The Morder
Grason
There’s a stage on one side, setup with lighting rigs and speakers pointed at an open field.
Music thumps low, vibrating through the ground.
A huge fire burns in the center clearing, crackling beneath metal spits and a makeshift outdoor kitchen.
Smoke, meat, alcohol all blend together in the cold night air.
And alphas are everywhere.
Hundreds of them crowd the fire, the paths between the tents, and the bar lined with mismatched bottles. Their voices overlap, their bodies pushing and shoving all around us.
It feels wrong being here.
Cass should be with us.
My arms tighten as I cross them. It feels like I’m peeling out of my own skin, standing here without my pack alpha. Warren and I have no right to make such a massive decision for our pack.
This is the kind of thing Cass should be making.
But he’s unconscious.
Maybe even dying.
And we simply couldn’t wait for him to get worse.
Warren stands beside me in the crush of bodies, jaw locked, eyes cold and narrowed.
He’s wearing his best suit for this. Dark charcoal with a matching shirt, pressed crisp with his tie knotted perfectly at his throat.
He looks like he’s walking into a board meeting instead of… whatever the hell this place is.
I tug at the collar of my button-up. It’s the nicest one I own, forest green, paired with my best slacks. No tie. I don’t do ties, but even dressed up, I feel out of place here.
Every alpha around us is posturing, circling, eyeing each other like wolves ready to fight over a carcass. The air is thick with pheromones, smoke from the central fire, and anticipation that makes my skin crawl.
“This is insane,” I murmur, leaning closer so only Warren hears. “Cass should be here.”
Warren exhales slowly. The breath looks steady, but the faint tremor in it betrays him. “We don’t have another option.”
He’s right. And it kills me.
We move deeper into the clearing, past the roaring fire, past the makeshift bar lined with already drunk alphas, past the stage wired with lights and sound equipment. Voices pulse around us, laughter too sharp, arguments too loud.
My instincts bristle. Hackles rising. Muscles coiled and ready, even though I don’t want a fight.
“This feels like a betrayal,” I say under my breath.
Warren pauses for a moment. And in that brief slip, grief flickers through him, before it vanishes just as fast. “Letting him die would be worse,” he says.
I nod, even though his words scrape something raw inside me.
“Come on.” He holds up the brochure we were given when we entered this place. “Let’s check out the display room.”
We push deeper into the camp, moving toward the biggest tent in the clearing. It’s an enormous forest-green structure stretched tight between towering pines. It rises like a cathedral made of canvas, lanterns casting golden light across its entrance.
Warren and I are a few steps from the flap when a beta steps into our path.
He’s tall for a beta, broad-shouldered, dressed in fitted black with a silver band around his upper arm that seems to mark him as staff. His posture is all practiced calm, but his eyes flicker from me to Warren, then back again.
“Gentlemen,” he says, holding up a hand before we can enter. “Welcome to the display room. A few rules before you go inside.”
Warren tenses beside me. I feel it in the shift of air, the subtle stiffening of his suit jacket.
I force my hands loose at my sides.
The beta continues, tone careful but firm, like he’s reciting something rote and non-negotiable.
“First rule: No crossing the barriers. If you cross a barrier or attempt to scent, provoke, or command an omega, you will be escorted out of the Morder.”
My stomach turns. Warren’s jaw ticks.
“Second rule,” the beta goes on, “No touching the omegas unless invited by staff.”
He meets my eyes for a fraction too long, as if I’m the one he’s worried about.
I swallow hard.
“Third rule,” he says, lowering his voice, “If an omega reacts to you, you alert a handler. Immediately. Do not engage. Do not approach. Do not speak to her unless given explicit permission.”
“Her?” Warren echoes quietly.
The beta nods. “Yes. All omegas currently on display are female.”
A pulse of dread pounds behind my ribs.
We’re really doing this. We’re really going inside to select a fucking omega like we’re shopping for a new furnace.
And the worst part?
This is normal. Even at academies, packs flip through catalogs, pick potential mates, and request supervised meetings. It’s all regulated within an inch of its life.
And I get why.
Alphas and omegas can’t meet out in the open. It would be chaos. Alphas would fight to claim a mate. Omegas would panic or fold under the pressure, or worse—they’d succumb to instinct and end up bound to packs they hate.
There’d be injuries. Claims. Bonds forged in the middle of public streets. It would be violent and messy. A disaster for everyone involved.
So the structure exists for a reason.
But it’s still all bullshit.
“Any questions?” The beta asks, looking up at Warren.
He lifts his chin. “No. Understood.”
I hesitate. Not long, but enough for the beta’s brows to pull together in warning. “Yeah,” I say quickly. “I understand.”
The beta steps aside, pulling the tent flap open with a practiced sweep. “Welcome to the display room,” he says. “Please conduct yourselves appropriately.”
Warren steps through first.
I follow, and the sugary sweet air inside hits me like a shift in pressure. It’s cooler, darker, heavy with muted omega pheromones and something medical underneath that I don’t want to identify.
Looking around, everything is dim and moody. Long velvet curtains cascade all around us in rich jewel tones—emerald, garnet, sapphire—creating what looks like a hallway between them, forcing us forward through a narrow, velvet-lined corridor.
Overhead, small chandeliers are suspended from the tent’s ceiling. Delicate crystal things that shouldn’t logically hang from canvas, but they do, casting soft halos of gold light over everything.
Somewhere nearby, classical music drifts through the air. Soft strings. A piano. I can’t tell where it is coming from. There are no speakers that I can see, no orchestra hiding behind the curtains. It just…exists, wafting through the tent like perfume.
As we walk, my eyes adjust.
To my right, a gap appears in the curtains. It’s an intentional break in the velvet, revealing a small alcove.
A blonde omega sits on an overstuffed chair inside, framed by fabric and soft light like she’s part of an exhibit. Her hair is curled and glossy, her lacey lingerie is a pale shade that makes her look delicate in a way that feels rehearsed. She keeps her eyes down, hands folded neatly in her lap.
A rope stretches across the front of the alcove, marking the boundary. A guard stands beside it, arms crossed, posture bored but alert. His gaze flicks to us as we approach.
“If you want to learn more about her,” he says, tapping a thin metal stand beside him, “her one-sheet is right here.”
I blink at the stand perched next to the rope, filled with paper clipped neatly in place. Like sheet music.
Curiosity pulls at me before I can stop it. I reach out and lift the top page.
Name. Gender. Age. Height. Weight. Body type. And a whole bunch of other shit that I don’t care about.
I really wish we could leave.
Warren leans in slightly, reading over my shoulder, his expression tightening.
I let the page fall back into place, and I suddenly feel like I need to wash my hands.
“Hey.” I clear my throat and glance at the guard. “We really can’t talk to her? Not even a question?”
The guard shakes his head immediately. “No interaction unless a handler gives explicit permission.” He glances inside the alcove, and I see a young female beta sitting in the folding chair in the corner. She gives a gentle shake of her head, making me frown.
“Most of the omegas are too medicated to talk anyway,” the guard says. “It keeps them calm and safe.”
I frown. “Safe from what?”
He looks me up and down like it is obvious. “Alpha pheromones are hard on an omega’s body. Too much stimulation and they could panic or spiral. This way, they don’t get upset, and the alphas don’t get out of control. Safe and sound.”
Warren’s jaw goes tight. Mine probably does too.
I step back from the rope and grab Warren’s sleeve, pulling him a few feet away, far enough that the guard can’t hear.
“I don’t feel great about this,” I mutter.
Warren exhales through his nose, long and controlled, the way he does when he is trying not to break something. “I don’t either.” His eyes drift down the makeshift hall, looking at all the different alcoves. “But what choice do we have?” he asks quietly.
Frustrated, I scrub both hands down my face, hard enough that it stings. My palms drag over the roughness of my jaw, then up into my curls. I fist my hair, grounding myself.
“Alright,” I say quietly. “I’ll follow your lead.”
Warren nods. He looks like he expected that. Then he straightens his tie with a practiced touch, before turning and walking down the velvet-lined corridor.
I fall in step beside him.
We glance into each alcove as we pass. Every omega is gorgeous in a way that feels curated.
Shiny hair. Tiny outfits. Perfect posture…
except it isn’t perfect. Not really. They sit at odd angles, like their joints don’t quite know where to land.
Their expressions are blank. Their limbs loose.
Their eyes drift without really seeing anything.
It makes my stomach twist.
Warren slows at a few alcoves and reads their one-sheets. He doesn’t stop for long. Skimming the information, he narrows his eyes faintly, then he moves on.
Other alphas walk the rows with easy interest. Some murmur quietly to the guards. Some gesture at the girls like they are comparing features. A few handlers make suggestions that feel gross.
It all feels staged.