Omega Scent Marks on a Salted Shore

1. Kaia

Chapter One

Kaia

Iknew better than to listen through closed doors. That was one of the first lessons my father taught me. “Alphas do NOT lurk. Alphas do NOT speak. Alphas look people directly in the eyes. Alphas walk into every room like they own it. And Alphas demand whatever they want.”

Well, joke’s on him. I wasn’t an Alpha. Not anymore.

I guess I never was.

I stood barefoot in the dark hallway outside my father's office, one hand pressed against the wall, the other curled so tightly around my purse strap that my nails dug into my palm.

My body was lean and muscular—the result of twenty-five years of rigorous training, every movement calculated and controlled.

My blonde hair was pulled back in a severe bun, not a single strand out of place, and my sharp features were arranged in the neutral expression I'd perfected since childhood.

High cheekbones, a strong jawline, pale blue eyes that miss nothing—I was built to look like a leader, trained to carry authority in my posture and presence.

Even now, barefoot and terrified, I stood with my shoulders back and my spine straight, the ingrained discipline of an Alpha-in-training impossible to shake.

Inside, I heard my father’s voice.

That was worse than shouting. Shouting at least meant anger. Low and controlled meant he had plans—plans I never liked.

“She’s become a liability,” he said.

I stopped breathing.

Liability? The same father who brought me to every father-daughter dance even when he was busy, the father who made sure I had everything I needed to succeed. That father thought I was a liability.

My mother made a soft affirmative sound. She didn’t disagree.

My mom. The mom who curled around me in bed just a few months ago when I thought my heart was broken, who brought me hot chocolate because I wasn’t feeling well. She thought it was a heartbreak.

We never could have realized my designation was about to come in.

“We knew this could be a possibility,” my father continued. “Unlikely, but possible.”

My throat tightened. My designation had reduced me to a situation. A complication. A mistake needing correcting.

For twenty-five years, I was raised as the future pride of our pack. The daughter who trained with Alphas, studied with Alphas, negotiated like an Alpha, and led like one. I had been told since I was old enough to understand words that I would designate as a strong, dominant, useful Alpha.

But a few months ago, my body ruined everything.

Omega.

The word sat strangely in my mind. Foreign. It was too soft. Too exposed. Too dangerous.

My father hadn’t looked at me since it happened. My mother cried in front of me; not because I was scared, but because she was disappointed.

“We cannot keep her here,” my father said.

My stomach dropped.

“What are you suggesting?” My mother's voice was much quieter now.

There was a long pause.

That’s when I heard it. A paper sliding across the mahogany desk. The desk where I used to pretend to lead the pack, making demands to my stuffed animals. The desk where I did my homework when my father was gone, which was more often than not.

I stared down at my bare feet, the light beneath the door cutting across them in a pale strip.

My toenails were unpainted, clipped short and practical—there'd never been time for vanity.

My hands were the same: nails trimmed to nothing, palms callused from years of training, knuckles scarred from sparring sessions where I was taught to hit harder, faster, better.

Even my skin told the story of discipline—no softness, no give, just the taut lines of someone who was molded into a weapon.

“There’s a pack a few counties over,” my father said, devoid of emotion. “They’re traditional and wealthy. They’re a strong bloodline. They have expressed interest.”

My heart tore to pieces beneath my ribs.

Interest—in me. Not in my mind. Not in my education. Not in the work I had done for this family. Not in the years I spent becoming exactly what they wanted.

No. Interest in my designation. The word seared through my brain like a brand: Omega.

It felt wrong. Unnatural. A lie wrapped in biology.

I was raised to be Alpha. Trained to be Alpha.

Everything in me rejected it, fought it, refused it.

But my father didn’t see Kaia; he saw a designation. A liability. A body.

Interest in what my body could be used for.

“Would they even take her?” my mother whispered. “After everything?”

I almost laughed, but I knew it would come out broken.

She couldn’t even say it out loud. She couldn’t say that her “perfect little daughter” had spent the last few months drowning in panic attacks. Taking every suppressant my family shoved down my throat. Being kept away from pack meetings and business dinners where I used to shine.

I was the one who smoothed tensions, charmed allies, and always got my pack family what they wanted.

And now, it was all ruined because of a designation.

The office chair creaked. “They’ll take her. An Omega raised as an Alpha has value.”

My knees nearly gave out. I was no longer their daughter. I was value. Not Kaia—just value.

My hand flew to my mouth before the sound in my chest could escape.

My father kept talking—timing, contracts, discretion—but I couldn’t hear anymore.

I backed away from the office door, slowly at first to stay silent, then faster, until my shoulder caught the hallway corner and I nearly slipped on the polished marble floor.

I ran.

My bedroom was at the end of the East Wing. Far, but definitely not far enough.

Every shadow made me jump, as if there were eyes everywhere. Every portrait on the wall had eyes that followed me, ready to shout to my parents, “She’s running away!”

But I had been trained to move silently. Efficient. Controlled. Practical. Those three words were painted on the wall of our gym in the basement. “Good Alpha instincts," my father used to say.

I shoved my door open and locked it behind me.