The Back of the Stage
Skyla
Everything around me spins like a slow carousel, and I sway with it, my limbs uncooperative, heavy as stone. Or mud.
Yeah, that’s what it feels like.
Like I’m filled with wet, sucking mud that clings to every muscle and bone, dragging me down.
“It’s your turn next, sweetheart.” An older beta touches my elbow, urging me to take another step closer to the big, red curtain. “Are you excited for the alphas to see that pretty face?”
Confused, I blink slowly, staring at the beta’s weathered face.
She must be a thousand years old. Her hair is a wiry gray, and the lines on her face are etched so deep they look like cracks in dry earth.
I can’t help but wonder—if she were sliced in half, would her insides show a thousand rings, like some ancient oak tree?
Laughter bubbles up in my chest. It’s not funny. None of this is funny.
But I want to laugh anyway—at the lights, at the floor, at the sickly-sweet pheromones hanging in the air like syrup. Even at myself, standing in line like a prop in a dream I don’t remember falling into.
I glance down at the flimsy nightgown I’ve been stuffed into—cheap lace, thin cotton, so sheer you can see the faint shadow of my belly button and outline of my nipples. It’s ridiculous. I look like a badly dressed ghost. Or someone’s idea of innocence, stretched too thin.
And the alphas are going to see me like this.
My mouth twitches into a smile again, but I pinch my arm—hard—trying to keep the laugh down. The sharp pain anchors me, barely.
Behind me in line, other omegas slump or stagger, blinking with the same dazed confusion. One of them is humming. Another is crying silently, her mascara smeared like bruises.
Betas move among us, cold-eyed and tense. Their hands hover near weapons or syringes—I can’t tell which. No one speaks to us. We’re not people right now. Just products.
Beyond the curtains, I hear them. The alphas. Invisible, monstrous, waiting.
Voices rise and fall, rough and eager—alphas shouting over one another, their voices sharp as broken glass.
“Six thousand!”
“Six-five!”
“Seven!”
“Seven-five!”
The announcer’s voice rides over the chaos, smooth and fake. I imagine that his mouth must be full of glittering teeth. I can’t make out his words—a stream of polished gibberish, rhythmic and fast, like a game show host on speed.
Crack.
The pound of a hammer makes my heart lurch. Somewhere out there, someone’s been sold. The crowd erupts in a low, feral sound. Not applause—something darker. A growl of victory.
Then hands are on me.
I try to resist, but my body won’t obey. My feet stumble forward, and someone shoves me from behind.
The curtain parts and light explodes in my face—blinding, white-hot, merciless. I flinch, but there's nowhere to go as the stage swallows me whole.
“Our next omega is a twenty-two-year-old blonde beauty,” the announcer begins, his voice rich and oily, like something slick poured over rotten meat. “Standing at five-foot-one, this omega may be small in stature, but there’s a quiet resilience in the way she carries herself.”
The crowd stirs—hungry murmurs rippling outward like a current. I can’t see faces, just a wall of darkness beyond the stage lights. Shapes shift. Figures lean forward. Glimmering eyes burn.
I try to take a step back, but my legs barely respond. My knees lock up and my balance tips. I blink, and the whole world wobbles like it’s made of paper.
The announcer’s voice rolls on, smooth and detached, as if he’s describing an antique vase or a racehorse. “Her hair is a cascade of soft, golden curls, falling just past the shoulders—sun-kissed and wind-tousled.”
My scalp prickles. It’s like he’s peeling me open with words. Every syllable strips me down further, exposing things he shouldn’t know. Things no one should.
“Framing a heart-shaped face,” he continues, glancing down at a card on the podium, “with fair skin that flushes easily—whether from exertion or... emotion.”
I look at him.
He doesn’t look back.
He just keeps reading.
Like I’m not even standing here.
Like I’m not real.
Then—
“Skyla.”
I flinch.
My name. He said my name. How does he know my name?
A sharp pulse of panic cuts through the drug haze. My breath stutters. Did Kelly tell him? I hate that she told him. It feels like a betrayal.
“Skyla’s eyes,” the announcer goes on, “shimmer with warm tones of brown and gold, giving them an almost ethereal glow under any light.”
I’m swaying. Sweat trickles down my back and along the back of my knees. My skin feels too tight. My mouth is dry, like I’ve swallowed sand.
“Her build is delicate,” the announcer says. “Her chest is small but still womanly, while her shapely hips and thighs speak to her fertility.”
The crowd murmurs again. Someone whistles. I hear a low growl from somewhere near the front—possessive and raw.
The urge to cry flares up inside me, and I sniffle loudly.
I don’t know where to look. I don’t know where I am.
The lights blur, and I can’t tell if I’m hot or cold or both. My heart hammers like it’s trying to escape my chest. My fingers curl at my sides, nails digging into my palms just to feel something real.
The voice keeps talking. The crowd keeps watching.
And I stand there—barely myself. Not a girl. Not a person.
Just a prize.
“The downside to this omega,” the announcer says, voice pitching with mock regret, “is that she is previously mated...and rejected by her pack.” He frowns like he’s mocking a child.
A wave of disapproval ripples through the crowd. Groans. Scoffs. Sharp inhales. Disgust, loud and theatrical, like they’ve all been personally offended by the truth of me.
Shame coils deep in my gut, thick and poisonous.
My fingers twitch, reaching instinctively for my neck—seeking the ruined mark I wish I could hide. But the collar stops me. Rough leather bites into my skin, a cruel barrier against the itch and burn of the half-healed infection underneath.
I keep my hand there anyway. It makes me feel a little more like myself.
“However!” the announcer cries, lifting one finger in the air like this is some kind of performance. “She comes with a completely clean and intact background. Paperwork and all!”
Another round of murmurs from the crowd—this time more curious than angry.
Needing to do something, I take a single step forward, and a few faces come into focus.
Past the blinding lights, rows of alphas in tailored suits and long coats stare up at me like wolves in the dark.
Their gazes crawl over my body—hungry, sharp, evaluating.
One licks his lips. Another leans forward, eyes gleaming like he's imagining me in pieces.
Some of them whisper to each other. Others just stare, their lust so heavy I can feel it pressing against my skin.
A few even look angry, like I’ve somehow wasted their time by not being untouched, or young enough, or desperate enough.
My breath hitches. I want to disappear. Melt into the floor. Crawl back behind the curtains and vanish.
And then I see him.
Near the front, just off center. Taller than the others, broader too.
He leans forward, like he can’t bear the idea of not being closer to the stage.
His shoulders are tense, fists clenched at his sides.
Long black hair falls past his collar, and a matching beard frames his sharp jaw.
There’s a scar slashed through one of his eyebrows, a jagged white line against tan skin.
He looks like a character out of a TV show. One of those fantasy ones with dragons and monsters.
His eyes lock on mine, and his chest rises and falls too fast. Like his heart is pounding out of rhythm. Out of control.
I freeze.
He’s not moving, and he hasn’t said a word. But the look on his face?
It terrifies me.
I squeeze my eyes shut, hard. Try to block it all out—the lights, the voices, the stares.
Him.
But I can still feel it. That heat. That focus. Like he’s already claimed me with his eyes.
I try to stay somewhere inside myself. A small, locked room where none of this can touch me. But the moment I squeeze my eyes shut, the announcer’s voice booms through the space, louder, almost triumphant.
“Let’s start the bidding at two thousand!”
A voice cuts through the crowd—deep, gravelly, impatient. “Four!”
The crowd stirs.
“Four thousand from the floor!” the announcer crows. “A bold opening bid from the gentleman in the front.”
I open my eyes.
It’s him.
The scary alpha with the long black hair and the scar. He hasn’t moved an inch, but his voice thrums with something primal. A challenge. A warning.
Another alpha—some smug-looking man in a velvet jacket—raises his hand. “Five!”
“Six,” the black-haired alpha growls immediately.
The crowd buzzes. The air thickens.
The announcer leans into the excitement, his voice sliding into something oily and theatrical.
“Now, let’s not forget—this omega is already trained in the ways of pleasing an alpha,” the announcer purrs, and I want to disappear. “She’s taken a knot and, according to her last owner, she can swallow a cock all the way to the root!”
A fresh wave of heat rises to my face. Not from shame—no, that left a long time ago. This is rage, raw and useless, bubbling under my skin. But I swallow it down, force myself to stay still, chin up, eyes dry.
“Seven!” someone else shouts.
“Eight!” the scarred alpha says—his voice like stone cracking.
The crowd is shifting now, charged, eager to watch the fight. Not for me. Not really. I’m just the bloodied prize at the end of the hunt.
The velvet-jacket alpha sneers, clearly not used to losing. “Ten thousand!”
Someone gasps, and a few others hum in approval.
My stomach twists.
I glance back at the scary alpha—Scar, I name him in my head—and for the first time, he moves—slightly. His head tilts. His lip curls, like he’s amused. Or about to kill something.
“Fifteen,” he says, low and final.
A beat of silence. Two. Then the gavel slams like a gunshot.
“Sold!” the beta announces, breathless. “To the gentleman in the front!”
The crowd erupts in murmurs. The velvet alpha mutters something under his breath, then glares at his feet. The crowd’s already bored, ready for the next offering.
But I’m still standing under the hot lights, the heat crawling over my skin. My legs feel like they’re made of glass.
Then another alpha comes into focus next to Scar.
A red-haired blur comes flying out of the shadows. He’s tall and lean, pale as bone, practically glowing with excitement. He throws his arms around Scar’s shoulders, laughing like this is a festival and not a sale of flesh.
“You won her!” He grins, voice rich with glee. “I told you that you would! She’s perfect—didn’t I say she was perfect?”
Scar doesn’t answer. His eyes are still locked on me.
My stomach turns to ice.
I want to run. But I can’t move.
Then rough hands close around my arms. One yanks me sideways, the other pushes from behind. My bare feet stumble against the cold concrete stairs as I’m dragged down, away from the stage, away from the false light and into the deeper dark below it.
The noise of the crowd fades behind me, swallowed by canvas walls and muffled voices. Someone pulls back the flap of a side tent, and I’m shoved inside like cargo, the air thick with dust and stale perfume.
I barely catch myself before hitting the floor.
“Congratulations,” chirps a voice to my left.
I turn, breath catching.
A male beta stands there, clipboard in hand, smiling too wide, too bright. He looks like he works here, and deeply enjoys it.
“You should feel honored,” he says, like this is supposed to be comforting. “An already-mated omega has never gone for that much before. Ever.”
I stare at him, saying nothing.
Because I don’t feel honored.
I feel like shit.
I don’t want a new pack. I don’t want a fresh start.
And even though I know better—god, I know better—some small, pathetic part of me still aches for my old pack. In my drugged-up haze, I can’t help but miss the way they used to say my name. I still crave the warmth of a bond that quickly turned to poison.
I slowly press my back against the tent pole and close my eyes, willing that part of me to die.
But it doesn’t.
It clings, stubborn and sick, like a bruise that refuses to fade—beating quietly in the hollow of my chest. It’s a reminder that my broken body already destroyed one pack.
And now it looks like I’m about to do it again.