Where Am I?
Skyla
The first thing I see is light. It’s harsh and white, glaring down from somewhere high above me. It pulses through the thin skin of my eyelids, stabbing into the soft places behind my eyes.
Voices drift around me, and I try to move, but I can't. My limbs are too heavy, and my brain feels like it's sloshing in syrup. A distant awareness flickers in the back of my mind—I’m naked.
But the thought floats away before I can hold on to it, washed out by the bigger question clawing through the fog.
My head tilts to the side, and I feel the surface beneath me: hard and unyielding. Cold. Not a bed. Maybe metal? Or plastic. Something built for function, not comfort.
Is this…a hospital?
There’s a weight pressing against my lower belly. A hand.
Confusion flickers through me—slow and muffled. Someone adjusts my knees so they’re pressed tightly together. My joints are stiff like my legs have been pried open for ages. A sheet is draped over my lower half, but my chest is still exposed.
I should be scared.
Or panicked.
But my senses are returning too slow.
The tang of antiseptic stings my nose. I smell latex. Sweat. Paper.
“Her secondary hymen is no longer in place,” a man says in a clinical drone. His voice is quiet and calm. A beta. “Note that she’s taken a knot.”
“She’s really pretty,” a woman says. “All that curly blonde hair. Do you want her in the display room?”
“No,” the man answers quickly. “She’s been mated and is wounded.
Alphas only pay top dollar for unmated omegas.
She’ll have to go through the auction.” A chair scrapes softly nearby.
I hear the scratch of a pen on paper, each sound louder than it should be—like the world is too close, pressing in on me.
Then a face slides into view.
The man looks young—early thirties, maybe.
Thin and clean-cut, with elegant features and a deliberately gentle expression.
His brown hair is swept back, curling slightly at the ends, and his skin is a smooth, warm tan.
Black scrubs cling neatly to his frame with a stethoscope looped around his neck like an accessory.
His eyes are dark. Soft. Kind, even—at first.
Then they widen slightly as he meets my gaze. He leans back. “She’s awake,” he says, turning his head to someone I can’t see. More shuffling. “Hand me the penlight.”
I try to speak, but my tongue lies limp in my mouth. My hands twitch against the surface beneath me, and I suddenly realize I can’t move them. My heart lurches as I realize my whole body is useless.
I’m so exposed.
The man turns back and flashes a light into my eyes. I snap my eyes shut, and he slowly lowers it. His expression smooths again, voice quiet and practiced. “There’s no need to be scared. We had to strap you down to treat the wound on your neck. You were...thrashing.”
I barely hear him. My mind is stuck on restraints. I shift enough to feel the resistance of the straps around my wrists, and a surge of cold panic trickles down my spine.
“Where…where am I?” My words are hoarse and slurred.
“You’re at the Morder,” he says, like that should mean something to me. “You’ve been sedated,” he continues. “The effects will wear off soon, but for now, I need you to stay calm. You’re safe.”
Safe.
The word echoes through my skull like a bell tolling for a funeral.
The man pushes the penlight into his front breast pocket. “I’m going to release you now,” he says, his hands resting lightly on my forearm. “Are you going to behave?” He says the words like I’ve been violent or dangerous.
But the last thing I remember is being in that warehouse—Angelica’s evil smile, a needle, and then the dark.
Not sure what else to do, I nod. My body tenses as the straps are undone with quiet, metallic clicks. First my wrists, then my ankles. I don’t sit up—not yet. I can’t tell if I’m able to. My arms feel like they belong to someone else.
“I’m Dr. Plume,” the man says as he writes something on a clipboard.
“The bite on your neck is infected, but I’ve given you something strong to treat it.
It already looks much better, just don’t mess with your bandage.
” He glances at me again with an overly polite smile.
“Don’t worry—it shouldn’t prevent you from being mated by your next pack. ”
His words cut through the fog like a blade.
Mated?
Next pack?
A jolt of clarity punches through my chest. My heart kicks, adrenaline pushing against the drug still clouding my head. I force myself upright, arms shaking as I press the thin sheet against my chest, covering what little I can.
The room tilts, and I blink hard to steady it.
“Careful!” Dr. Plume reaches for my shoulders, keeping me upright.
A little disoriented, I stare at the off-white partition behind the doctor. It blocks the rest of the room, but I can hear things—shuffling, soft murmurs, muffled sobs. Whispers.
Other people.
Other omegas.
Their scents hit me next—distorted but undeniable, even through the chemical haze. Fear clings to the air like sweat. Some carry sharp notes of panic and confusion. While others smell strangely sweet—nervous, but clearly excited to be here.
What the hell?
“Where am I?” I ask, voice low and trembling.
Dr. Plume doesn’t answer right away. He simply looks at me. That same soft, professional smile. “I told you,” he says. “This is the Morder. We’re going to help you find a new pack.”
I open my mouth to say something—what? I don’t know. But before I can speak, the doctor turns his head slightly.
“Kelly?” His voice rises and a face pops out from behind the partition.
“Yes, Dr. Plume?” A woman steps into view. She’s very tall and bright-eyed. Her dark blue scrubs are crisp, and her blonde ponytail is so tight it looks like it might snap.
Dr. Plume hands her the clipboard, then gestures at me like I’m a product on display. “This omega is ready.”
Ready? For what?
Kelly tucks the clipboard under her arm, then moves toward me with her hands outstretched. “Can you stand?” she asks, her voice chipper, like this is all perfectly normal.
I hesitate.
Then I nod, barely.
Her hands slide under my arms, strong and sure as she helps me up. My legs are shaky, and my balance wavers, but she steadies me like she’s done it a thousand times. I grip the sheet tighter around me, teeth clenched as I try to hold on to what little dignity I have.
“There we go,” Kelly says, guiding me upright. She tugs gently at the corners of the sheet, wrapping it tighter around my shoulders. It’s almost motherly, the way she smooths it down, but that only makes my gut twist harder.
“Good luck, omega,” Dr. Plume says, then he vanishes around the partition and out of sight.
“Where are we going?” I ask the nurse.
“To get you cleaned up,” Kelly says, leading me toward the edge of the partition. My legs are wobbly, making me move extra slow. “What’s your name, sweetheart?”
I blink at her, surprised.
No one’s asked me that. Not once.
Not Angelica. Not the guards. Not Dr. Plume.
“…Skyla,” I whisper.
Kelly beams. “That’s a pretty name. How old are you?”
“Um, twenty-two.”
“Wow.” she smiles like I’ve said something fascinating about myself. “You’re a young one.” Her nose scrunches up as she takes my hand. “Come on, Skyla.”
We step around the partition—and I stop cold.
It’s not a room.
It’s a tent.
A massive one, with rows of cots and partitions, medical carts and equipment. There’s movement everywhere—omegas being shifted from place to place, soft crying, nurses speaking quietly into earpieces.
The fabric walls ripple in the breeze as Kelly walks me toward the exit. She pulls the flap back and guides me into the cool air outside.
I freeze again.
The chaos before me is overwhelming. There are massive tents made of thick, dark fabric all around me. Dozens of beta guards patrol a massive concrete barrier with rifles slung over their shoulders. Some talk into radios, others keep a careful watch. Silent.
The sun is low, touching the tops of trees. Are we in a field?
And then the scent hits me.
It’s overwhelming.
Hot. Sharp.
Male.
Alphas.
Hundreds of them. I can’t see them, but I can hear them. Laughter. Raised voices. Arguing. Booming echoes that slice straight into my brain like barbed wire.
My instincts recoil, screaming. I stagger, breath catching in my throat.
Kelly grips my upper arm, her nails digging in. “Keep walking,” she says, still chipper—but with an edge now.
I’m pulled forward, straight into another tent. It’s warmer inside. Almost stuffy. And dim. It smells like perfume, hair products, and sweat. I can hear humming and chatting, followed by the clinking of makeup brushes in glass jars.
I barely notice the people around me. Everything’s spinning again.
“She’s about to lose it,” Kelly says to someone nearby. “Get a dose ready.”
No.
I jerk back, trying to twist away, but hands are already grabbing me. One on my wrist, another on my shoulder.
“No, stop—!” I cry out, but it’s too late.
A needle stabs into my arm. I thrash, trying to fight, but I’m pinned.
The plunger sinks down, and icy liquid floods my veins. I immediately stop fighting. There’s no point.
Soon, the darkness will overtake me, and I’ll be knocked out once again. Except it doesn’t come.
Instead, a strange fuzz settles over me, like I’ve stepped into a warm, cozy dream. My panic fades, and so does the room. Everything…softens.
Someone helps me sink into a chair. My limbs are noodles. My tongue is heavy in my mouth, but not numb. Just lazy.
A beta with big red hair steps in front of me, her face all business. “You are cute as a button,” she says, grabbing a comb. “Let’s tame this mess.” She runs her fingers through my hair. “Blonde curls,” she says brightly. “The alphas’ll love this.”
I snort. Loudly.
I don’t mean to, but everything feels so funny.
“My pack alpha used to pull it when he fucked me,” I say with a giggle, “really hard.”
The redhead laughs. “Alphas do love to pull hair.”
But I frown. Something in that memory tastes wrong. The way he’d jerk my head back, then slam his cock into me with too much force. It always felt like he was trying to rip my hair out, rather than trying to hold me steady.
I laugh anyway. I can’t help it. Everything feels funny and floaty and far away.
And then time starts to melt.
At some point, my hair is curled and pinned around my face. There’s shimmer on my eyelids and gloss on my lips.
The redhead helps dress me in something tight—pale pink, silky. A nightie. It clings to every curve, soft but barely there. My thighs are cold.
Someone sprays something sweet on my neck and behind my ears. Another girl is laughing somewhere nearby.
And all I can think is:
They’re dressing us like gifts.
Wrapped up.
Pretty.
Ready.
“And now for your collar,” the redhead says cheerfully, slipping something thick and heavy around my neck.
It’s made of dark leather and is stiff around the edges.
It pulls slightly as she fiddles with the buckle.
“This’ll protect your neck while helping to keep your bandage in place,” she says, biting her bottom lip as she concentrates to buckle it.
Then she finally steps back, hands on her hips, and beams at me. “There. I think you’re ready.”
I giggle again, rubbing my palms together. My fingers are freezing. They tingle like glass, like if I flex too hard, they might shatter.
A thought drifts in—slow and silly.
What if my fingers fell off?
Wriggling across the grass like little pink caterpillars.
I tip my head back and laugh, loudly and uncontrollably.
Hands curl around my upper arms. “Come on, omega,” the redhead says, guiding me to my feet. “Time to get on stage. Show all those alphas how pretty you are.”
“Yeah,” I say, still giggling. “I wanna show them my fingers.” I wiggle them at her like they all have their own personalities, and she snorts, loud and amused.
“My stars,” she mutters, shaking her head with a grin. “They really did hit you with the good stuff.”