Devon sat curled up in the dim corner of the janitor's room, his body trembling as the sting of every bruise throbbed beneath his torn shirt. The air reeked of bleach and rust, mingling with the faint scent of his own blood. A single flickering light bulb cast harsh shadows across the cracked walls, and with every blink, his tears shimmered before falling silently onto the cold, dusty floor.
His arms wrapped tightly around his knees as if holding himself together would keep him from shattering completely. His body ached, but it was nothing compared to the dull, familiar pain in his chest, the ache of being unwanted.
To the Redstone Pack, Devon was nothing more than a burden. The weak omega. The easy target. The punching bag that everyone could take their frustrations out on, both in the pack and at school.
He had long lost count of how many times he'd been beaten or mocked. The cruelty no longer surprised him, only the emptiness that followed.
Today was supposed to be different. He had been counting down the days, silently hoping for something, anything, that could make life worth enduring. Turning eighteen should have meant freedom, the age when a werewolf met their fated mate, the one destined to see beyond the weakness of his rank and cherish him for who he was.
But fate, it seemed, had turned a blind eye to his plea.
Instead of celebration, he found himself locked away in darkness, his birthday marked by loneliness and pain. Each passing minute reminded him that the world outside continued to move, laughter echoing faintly through the walls, while he remained forgotten, discarded like a piece of trash.
Devon pressed his forehead against his knees, whispering softly to himself, a fragile promise in the silence. "Just one more day… maybe tomorrow will be different."
But deep down, even he wasn't sure he still believed it.
Sleep eventually claimed Devon, though it was far from peaceful. His body begged for rest, but his mind betrayed him, dragging him back into the nightmare that had been his life since birth.
In his dream, he was small again. Barefoot. Barely three years old. The cold stone floor of the Redstone Pack's servants' quarters scraped his knees as he crawled to pick up shards of broken glass, the remnants of a cup he had accidentally dropped. He remembered the heavy footsteps that followed, the harsh voice that sliced through the air.
"Useless brat! You killed your own parents, and now you can't even clean properly!"
A kick landed against his tiny body, sending him sprawling across the floor. He could still hear his own childish sobs, the metallic scent of blood mixing with dust and fear.
That was how it always began.
They said he was cursed, born an omega, the lowest of the low, with nothing but weakness in his blood. His parents had died during a border raid when he was just an infant, and the pack had blamed him. They said his birth brought misfortune, and that his existence doomed his family.
So they made him pay.
At three years old, he became the pack's little servant, too small to lift buckets, but big enough to be punished for spilling them. He scrubbed floors, washed clothes, and fetched firewood until his hands blistered and bled. Each mistake earned him another scar. Each day reminded him that he was not wanted, not loved, merely tolerated.
Even the other children learned early that hurting Devon brought them laughter, praise, or simply no consequence at all. Rocks, cruel jokes, whispered words of disgust, he remembered them all. The sting of a boy's shove into the mud. The sound of laughter as they called him "the cursed omega."
The dream shifted again. He was older, maybe ten, standing in the rain, forced to kneel outside the pack house with his head bowed. His body shivered, soaked to the bone, while the Beta's son, his future mate, though he didn't know it then, passed by and sneered.
"Stay in your place, omega," the boy had said, his eyes gleaming with disdain. "That's all you're good for."
Devon whimpered in his sleep, the memory tightening around his chest like iron chains. He tried to move, to wake, but the darkness held him still, forcing him to relive every lash, every blow, every cruel word that shaped him into the broken young man he had become.
And somewhere within that storm of pain, a small voice, faint and trembling, whispered through his dream...
"Why… why was I even born?"
The silence that followed offered no answer.
The next morning came like a cruel reminder that even daylight offered no mercy.
When the janitor's door finally creaked open, Devon squinted against the faint sunlight spilling through the narrow crack. His eyes burned, his throat dry from crying. He half-expected no one to come, part of him even wished it. But the familiar scent of the pack's enforcers filled the room before their shadows loomed over him.
"Get up, omega."
Their voices were sharp, mocking. One of them grabbed him by the collar and yanked him to his feet. His knees nearly buckled from exhaustion, but he forced himself to stand, refusing to give them the satisfaction of seeing him beg. Still, his defiance only earned him another shove.
"Think spending the night in there taught you a lesson?" one sneered, smirking as he dragged him down the corridor that led to the school grounds.
Devon didn't answer. He never did. Words only made things worse.
By the time they reached the school, students were already gathered outside. As soon as they saw him, disheveled, bruised, and filthy, laughter erupted.
"There's the pack's pet omega!" someone shouted.
"Didn't die yet, huh? Shame."
A boy from his class stepped forward, Marcus, the Beta's nephew, always the first to throw the first punch. "You think you can skip class and hide? You think you're better than us, filth?"
Devon shook his head weakly, but the blow came anyway. A sharp crack across his face sent him sprawling into the dirt. The crowd jeered, their voices a blur of taunts and laughter. Someone kicked his side, another grabbed his hair, pulling him up only to shove him back down.