down at my dick like that might help. “We are not doing this. That was not hot. That is completely fucking forbidden.”

My dick, the traitor, responds by throbbing harder, slick gathering by the gallon in my ass crack.

Fantastic.

I sigh and adjust myself, biting back another wave of frustration. It takes the entire drive home before my body finally gets the memo and settles the fuck down. Honestly, even if it hadn’t, pulling onto my street and spotting my dad’s truck in the driveway would’ve killed the mood instantly.

I didn’t know he’d be back today.

My dad’s a long-haul trucker. He’s gone more than he’s home. He usually only shows up when he’s out of money or drugs. Sometimes both.

Even though I graduated a month ago, I’m still stuck living here because I’m broke as hell. Obviously. There’s no love keeping me tethered to this place. Not really. Sometimes my mom is lucid enough that I feel this sharp little ache for what could’ve been, but it never lasts.

If I’d gotten that apprenticeship, I would’ve stayed in the apartment they offered. A clean break. A future. Instead, I’m back here, killing time until I figure out how to escape.

I park and don’t bother locking my car. I learned that lesson the hard way. It’s better to leave it unlocked than replace another shattered window when someone goes digging for anything they can sell.

The walk to the trailer is short, past overgrown grass and cracked concrete. I pause at the door, listening, trying to gauge the temperature before stepping inside.

The smell hits first, cigarette smoke and sour, moldy takeout containers. My dad is yelling at the TV, and my mom is pouring him another drink. His voice, raised and angry, has been the most consistent thing in my life. Sometimes I wonder if I’ll miss it when I finally leave.

They loved each other once. I know that much. Drugs and disappointment burned it all away.

I’ve seen the old photos. My mom, a beautiful siren omega cheerleader; my dad, a broad-shouldered lion shifter alpha football captain. In a town like this, they were royalty. A perfect couple with a perfect future. Watching that fall apart was practically a spectator sport.

I don’t remember them before the drugs. I only know the stories. Fated mates. Childhood sweethearts. Something real and good that couldn’t survive the years of disappointment and regret.

I slip past them quietly, down the mold-stained hallway, and into my tiny bedroom. I close the door with care and collapse onto my narrow twin bed. The shouting fades to a dull background noise as exhaustion finally wins.

Maybe I can get a few hours of sleep before their high wears off and the fighting starts all over again.

The sound of glass shattering drags me out of a dead sleep, my dad’s rage reaching its inevitable peak. A moment later, the front door slams so hard it rattles the trailer. An engine revs violently, tires screaming as he peels out of the driveway and disappears into the night.

Silence follows, thick and ringing, broken only by my mom’s sobs bleeding through the paper-thin walls.

The sound twists something deep in my chest. With a tired sigh, I swing my legs over the side of the bed. I already know what I’m walking into. I always do.

The living room looks like a war zone. The old, boxy television lies face down on the matted carpet, its plastic casing cracked.

Clear liquid trails down the wall where he must’ve hurled a half-empty tequila bottle.

Shards of glass glitter under the dim light, scattered around the TV stand like debris from a grenade.

In the kitchen, another chair is destroyed, snapped clean through the back. That makes two left now. Not that it matters. No one ever sits at the table anymore.

I follow the sound of my mom’s crying into the kitchen. She’s collapsed on the filthy linoleum, face buried in her knees. Her yellow dress is twisted, one strap slipping off her shoulder. Her legs are painfully thin, her arms wrapped around herself like she’s trying to hold her body together.

“Mama,” I say softly. “Are you okay?”

She jerks her head up, eyes glassy and unfocused. “What?” Her voice is small. Distant.

I kneel so we’re eye level. “Are you okay, mama?”

She shakes her head once, then curls back in on herself, crying harder.

I look around at the wreckage. At her. At what this place does to people.

If I stay, this will be me one day.

The thought settles heavily in my gut. Just because I’m an omega doesn’t mean I’m immune to rage. I’ve felt it. Sharp and hot and ugly. My mind flashes to Aksel, to the way my temper flared so fast it scared me.

I shake my head, breathing through it.

No. I won’t become him. I won’t let myself rot into something cruel and broken just because it’s all I’ve ever known.

Decision made, I grab a black trash bag and start cleaning. Broken glass. Ruined furniture. Evidence of another night we’ll pretend didn’t happen. When the living room is as safe as it’s going to get, I return to the kitchen and carefully lift my mom into my arms.

She’s light. Too light.

I carry her to bed and tuck her under the thin, threadbare comforter. I press a kiss to her forehead and tell her I’ll be back soon.

For a moment, just one, clarity flickers in her eyes.

“Don’t come back, baby boy,” she whispers, her hand trembling as she cups my cheek. “That man offers no good to anyone. I’m so sorry.” Her throat works as she swallows. “I love you.”

My chest aches. “I love you too, mama.”

She nods that she understands, her eyes roaming from my hair to my chin like she’s memorizing my face. Then the fog rolls back in, and she turns away, crying softly into the pillow.

I stand there longer than I should, knowing this might be one of the last times she ever really sees me.

She does that sometimes- becomes my mom again. I know that if I could get her away from my dad and drugs, that we could be a family, but he has too strong a hold on her. It’ll never happen.

At this point, I can only save myself.

When she finally falls asleep, I rush to my room and pack everything I own into a small duffel bag and hurry out to my car. The door is already open, but there is nothing damaged. A win is a win.

I have enough gas to make it a couple of hundred miles. I can go anywhere. All I have to do is choose a direction. I take a deep breath and pull out onto the road with a small smile on my face.