2. Battle Scars #2
"I can and I am." He yanks the door open, practically throwing me onto the porch. I stumble, barely catching myself on the railing. "And if you come back, you'll be dealing with more than just me."
The door slams shut.
Through the glass, I can see the clerk already gathering my scattered belongings, holding them between two fingers like they're contaminated. She opens the door just enough to toss them onto the porch before retreating back inside.
My hands shake as I gather my things, shoving wrinkled clothes back into the bag.
A couple walking past speeds up, averting their eyes from the scene. Of course. No one wants to get involved when an Alpha disciplines an Omega, even here on Main Street in broad daylight.
The fight drains out of me all at once, leaving me hollow. My legs give up, and I find myself sinking onto the curb outside the hotel parking lot. The concrete is cold through my jeans, and I pull my knees up to my chest like I'm trying to hold myself together through sheer physical pressure.
Don't cry. Don't you dare cry.
But the tears come anyway, hot and humiliating, and I press my face into my hands to hide them from the world.
Great hiccupping sobs that rattle my damaged lungs and make my chest burn.
I'm twenty-eight years old, and I'm sitting on a curb in a strange town, crying because a hotel wouldn't give me a room.
Except it's not about the room.
It's about everything— every rejection, every slammed door, every reminder that I don't fit in the neat little boxes this world created. It's about being so tired of fighting for basic dignity.
It's about the weight of being alone, truly alone , with no pack, no mate, no family who gives a damn.
That’s the toughest part to acknowledge because a few years ago, I did have a pack. I was confident in my future and the “Alphas” of my life.
Then it all burned away thanks to the very Alpha who said I was his world…they all did.
The tears come harder, and with them, the truth I've been running from: I'm scared. Bone-deep, soul-sick scared of what happens next. My car is dead. My money is almost gone. My body is tired and damaged and no longer fully mine after what happened in the city.
And now I'm in a town that's made it clear I'm not welcome, as the sun sets and the temperature drops and I have nowhere to go.
This is what vulnerability looks like—sitting on cold concrete with snot running down your face, unable to stop crying even though it solves nothing.
I've spent so long building walls, pretending I don't need what others take for granted, that I'd forgotten what it felt like to admit I'm not actually strong enough to do this alone.
But admitting it changes nothing.
There's no pack rushing to claim me, no Alpha swooping in for rescue, no family forgive-and-forget phone call. There's just me and this curb and a town full of people who'd rather I didn't exist.
I scrub at my face with my sleeve, trying to pull myself together. Self-pity is a luxury I can't afford. Neither is vulnerability. Neither is the deep, aching want for somewhere—anywhere—to belong.
Some place where my name is spoken with warmth instead of disappointment, where my designation isn't a liability, where being alone doesn't mean being less than.
The hotel door opens again, and I tense, ready for more humiliation. But it's just guests leaving, their chatter dying as they spot me. The female Beta whispers something to her Alpha mate, and they give me a wide berth, like desperation might be contagious.
The scent hits me first— sweet peas and vanilla, soft and non-threatening, decidedly Omega.
Then comes the sound of heels clicking on pavement, slowing as they approach.
I keep my face buried in my knees, hoping whoever it is will take the hint and keep walking. The last thing I need is another local telling me exactly what they think of unmated Omegas cluttering up their sidewalks.
"Hey there." The voice is warm honey and genuine concern, with just enough Southern comfort to make my chest ache for kindnesses I can't afford to want. "You doing okay, sweetie?"
I lift my head just enough to peer through my hair.
The woman standing a respectful distance away is maybe a few years older than me, dressed like she raided a 1950s boutique in the best possible way.
Her dress is mint green with tiny cherries printed all over it, cinched at the waist with a red belt that matches her lipstick.
But it's her hair that makes me stare—vibrant red waves with a hint of copper so specularly bright they seem to glow in the dying light, styled in perfect vintage victory rolls that must take hours to achieve.
Her hair reminds me of fire…
"I'm fine." The lie comes automatically, even though my face is probably blotchy and my eyes definitely red-rimmed. "Just... resting."
She tilts her head, and I catch the knowing look in her green eyes.
"Uh-huh. And I'm just out for a casual evening stroll in my heels." She gestures to her red pumps, which are definitely not made for walking. "Mind if I sit? These things are killing me, and that curb looks mighty comfortable."
I should say no.
Protect what's left of my dignity by not letting strangers see me this broken. But maybe the way she asks instead of assumes while carrying that careful distance makes me scoot over slightly.
"Thanks, hon." She settles onto the curb with surprising grace, smoothing her dress over her knees.
Up close, I can see the freckles scattered across her nose like cinnamon on cream.
"I'm Wendolyn, by the way. Wendolyn Rae Murphy, but everyone calls me Wendy.
Except my mama when she's mad, then it's all three names like she's casting a spell. "
Despite everything, I feel my lips twitch toward what might generously be called a smile.
"Willa."
"Well, Willa, I don't mean to pry, but I couldn't help notice you've got that classic 'small town just kicked me in the teeth' look about you." She pulls a tissue from her purse— of course she carries tissues —and offers it to me. "Let me guess. The hotel?"
I take the tissue, mostly because refusing feels like more effort than accepting.
"How did you know?"
"Because Harold Pritchard is a walking advertisement for why some Alphas shouldn't be allowed in public." She says it so cheerfully, like she's commenting on the weather. "Man's got the personality of a brick and about half the charm. Turned you away for being unmated, didn't he?"
"Said I was a 'disruption.'"
The word tastes bitter coming back out.
"The only disruption in that place is his cologne. Smells like he bathes in it." She wrinkles her nose. "Probably trying to cover up the stench of his personality."
That startles an actual laugh out of me— short and raspy, but real.
"You always this honest about the locals?"
"Only the ones who deserve it." She turns to face me more fully, and I notice how her dress has little pearl buttons all down the front, each one perfectly aligned.
This is a woman who pays attention to details.
"I own the bookstore-cafe combo just down the street.
Wildflower & Wren? Been here about a year now, and let me tell you, the first time Harold tried to Alpha-posture at me, I laughed so hard I nearly wet myself. He's been pissy about it ever since."
The way she says it— casual, unafraid, like standing up to Alphas is just another Tuesday —that makes me really look at her. Not just the vintage perfection or the warm smile, but the steel underneath.
This is an Omega who's chosen to live alone in a small town, unmarked and unmated, with hair that screams 'look at me' when convention says we should be invisible.
"Your hair," I blurt out, then immediately want to crawl under the curb. "I mean?—"
"Oh, this?" She touches one of the victory rolls, grinning. "I know, I know. Redheaded Omegas are already considered trouble, and here I am making it worse with the whole vintage thing. You should see the church ladies clutch their pearls when I walk by."
"Doesn't it make things...harder?" I gesture vaguely at the town around us. "Being so visible?"
"Honey, they're going to judge us no matter what." She adjusts her belt, and I notice her nails are painted the exact same shade of red as her lips and shoes. "Might as well give them something interesting to look at while they do it."
It's such a different approach to survival than mine—where I tried to blend in, minimize, make myself acceptable, she's chosen to lean into being unacceptable.
And somehow, she's sitting here on a curb with me, unmarked and unclaimed but seemingly unbothered by it.
"Plus," she continues, pulling a compact from her purse to check her lipstick, "the nice thing about being visibly rebellious is that the other rebels find you faster. We troublemakers have to stick together, you know?"
There's an invitation in those words, carefully offered without pressure.
This woman with her victory rolls and cherry-print dress and casual defiance of everything an Omega should be is extending something I'm not sure I'm brave enough to take.
"I don't know if I'm much of a rebel," I admit. "I just...exist wrong, apparently."
"Oh sweetie." Her voice softens, losing none of its warmth but gaining something deeper. "Existing as ourselves in a world that wants us to be something else? That's the biggest rebellion there is."
The sun has nearly set now, painting her red hair in shades of copper fire.
She looks like she stepped out of a different era, when women wore their strength in victory rolls and red lipstick instead of trying to hide it under submission. In a town this small, this traditional, she must stand out like a flame in the darkness.
Maybe that's the point.
Wendolyn lets out a laugh that's bright as her hair, throwing her head back like she's just heard the world's best joke.