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Rhea
The pounding in my skull woke me before my mother’s knock did. I pressed my palms against my temples, trying to push back the pain that had been building all week. Today was the worst possible day for this. Damon Kildare would be formally recognized as Lycan King of our territory, and every omega in the pack had to play their part in the political theater that followed any change in leadership.
Our packs belonged to the southernmost part of New Jersey. We were away from the prying eyes of civilians, where we could easily mingle with the few in that area and not draw much attention.
My mother didn’t wait for permission to enter. She never did. The door swung open and there she stood in burgundy silk that probably cost more than most omegas made in a year, carryinga garment bag that screamed expensive. The formal dress she wore made her look younger than her forty-eight years, though the calculating gleam in her eyes reminded me she was anything but soft.
“Up. Now.” Her voice cut through my groaning. “The ceremony starts at seven and you need to be perfect.”
I forced myself vertical, ignoring how the room tilted. My skin felt too tight, too hot, but I couldn’t afford to be sick today. Not when my father’s position as the omega spokesperson hung by a thread with every leadership change. The month-long mourning period for Dominic Kildare, Damon’s father and the former Lycan King, had ended yesterday at midnight. Today, his son would officially take the reins of power.
“I’m up.” The words came out rougher than intended. I cleared my throat and tried again. “Just give me a minute.”
“We don’t have minutes to spare.” She hung the dress on my closet door with practiced efficiency. Emerald green. Of course. The color that made my eyes stand out, that marked me as a Thornback even from across a crowded room. “Your father has worked too hard for you to ruin it with your clever tongue.”
The guilt trip was unnecessary. I knew the stakes. Magnus Thornback had clawed his way up from nothing to become Dominic Kildare’s most trusted omega advisor. Twenty years of careful politics, of being useful without being threatening, of knowing exactly which battles to fight and which to concede. Now Dominic was dead, and his son would decide whether my father kept his position or got thrown back to the bottom where most omegas belonged.
“I know how to behave, Mother.” I swung my legs over the bed’s edge, fighting a wave of dizziness. My nightshirt clung to sweat-dampened skin. When had my room gotten so hot? The October morning should have been cool, but I felt like I was burning from the inside out.
She studied me with those sharp green eyes I’d inherited. “Do you? Because last time you attended a pack function, you told Alpha Morrison his trade policies were antiquated and borderline illegal.”
“They were.” The words slipped out before I could stop them, proving her point about my mouth.
“That’s not the point.” She crossed to my window and yanked the curtains open. Morning light stabbed into my retinas. “The point is knowing when to speak and when to smile. Tonight, you smile. You agree. You become invisible unless directly addressed, and even then, you defer. Today changes everything, Rhea. With a new Lycan King, every alliance gets reassessed. Every position IS reconsidered.”
I knew the rules. Had them drilled into me since childhood. Speak when spoken to. Never challenge directly. Never forget that an omega’s power came from influence, not authority. The game exhausted me on good days. Today, with my body feeling wrong in ways I couldn’t name, it seemed impossible.
If only this headache would cease its hammering. The pain had started three days ago, a dull throb that escalated each morning. I’d hidden it from my parents, not wanting to seem weak or unable to handle the pressure of the coronation. But this morning it felt like someone was driving spikes through my temples.
“Shower. Now.” My mother turned back to assess me. “And use the good shampoo. Your hair looks terrible.”
In the bathroom, I cranked the water as hot as I could stand. The water scalded my fevered skin, but I endured it, scrubbing until I was pink and raw. Every drop that hit my skin felt like tiny needles, hypersensitive in a way that made no sense. I washed my hair twice with the expensive shampoo my mother insisted on, trying to make the chestnut strands shine like hers did.
By the time I emerged, wrapped in a towel that felt too rough against my skin, I could hear movement downstairs. The staff preparing for our departure, my father’s low voice giving last-minute instructions. The weight of expectation pressed down on me, heavier than the steam still clinging to the bathroom mirrors.
I caught my reflection as I towel-dried my hair. The image wavering in the foggy glass showed a young woman who looked like she’d been fighting a fever for days. Dark circles shadowed my eyes despite the concealer I’d cake on later. My cheeks held too much color, flushed in a way that had nothing to do with the hot water. Those deep green eyes my father claimed could cut glass when I was angry now looked glassy themselves, too bright and unfocused.
Back in my bedroom, my mother had laid out everything. A new pair of underwear since most of mine was worn out from overuse. Shoes that would kill my feet before the night was half over. Jewelry subtle enough not to offend but expensive enough to show we belonged. Which meant it had been borrowed from someone. The full costume for tonight’s performance.
“Here.” She handed me a glass of water and two pills. “Ibuprofen. Can’t have you looking pained during the ceremony.”
I swallowed them without argument, though I doubted they’d touch whatever was wrong with me. The dress slipped over my head, silk cool against overheated skin. It fit perfectly, hugging curves I usually hid under looser clothing. The neckline dipped low enough to be interesting without crossing into scandalous. My mother’s choices always walked that careful line.
“Turn.” She adjusted the hem, tugged the bodice, and stepped back to examine her work. “You’ll do. Though you’re flushed. Are you feeling well?”
“Just nervous about tonight.” The lie came easily. I couldn’t be sick. I wouldn’t let myself be sick. Not today.
She made a noncommittal sound and moved to my vanity, selecting makeup with military precision. I sat still while she worked, painting my face into something more polished than I’d ever manage alone. Foundation to hide the fever flush. Liner to make my eyes bigger, more innocent. Lipstick in a shade that suggested availability without desperation.
“Remember,” she said while blending eyeshadow, “you represent all omegas tonight. Not just our family. Every unmated omega in that room will be watching to see how you navigate the new leadership. Set the wrong tone and you make it harder for all of them.”
No pressure then. Just the weight of an entire designation resting on my ability to smile and nod at the right moments. In a world where alphas held power and omegas survivedthrough careful submission, every interaction carried weight. A misplaced word, a look that lasted too long, even standing in the wrong spot could shift political currents that affected hundreds of lives.
This heat beneath my skin feels different from mere anxiety. The thought floated through my mind unbidden. I pushed it away. Stress did strange things to the body. That’s all this was. Stress and pressure and maybe a touch of flu.
