Unmarked (The Unmarked Chronicles #1)

Chapter One

Rhea

T he bus smells like sweat, fast food, and leftover pheromones.

Not the worst it’s ever been, but bad enough to make me crack the window with my elbow and breathe through my mouth.

My headphones are in. Not for music - just static. A force field. A habit.

Something to keep the world out.

I stare out the dirty glass, trying to ignore the low hum of omega scent a few rows ahead. It’s faint, but unmistakable - sweet and thick, like peaches in the sun.

I don’t need to look to know she’s sitting with her back straight and her Alpha’s scent wrapped around her like expensive perfume.

That’s fine. That’s her life.

And it’s got nothing to do with me.

My phone buzzes in my coat pocket. Again.

Lexi.

I answer with a sigh. “Still on the bus. No, I haven’t died.”

“You better not have,” she snaps. “It’s your birthday, Rhea. If you vanish on me today, I will climb through your window like a cursed spirit, drag you out by the ankles, and dress you myself while chanting your full birth name.”

“I’d like to see you try,” I mutter, but a ghost of a smile pulls at my mouth.

“Don’t tempt me. And you better not be planning to flake on the gala.”

“I told you I’d be there.”

“You also told me last week that you’d come out for drinks and then ghosted after two mojitos.”

“Because you tried to make me do karaoke!”

“And I’ll make sure you do it tonight if you try to run. You know I will.”

I sigh. “I’ll be there. Just… don’t count on me wearing anything glittery.”

“You’re working, not walking the runway,” Lexi snorts. “But maybe try not to look like you just rolled out of a parking lot with your camera bag and three granola bars.”

“That’s specific.”

“I’ve met you.”

I roll my eyes. “You’re lucky I love you. And that I need rent money.”

“You’re lucky I love you , or I’d have found someone who wouldn't dream of wearing combat boots to formal events.”

A pause.

Then her voice shifts slightly, into something softer and less teasing.

“But really, Rhea… thanks for doing this. I know you hate these kinds of things, and I know it's your birthday and you’d probably rather eat cake alone with your plants. But I’m glad you’re coming. Even if it’s just to work. You deserve to be around people who see how damn good you are.”

My chest tightens.

She means well - she always does - but she has no idea what am, or what I’ve been hiding.

Because if she did - if anyone did - I’d be in deep shit.

The OMB would see to that - the Omega Management Board. A government-run agency that tracks every registered Omega from the moment they present.

They house them. Train them. Place them.

Control them.

As an omega, once you present - once the bloodwork confirms it and your first heat starts - you're registered. There’s no opt-out, no appeals -

You’re officially on the list.

I was a late bloomer. Eighteen years old, and practically a grown adult by the time it hit - my scent shifting overnight, my body betraying me without warning. I didn’t wait around for the OMB to start sniffing around: I found a backdoor supplier for suppressants - strong ones - paid cash, and had no questions asked.

They were the kind that wiped everything clean. My heat, my scent, my signature. The kind that let me erase myself from the system before they even noticed I existed, and I’ve stayed that way ever since.

“Don’t get sentimental on me,” Lexi says quickly, voice light again. “Save that energy for fixing my eyeliner when I cry halfway through someone’s speech.”

“Deal,” I say, smiling softly. “Try not to spill champagne on your dress this time.”

“No promises,” she quips. “See you tonight, birthday girl.”

“Later, Lex.”

“Love you.”

“Love you more.”

She hangs up.

I drop the phone into my lap, the weight of it suddenly heavier than it should be.

Outside, the city blurs in shades of concrete and caution. Inside, static hums low in my ears, a sound I’ve trained myself to crave.

I'm twenty-five today.

Still unregistered, unmarked, and unclaimed. It's unheard of - practically impossible - but somehow, I did it.

All it took was for me to become a ghost with a camera bag and a forged medical file.

Sure, I have to keep to myself. Blend in. Watch my back at all times and never really let my guard down.

But at least my life is mine .

My friends are all betas, and they have no idea how lucky they are. They don’t have to worry about heat cycles or lifelong expectations. No one’s watching them, waiting for them to pick a mate and scent-mark their way into domestic submission.

They get to date, flirt, fuck. They get to fall apart and start over.

They get choices.

And so long as I keep on the suppressants and live like they do, then so do I.

As an omega, the second the world sees the truth, I’m supposed to pick an alpha

and let him brand me like livestock. Lose my name and tie myself down for life. Cook and clean and scent his pillow while he runs the world and tells everyone how lucky I am.

It’s sick . It’s boring .

And it’s everything I never wanted.

Living life this way means no OMB check-ins. No metaphorical leash, no alpha at home asking where I’ve been or why dinner’s not hot on the table.

I sleep with who I want, go where I want, do what I want. Yeah, there are times when I get kind of lonely, and sure, my bank account winces every time I tap my card, but at least I’m free .

At least I’m not living out some alpha's fantasy of the Good Omega Wife.

Behind me, a pair of teenage betas argue about whose turn it is to buy snacks for their next shift. One of them cracks open a fluorescent orange energy drink that smells like syrup and chemicals and something vaguely citrus trying to be fun.

My stomach turns as the scent hits my nostrils, and I can't help but grimace in their direction.

“You want some?” one of them asks, catching me side-eyeing. “It’s radioactive. Tastes like victory.”

“Tempting, but I’m more of a black coffee kind of girl.”

He laughs, the sound quick and bright. “Hardcore. Respect.”

I check my phone: 4:45.

Right on time.

I roll the pill bottle out of my jacket sleeve with practiced ease, subtle as can be, tap two tablets into my palm, and dry swallow.

I don’t flinch at the taste anymore.

The Mask is what I call them. Not their official name - that one’s full of hyphens and clinical promises. But The Mask fits.

The bus hisses to a halt. I get off two stops early on purpose - I like the walk.

The streets are quieter here. A little rough around the edges, but honest in a way the glossy parts of the city never are.

It doesn’t take long before the welding shop comes into view, tucked behind a tangle of overhead cables and hand-painted signs. The smell hits before I even reach the stairs: scorched metal, motor oil, the faint hum of something electric being tamed.

Darren - the shop owner - is leaning against the doorway, talking with one of the other guys. They’re both in coveralls, grease-smeared and relaxed.

“Rhea!” he calls when he spots me, grinning widely. “You get prettier every time you walk by. It's rude, honestly.”

“Don’t lie before dinner,” I call back, smiling. “What’s the verdict on that clutch rebuild?”

“Halfway to hell and held together with spit. You want to come take a look?”

“ I’ll pass. I like having eyebrows.”

The other guy - Scott - gives a low whistle. “She’s got jokes today.”

“I’ve always had jokes,” I fire back, heading toward the stairs. “You were just too distracted by your own tragic playlists to notice.”

“Hey!” Scott protests. “Nineties emo is timeless.”

“Tell that to your spark plugs,” I call over my shoulder.

Their laughter follows me up the stairs, where I unlock the door and step into my little haven.

Warmth greets me like a well-worn sweater.

It’s small - just one big open room, a kitchenette, and a bathroom that’s barely wide enough to stretch in - but it’s mine .

My plants line the sill - ivy winding around the latch, a mess of succulents in mismatched mugs, and a peace lily that’s refused to bloom since the day I bought it.

I’ve stopped taking it personally. I think it’s just stubborn.

My bag drops to the arm of the couch, a nd I toe off my shoes before heading over to the kitchen.

Across the counter, a tiny cake box waits.

This morning, I lit the candle, whispered a wish to the quiet, blew it out -

And ate a third of the cake with a fork straight from the box like a civilized gremlin.

No surprises. No obligations.

No alpha lurking in my kitchen, expecting me to cook him breakfast and clap like a trained seal because he figured out how to work a washing machine.

God , the thought .

They just… They want everything .

Omegas are expected to bond young, be marked early, and start nesting like it’s a divine calling - throw pillows, folded towels, the works. The moment we present, the expectations bloom like cursed flowers.

I’ve been collecting my suppressants from the same underground dealer for years now. The lights flicker. There’s always at least one guy in the corner who might be a taxidermist. But it’s quiet, discreet, and mostly safe.

And it’s where I first heard the whispers.

Stories passed in low voices behind the counter, half-believed and half-myth.

Omegas bonded to more than one alpha.

Rare ones. Pack-bonded. Fated . The kind who don’t belong to one - they belong to many.

I’ve never seen one with my own eyes, never met anyone who could confirm it was real, but the rumors persist anyway, like old songs no one remembers how to stop singing.

Still, I’ve seen what being bonded usually looks like.

It’s some shiny collar dressed up as devotion, and an alpha who thinks making toast is a contribution while you iron his shirts and fantasize about screaming into the sink.

Yeah - no thanks.

This life I’m living might not be glamorous, but it’s mine .

The city lets me be invisible.

M y friends don’t ask questions I can’t answer.

I walk home in the golden hour, eat cake with my fingers, and no one breathes down my neck about it.

And best of all, I wake up every morning without a pheromone-heavy man-child expecting a parade because he loaded two plates into the dishwasher.

Freedom looks a little different for everyone.

Tonight, it looks like a slinky dress, a camera bag, and just enough eyeliner to convince people I belong in the room.

*

I slip on my dress and smooth my palms over the fabric.

It's black. Sleek enough to pass, stretchy enough to survive.

Professional, but forgettable; practically screaming please don't notice me unless I’m pointing a camera at your face.

I've styled my hair into soft copper waves that fall down my back with just enough mess to feel deliberate.

This is the third time I’ve redone it. I pretend I’m not sweating about it.

Brush. Hairspray. Brush again. More hairspray.

I could survive a tornado at this point. Possibly a mild alpha temper tantrum.

Makeup next. A little highlighter to fake dewy joy, eyeliner sharp enough to kill a man, and a medium-pink lip stain.

Minimal effort, maximum manipulation.

I lean in close to the mirror.

A beta stares back.

Good girl. Keep it bland.

Satisfied, I sling my camera bag over my shoulder - the real love of my life - and head for the door. I lock up behind me, heels tapping on the worn stairwell as I descend like a woman who hasn’t spent the last seven years dodging government tracking and suppressing her own biology.

And still, somewhere deep under my ribs, I feel it.

That low hum.

That thrum of something quiet and dangerous, the thing I bury beneath lip gloss and lens caps and half-convincing shrugs.

The part of me that still remembers what I really am, and what I could lose if anyone else found out.

I shove it deeper.

Behind the lipstick.

Behind the camera.

Behind the carefully neutral expression and ten layers of fake confidence.

Tonight, I’m just a photographer. Friendly, invisible and underpaid.

And honestly?

I’ve gotten really good at pretending that’s all I’ve ever been.