Chapter 4

I stride down the hallway, my footsteps echoing too loudly for my liking. It's like every step is a reminder that I don't belong—never have, never will. Being an omega in the Wild Rose Pack means I'm at the bottom of an unforgiving hierarchy, where the whispers and laughter behind my back might as well be howls in the night.

"Skyler, the odd one," they say. "Never quite fits." Sometimes I think they forget I have ears sharp enough to hear them from across the room. Or maybe they just don't care.

The fluorescent lights buzz overhead, a constant drone against the chatter of students. And here I am, hidden behind sunglasses that shield my eyes from more than just the glare. Silver eyes. They make me a spectacle—a freak show attraction in their normal human world. It's not just the pack; it's everyone. I've learned to navigate through this sea of judgment with my head held high, but it doesn't stop their stares from feeling like claws raking down my spine.

My brown hair falls over my shoulders, a tame contrast to the wildness within me. The light skin tone that stretches over my bones marks me as different even among wolves. They're strong, dark, camouflaged by the night. Me? I'm like the moon—pale and full of craters and fissures that they can't wait to explore and exploit.

"Get out of the way, omega!" someone sneers as they brush past me, jarring my shoulder. I don't falter, though. I can't give them the satisfaction. Instead, I adjust the strap of my backpack and keep moving forward, letting their disdain roll off me like rain off a wolf's back.

Moments like this, they're the ones that define me—not because they break me, but because each time, I manage to piece myself together again. With each shard of loneliness, each splinter of isolation, I build something stronger within. It's not the acceptance that I crave, but it's a start. It's resilience.

I push the heavy door open, stepping into the school office that smells like stale coffee and printer ink. I'm here for one thing only: my class schedule. The paper that dictates the path I'll navigate today, among those who see me as nothing more than a chew toy for their amusement. My stomach twists with familiar apprehension. It's not the classes that worry me; it's the gauntlet of hostility waiting outside these walls.

"Here you go, Skyler," the secretary says without looking up from her screen, sliding the paper across the counter. Her indifference is almost comforting in its predictability. I muster a small "thanks" that gets lost in the hum of the fluorescent lights above.

Clutching the schedule like a talisman, I turn to leave. I brace myself for re-entry into the jungle that is high school—the place where my silver eyes behind these tinted glasses mark me as prey.

The hallway is a river of noise and motion. I'm halfway to the perceived safety of my locker when it happens—a sudden force slams into my back, propelling me forward. My breath hitches as my face collides with the cold metal of my locker, the impact resonating through my skull. Pain splinters across my cheekbone, and for a split second, the world blurs into a dizzying kaleidoscope of color and light.

"Watch where you're going, freak," a voice growls—a jock, his sneer audible even without seeing his face.

I press my palms against the locker, steadying myself, fighting the urge to retaliate. To shift and let my claws do the talking. But no, that's what they want, isn't it? A spectacle. Proof that the omega can't control her baser instincts.

"Sorry," I grind out, my voice steady despite the tremor of rage that threatens to undo me. It's a lie. I'm not sorry. Not for my existence, not for my eyes, not for my heritage. But survival in this place—it's about choosing battles wisely.

My hands shake slightly as I adjust the sunglasses that have gone askew. I can feel the warmth where my skin will surely bruise, but I refuse to touch it, refuse to show weakness. I'm an omega of the Wild Rose Pack. We might be bottom-rung, but we're not broken. Not yet.

I straighten my spine, ignoring the throb in my face, and carry on. The jock's laughter echoes behind me—a harsh reminder that even in human form, the law of the jungle prevails. But I'm still walking, still breathing. Still standing, despite it all.

The metallic clatter of my locker door reverberates down the hallway, and I barely register the rapid footsteps approaching until a stern voice cuts through the haze of pain.

"Is there a problem here?"

I blink away the disorientation to see Mr. Daniels, his broad shoulders casting a long shadow over the snickering jock. The teacher's presence is like a boulder in a stream—unyielding, demanding attention. With his salt-and-pepper hair and lines etched by years of quiet authority, he commands respect, or at least compulsory obedience from the unruly student body.

"Nothing, Mr. Daniels," the jock replies, his voice dripping with an innocence that doesn't reach his eyes. "Just helping Skyler here pick up her stuff."

I bite back a retort, tasting blood where my teeth have dug into my lip. It's a performance, a carefully choreographed dance of deception they all seem to know by heart.

"Make sure you're actually helping, then," Mr. Daniels says, his gaze flickering to me for a moment—a silent question, an offer of intervention.

I shake my head almost imperceptibly, not trusting my voice. The last thing I need is to be seen as weaker than I already am. His eyes linger, conveying an unspoken understanding before he turns back to the corridor, his figure receding but still radiating a watchful vigilance.

I gather my scattered books, pressing them against my chest like a shield as I navigate towards government class. The hallways feel narrower with every step, lined with students who part for me—no, not for me, but for the spectacle that trails behind me like a cloak of whispers. Their stares are tangible, a collective weight that tries to press me into the ground, but I hold myself taller, each step a defiance.

"Omega," someone hisses, a title that feels more like an insult with each syllable.

I keep walking, chin up, sunglasses shielding my vulnerable silver gaze. They want to see fear, submission, but I won't give them the satisfaction. I'm Skyler, daughter of Beta wolves, and no matter how they try to diminish me, I will not cower. I can't.

"Look at her, acting like she doesn't care." Another voice, laced with mockery.

Let them talk. Let them stare. Their words are stones, and I'm building a fortress. One foot in front of the other, I make my way to government class, the echo of their laughter trailing behind me as nothing more than the noise of those too afraid to understand anything beyond their own narrow world.

They don't see the battles I fight every day, the strength it takes to stand alone. But I see. And I'll keep fighting, one judgmental stare at a time.