Chapter Two
Silas
The estate looks immaculate, as always. Almost too perfect if I’m being honest. Manicured lawns, flawless hedges, and fountains. It’s a display of wealth, control, and legacy.
My parents' legacy. My family’s legacy is all reflected in our sprawling property tucked in the mountainous region of Howls Peak. Everything is pristine, a perfect mirror of the unblemished Jorg name passed down since the times of Kings and Nobles when we were a Dukedom.
I drum my fingers against the desk, staring out the window.
The clock catches my eye, its hands inching closer to the dreaded hour. Almost time for that thing. The thing my parents have been pestering me about for months now.
I had made it clear that I had no interest in any Omega, and they insisted that it was only because I hadn't met the right one. They took it upon themselves to prepare a list that they’ll show me today for me to “choose” from. Not that it’s ever felt like much of a choice.
I can already hear their voices. My father delivering the same stale speech about responsibility, tradition, and family. And my mother, her tone both pleading and scolding, saying, “You need to marry a good Omega. You’re 34 now. Most Alphas your age already have kids.”
It’s the same old, drawn out, annoying story. Every Alpha, especially one of my status, has always been taught one simple truth: We must have an Omega as our mate. Our bodies, they say, are designed for each other—interlocking pieces of a puzzle that fit seamlessly, instinctively, and, supposedly, beautifully. Only an omega can take an alpha’s knot, their bodies accommodating it in a way no beta ever could. And in return, only an alpha’s knot can truly quell the raging heat that burns through an omega, offering them the singular satisfaction their biology craves. It’s a relationship rooted in nature’s design, they claim. Unquestionable. Immutable.
But beyond the physical, there’s another layer to all of this—one steeped in tradition and power. Alphas like me aren’t just born into privilege; we’re burdened with responsibility. Every decision we make, and every bond we forge, must be calculated to ensure the continuation of strength within our bloodlines. Mating with a beta, as some might foolishly do, risks diluting that power. Beta often birth more betas, the more betas a family has, the weaker its bloodline, and if the bloodline weakens, the family’s influence—its standing—could falter.
For a family like mine, built on generations of unbroken alpha lineage, the idea of falling from power is unthinkable. And so, the unspoken rule is clear: an alpha of my caliber must choose an omega.
It’s logical, practical—even noble if one were to spin it that way. And yet, as these thoughts circle through my mind, a bitter taste curls on my tongue. The mere notion of it irritates me to the point of pure anger. A scoff escapes my lips, sharp and involuntary, slicing through the silence around me.
I don’t like omegas.
No, that’s not quite right.
I fucking hate them.
Everything about them grates on me. Their softness, their submission, the way they seem to wilt and fold under the mere presence of an alpha’s pheromones—it’s pathetic. They instantly become so needy, so ravenous, too willing to lose themselves at the slightest whiff of any half-decent bout of pheromones. The way they gaze up with those wide, pleading eyes, their bodies trembling with uncontrollable desire—how am I supposed to respect that? How could I ever see them as anything more than just drooling animals controlled by nature and biology?
And yet, everyone insists that this is my destiny. It doesn’t matter what I think, what I want. My life has already been decided for me, carved into stone before I ever had a say.
The thought sends a fresh wave of irritation coursing through me, and I exhale sharply as if the act could rid me of the frustration that’s now settled like a weight in my chest. But no matter how hard I try to push it away, it lingers—gnawing at the edges of my mind, unshakable and infuriating.
My mind floods with memories of different Omegas who have tried to throw themselves at me. I wince at the thought, unable to rein in my disgust. It’s not flattering; it’s pathetic. But my parents don’t care about my preferences. All they care about is ensuring the family legacy is secure. And apparently, securing that means saddling me with some vapid Omega.
The knock comes just as I knew it would, followed by the door swinging open before I can respond. Joseph steps in as casual as ever. He never waits for an invitation. He doesn’t need to. He’s the only person who can get away with that.
“Well, look at you,” he says, grinning like he’s enjoying this more than he should. “Big day, huh? The momentous occasion where the great Silas finally chooses his Omega.”
I glare at him, but it only makes him laugh.
“You know how I feel about Omegas,” I say flatly, leaning back in my chair.
Joseph shrugs, unbothered. “Yeah, I know. But they always seem to like you.”
“Because they’re mindless,” I snap. “They’re just zombies, drawn to anything with strong pheromones. They don’t care about anything except throwing themselves at anything with legs and half-decent pheromones. It's pathetic. No substance. No personality. Just empty shells fawning over a scent.”
He doesn’t argue, just leans against the desk with a knowing smirk. “Well, lucky for you, the mindless zombies are almost here. Your parents are bringing the files soon, aren’t they?”
I sigh, letting my head drop back against the chair. “Yes, I remember. Don’t remind me.”
Joseph straightens and smooths his shirt, feigning an air of formality. “I’ll leave you to it, then. Good luck, boss.”
He’s having a little fun with this, and I feel a tiny spark of envy. What I would give to not have to be in this situation.
I can only grunt in response, watching as he strolls out. The door barely has time to click shut before it opens again, and this time, it’s my parents.
They’re beaming. Of course, they are. This is their moment, after all the culmination of months of badgering and guilt trips.
“Silas,” my mother starts, her voice as sugary as ever. “Today’s the day! We’re so proud of you.”
I fold my arms, meeting her gaze with an expression that makes it clear that I don’t share her enthusiasm. “Do I really need to do this?”
Her countenance falters, but only slightly. She clasps her hands together like she’s praying. “You can pick anyone you want,” she pleads. “Any Omega from a good family and good standing. It’s your choice.”
Anybody, as long as it’s an Omega, fuck!
I don’t bother arguing. Instead, I gesture to the files in her hand. “Let’s get this over with.”
She practically glows as she places the stack on my desk, leaning in eagerly as I start flipping through them. My father stands behind her, arms crossed, his usual silent approval radiating in waves.
The first file is underwhelming. A polished photo of a woman with a practiced smile stares back at me. Her bio reads like a tedious résumé of a prestigious family, exemplary behavior, and impeccable credentials. It’s clear my parents handpicked her as a “favorite.”
“I don’t like this one,” I say, tossing the file aside without a second glance.
My mother gasps, rushing to retrieve it. “But she’s perfect! Look at her. She’s such a beautiful young lady, and her family is…”
“Not interested,” I cut her off, already onto the next.
The process repeats with every file. Each Omega looks more contrived than the last, their photos practically screaming, Pick me! I’ll be the perfect mate. It’s nauseating. I can feel my mother’s excitement fading into quiet frustration as I discard one after another.
I can tell that this was arranged in such a way that those they prefer are at the top of the list because they know I don’t want to do this and think I’m likely to just pick any I see.
Unfortunately for them, that is not the case. I plan to be as petty as possible and pick someone that meets the criteria to the barest minimum. All they said was to pick an omega. I can pick the one they least approve of, as long as she’s an omega.
If possible, a recessive omega will be best. Recessive omegas are better for the bloodline than marrying a beta, but someone of my stature and power should also match with someone with similar status and power. My parents are thorough, and it doesn’t seem like any of these omegas are sufficiently out of their favor for my liking.
Just as I’m getting tired, I finally see it.
Danae Walker.
Her photo isn’t like the others. No sultry smiles, no overly curated poses. She stares straight at the camera, her expression blank, almost bored. It looks more like a passport photo than something meant to win over a potential Alpha.
And for some reason, I’m drawn to it, like some invisible force pulls me in.
For the first time all evening, I feel something stir curiosity? Maybe even hope? I flip through the pages of her profile, noting the stark differences between her and the others. A Recessive Omega? Oh, I’ve hit the jackpot with this one. She’s the total opposite of what my parents want, and that alone makes me like this pick even more.
A smirk creeps onto my face as I close the file. “I pick her,” I announce, holding it up.
The silence that follows is so satisfying.
My mother’s smile falters, though she recovers quickly. “Oh, well, she’s interesting,” she says carefully. “But are you sure? There are still so many beautiful, powerful Omegas to—”
“You said I could pick anyone I wanted,” I remind her, my tone sharp enough to end the discussion. “She’s from a good family, isn’t she? It’s not like the business will suffer. That’s all that matters.”
Her lips press into a thin line, and I can see the resignation in her eyes. My father simply sighs, clearly aware that I’m doing this to spite them.
Good. Let them stew in it. If they’re going to force me to marry, I’m going to make it as uncomfortable for them as possible.
Without another word, they leave the room, taking the rejected files with them. I lean back in my chair, tossing Danae’s file onto the desk with a satisfied smirk.
If I have to go through with this, at least I’ll make sure it’s on my terms. And this Omega, Danae. …I can’t deny that there’s something about her, the look on her face in that file that reels me in. But at the end of the day, she’s just another fucking Omega. I just need to get my parents off my back and keep her at arm’s length.