Lorali

The shed sits awkwardly on the balcony near the infinity pool, a blemish against the sleek glass and polished stone of the penthouse. It looks exactly like what you’d expect a shed to look like, old, rotting, and pitifully out of place in such a lavish establishment.

The wood is warped and splintered, riddled with holes. A cracked window leans crookedly in its frame, and I’m certain the roof leaks whenever it rains. Sleeping outside in a tent would almost be better than sleeping in this dump, especially in the biting chill of winter.

Toughen up, Lorali. At least you’ll have a roof over your head, no matter how useless it may be. I clutch the numbing cream in my hands and tilt my gaze upward to the stars. I have to see the good in this. I have a perfect view of the city, fresh air twenty‑four seven, and above all, I’ll be near my pack. That thought alone steadies me.

I pry my eyes from the stars and push open the shed door. It creaks loudly, groaning like it might collapse at any moment. Dust swirls in the air as I step inside.

The place is suffocating with cobwebs, the wooden planks of the floor stained with paint splatters. Strange equipment lies scattered across the ground, abandoned as though whoever left them here couldn’t care less. Shelves line the walls, stacked with rusting paint cans, and in the corner sits a large wooden chest, its surface dulled with age.

"Not too bad. Just needs a little love," I mumble, clutching the numbing cream tighter, trying to convince myself this isn’t as hopeless as it looks.

I roll up my sleeves and begin cleaning. Luckily, I came prepared with a broom and mop because something in me knew this place would be in bad condition. I sweep the dust and with trembling hands nudge spiders away with the broomstick. "Please don’t come toward me, just stay there," I whisper under my breath, relocating them carefully. Once the webs are gone, I drag the heavy equipment to one corner, clearing space, before mopping the floor until the wood shines faintly beneath the grime.

By the time I finish, the shed looks at least decent enough for dwelling. Not omega dwelling, not the kind of nest Alma would approve of, but still a dwelling.

I place my hand on the doorframe, warmth blooming in my stomach. Shabby as it is, this is my first home outside Alma. A place that is mine. And with time, I can make it into a sanctuary, a refuge away from the witch.

"For now, I just need to build my nest," I whisper, crossing my arms. But where are my things? Alma sent all my important belongings and nest supplies to the pack two weeks before graduation, so they could prepare for my arrival. I should ask the witch where they are. No, better to ask Walter. He wouldn’t hit me for asking. The witch would.

I roll down my sleeves and head back toward the penthouse, carrying the broom and mop through the balcony garden. If I’m right, the pack should be done having dinner now. The windows are tinted; I can’t see inside so I can just assume. I reach the sliding door connected to the kitchen and step in..

I freeze instantly at the sight before me. Walter is bent over the island, naked, his body trembling. Behind him, a man with light blue tips at the ends of his black hair and also naked, moves against him, pounding hard. If I remember correctly from the file, his name is Keion. His hand presses into Walter’s mouth, muffling the sounds spilling out, but I still hear the broken, shaky voice.

"I’m going to come," Walter sings, his tone trembling, desperate.

Keion’s pace quickens, the sound of skin slapping echoing through the air, sharp and rhythmic. "Yes, come for me, my sweet omega," he grunts, voice thick with musk.

Heat floods my stomach, spreading through me like wildfire. Whatever is happening here shouldn’t make me feel hot in the middle of winter, but it does. Keion looks up suddenly, his eyes locking with mine. Recognition strikes instantly. These are the same eyes I saw from the window the night of the gala. My fated mate.

My cheeks flush crimson as the realization hits. Our gazes hold for a heartbeat too long, and then I turn, fleeing. I practically fly out of the kitchen, slamming the sliding door shut behind me, heart pounding, breath ragged.

I rush back to my shed, slamming the door shut so hard the frail wood rattles, threatening to splinter apart. My chest heaves, my pulse races, and I sink to the floor, covering my face with trembling hands.

What was happening back there? What were they doing, and why? Why was it so hot? Why did Walter look so flushed, his voice breaking like that? What did he mean by coming? Why were they naked? Why was Keion moving behind him, and what on earth was that clapping sound echoing through the kitchen?

Questions flood my mind, crashing into each other, multiplying until I feel dizzy. I have so many questions, yet no one to answer them. I am lost, utterly lost.

Then it hits me. A sharp, spiky feeling floods between my legs, sudden and overwhelming. My hand drifts down, brushing against my panties, and I freeze. The fabric is slick, damp. I push it aside, and my fingers meet something silky, wet. I jerk my hand back, horrified, staring at the clearish substance glistening on my fingertips.

It smells faintly of vanilla, my scent.

Panic surges through me. I curl into a ball, knees pressed tightly together, legs locked, desperate to stop the slicky thing from flowing out of me. My stomach twists, my core clenches and my body betrays me. I don’t like this feeling. It hurts and I don’t understand it.

What is happening to me? What is happening to my body? Am I going to die? Is this the end of me I’m going to die by some mysterious liquid spilling from my legs?

My face presses against the freshly mopped wooden floor, the gold sheen blurred by tears. A single drop slides down my cheek, soaking into the grain. I sniffle, memories of Alma and my friends sweeping through my mind like ghosts. My life is flashing before my eyes.

This is my end.

I wish I could see Arabella one more time before death takes me. But I know now that won’t be possible. Cleo will be furious when she learns I died before her wedding. I can already imagine her tantrum, her voice shrill with outrage. The thought makes me laugh weakly, even as tears sting my eyes.

I hope Vanya becomes First Lady someday, she’d be perfect for the role. And I hope Susie finds a pack that matches the ones Alma always told us about, the kind filled with love and devotion, nothing like mine.

I wouldn’t wish my pack on anyone.

When I was twelve, one of the seniors returned to Alma to tell us about her pack. She had only good things to say. Like me, she was an orphan, chosen by Headmistress Cleovera, given a name, given a chance. Like me, she yearned for a family, for children, for love she never received from her parents. And she got it. Her pack wasn’t her fated match, nor her scent match, but they loved her. They treasured her. They made her dreams come true.

From that day, I was desperate for a pack of my own. Desperate for a family. Desperate for love.

And now I have one. You’d think my dream is closer to reality. But no. It’s further away than ever.

My eyes grow heavy, my body feels weak, drained. My vision blurs, fading into black.

Death has come for me.