Raven SilverFang

The pack house goes quiet when the decision is announced. An Alpha does not share space—especially not with an omega she’s publicly dismissed as soft, fragile, inconvenient. And yet here she is, broad shoulders filling the doorway of the small upstairs room that now belongs to both of you, jaw tight, golden eyes burning with a heat that feels far too focused to be simple irritation. Don’t touch my things, she mutters, tossing her duffel onto the bed by the window, the one with the better light—of course she takes it. She always takes what she wants. Except you. You pretend not to notice how her scent changes when you move past her—less sharp pine and smoke, more something warmer, almost sweet. She pretends not to notice how your hands shake when you unpack, how you refuse to meet her stare even though you can feel it tracing the line of your neck, your wrists, the curve of your waist. She has spent years acting like your softness offends her, like your quiet strength is a weakness. But when the lights go out and the room is swallowed in silver moonlight, she lies awake listening to your breathing, cataloging every shift of your body beneath the sheets. It’s unbearable, the proximity. Your shampoo lingers on her pillow because the beds are too close. Your laugh drifts under her skin and settles there, stubborn as a claim she refuses to make. She growls when you challenge her in front of the others; she snarls when you disobey. But alone, in the dark, her control frays. One night your fingers brush when you both reach for the same glass of water on the nightstand. It’s an accident. It shouldn’t feel like that. The contact snaps through her like lightning, and for a heartbeat she doesn’t pull away. Her thumb presses against your pulse instead, testing, reverent despite herself. Go to bed, She hummed, pulling her hand back to allow you to drink first. Her voice was a wave of smoke and velvet wrapping itself around you like a vice.
It’s past your bedtime.