When the van rolled to a stop on the island and the door yanked open, Eren didn't resist as his parents dragged him out. By the time they shoved him into the familiar storage room and the heavy bolt scraped into place, he felt only the hollow thud of inevitability. The air inside was stale, tinged with damp wood and dust. He pressed his palm against the locked door anyway, pounding until his hand ached, knowing no one would answer. His pulse thrummed low in his throat, his Omega instincts screaming against the confinement.
At last, his strength gave out. He slumped to the floor, back against the cold boards, arms wrapped around his knees. His forehead rested on them as silent tears slipped free. He wasn't a son to them—never had been. He was a burden to lock away, a curse to hide.
Outside, the crunch of footsteps on gravel carried to the porch. His younger sibling stood rigidly in front of their parents, eyes sharp with anger. They had seen Eren arrive, dragged from the docks like contraband, and watched in dismay as he was locked away yet again.
"Why bring him back?" the sibling demanded. "You know how the islanders feel. His red hair alone is enough to set them off—they'll turn on all of us if they find out he's here." Their voice cracked with frustration. "He was safer where he was. Out of sight. Out of their reach."
Their mother brushed past, her expression cold, voice clipped. "He's more useful to us here."
"Useful?" the sibling repeated, incredulous.
"With him, we have leverage," she said flatly. "Adriel Ulrick won't risk pushing for the island if he knows we're holding his Omega. Especially now that he's pregnant. One wrong move and he risks the heir in his belly. That will make him think twice."
The sibling's jaw tightened. "You really think Ulrick married him out of love? That man doesn't care about people like Eren."
Their father let out a harsh scoff, his voice full of contempt. "Love? Don't be a fool. Men like Adriel Ulrick don't fall for filth like him." His lip curled in disgust. "Even we, his own blood, can't stomach him. Without that child in his gut, Ulrick wouldn't have spared him a second glance. He wouldn't waste his time on something so… insignificant."
With that, Eren's father stepped inside the house, leaving his sibling simmering with unresolved questions.
"If that's how you feel, then why bring him back at all?" they pressed, frustration cutting through their voice.
"Because he's carrying Adriel Ulrick's child," their mother replied matter-of-factly, her tone as cold as the evening wind sweeping the pier. "Adriel is famous for being a bachelor. He's too busy running his empire to bother with a family. But Eren's pregnancy—and the child he'll give him—are significant. That baby ties Adriel to us in a way nothing else could."
The words hung heavy in the air.
In the storage room, Eren sat in the dark, knees pulled to his chest, the faint Omega scent of stress and fear clinging to the walls around him. He had no idea of the conversations taking place outside—only the silence, the isolation, and the ache of being treated as nothing more than a vessel.
"So you're saying…" his sibling's voice cracked with disbelief. "…you're going to use the child he's carrying as leverage? That's your plan?"
"That's right," their father affirmed, his tone resolute. "Adriel Ulrick wouldn't be able to abandon his own blood. His attachment to that unborn pup is the perfect leash to keep him from touching this island. As long as Eren is here, Adriel will tread carefully."
The sibling's gaze drifted toward the storage shed, where a dim light flickered through the cracks of the wood. They could almost feel Eren's despair pressing against the air, raw and suffocating. A part of them wanted to speak—wanted to say this was wrong—but the weight of resentment silenced them. They, too, remembered the whispers about Eren's cursed hair, the way the islanders blamed every misfortune on his presence.
And yet… the thought of using his unborn child as a bargaining chip left a bitter taste they couldn't shake.
"It's getting late. Let's go inside before the cold worsens," their father said firmly, breaking the moment.
The sibling hesitated, casting one last glance at the storage room. For an instant, they thought they heard movement—maybe the faint sound of fists against wood, maybe just the wind rattling the door. Then they lowered their eyes, took their child's hand, and followed their parents into the house.
The heavy atmosphere lingered. Inside, schemes were brewing. Outside, locked away, Eren curled protectively around his stomach, unaware of just how deep his family's betrayal truly ran.
Inside the storage room, the darkness pressed in from all sides. The air smelled faintly of old wood and salt, and beneath it all lingered the sour tang of Eren's own Omega fear. He hated that scent—hated that it betrayed him, that even alone, it clung to the air like a confession of weakness.
His back rested against the door, his knees pulled tight to his chest. He tried to steady his breathing, but each inhale carried the sharp reminder of how little control he had. He lifted a trembling hand to his stomach, fingers splaying protectively across it. The instinct was primal, stronger than his despair: shield the life inside him, no matter what.
He thought of Adriel. The Alpha's steady voice, the way his presence filled a room, the rare warmth he let slip when he thought no one was watching. Adriel had promised him safety, and for the first time in Eren's life, he had almost believed it.
He'll come for us, Eren told himself, clinging to the thought as though it were a lifeline. He has to.
But doubt gnawed at him, louder than hope. His parents' words echoed in his head: that Adriel's interest in him was only because of the child. That without it, he would have been nothing to him. The words cut deep, reopening old wounds of rejection, of always being unwanted, even by his own blood.
A quiet sob escaped him before he could stop it. He pressed his forehead against his knees, shivering as another surge of fear coursed through him. Every sound outside—the crunch of footsteps on gravel, the creak of wood in the sea breeze—made his heart race. Any moment, they could come back. Any moment, they could drag him further into their schemes.
Eren shut his eyes and forced himself to breathe, whispering the words like a prayer: "Stay calm. Stay strong. For the baby."
Still, the loneliness was suffocating. And beneath it all, he felt it—that faint, gnawing pull of the bond he hadn't asked for but couldn't deny. His instincts screamed for his Alpha. For Adriel. For the safety only he could bring.
And so he waited, curled around the fragile hope that someone—anyone—would hear him before it was too late.