KIERAN'S POV
I watch her.
Unlike my brothers, I don't waste time with mind games. I don't need to. I see the truth they refuse to admit.
Layla is not normal.
I lean against the far wall of the chamber with my arms crossed. My brothers revel in their cruel games. They keep testing her limits, waiting for the moment she snaps. It never comes.
Kaiden believes she will crumble under enough pressure. Killian toys with her, poking and trying to get a reaction. But I watch her. I see what they do not.
She is supposed to be weak. An Omega should be fragile, submissive, easy to break. But Layla is none of those things.
The first time I noticed it was when Kaiden made her scrub the great hall's marble floors on her hands and knees—while the rest of us dined. He had thrown his wine onto the ground just to watch her clean it up. It was a small, petty cruelty. Layla didn't hesitate. She wiped it away. Not a single muscle in her face betrayed her anger, her frustration—nothing.
Most Omegas would have sobbed, begged. She had simply done what was asked.
Killian had tried a different approach. A mental game. He had assigned her to care for the hunting hounds. These were beasts twice her size, trained to respond only to dominance. They growled, snapped at her hands, testing her. Yet, by the end of the first week, they obeyed her. They followed her commands as if she were born to lead them. No fear, no hesitation. The head handler had been stunned. My brothers dismissed it as luck. I knew better.
Then there was the night of the gathering.
I had known Kaiden was up to something when he insisted she serve us. It was a test, a cruel one. Layla stood in the room. She was forced to watch noblewomen throw themselves over us. Killian kissed one of them passionately, letting his hands roam just to see if Layla would flinch. Kaiden allowed another to straddle his lap. Through it all, Layla remained impassive. She continued to pour drinks with the same cold expression.
As an omega, seeing your mates with other women, is supposed to hurt. Even high ranking wolves can feel the pain when this happens. Talk more, of a weak omega.
Kaiden had been watching her more than the woman on his lap.
So had I.
She should have broken by now. Should have begged for mercy, should have shown something—fear, anger, jealousy. Instead, she remains....neutral. It's as if she doesn't even care. It doesn't make sense.
Omegas don't behave like this.
I stand in the shadows, studying her. She doesn't know I'm watching, but I always am. I watch the way she moves, the way she breathes. Every day my brothers throw something new at her, expecting her to collapse, expecting her to fail.
She never does.
I am in awe of her.
Layla is more than a weak Omega. I don't know what she is, but I am determined to find out.
-
The kitchen falls silent the moment I step inside.
Heads bow as the maids greet me. I don't care about their greetings. My attention is elsewhere.
She's here.
In the corner with her sleeves rolled up, hands dusted in flour, Layla moves. Unlike the others, she doesn't lower her gaze immediately. Her eyes find mine, just for a second. It's enough.
For a moment, I forget what I came here for. Even covered in dirt and sweat, she is breathtaking. Her eyes, her hair—everything about her unsettles me in ways I don't want to admit.
I force myself to focus.
I walk across the kitchen, stopping in front of her. "Training yard. Midnight."
She blinks, clearly surprised. "What?"
"You heard me." My voice leaves no room for argument.
For a second, I expect her to refuse. But then, she nods. "Alright Alpha"
-
Midnight arrives, and she comes.
The training yard is empty except for a handful of warriors nearby, speaking in low tones. When they see her, they scoff.
"Alpha Kieran, this is a waste of time," one of them mutters.
I ignore him. Layla stands before me, bowing her head. I toss her a wooden practice sword.
"Fight."
She hesitates, gripping the weapon tightly. "I've never—"
"Fight." I demand.
The warriors chuckle, already predicting her failure. I expect her to fumble, to hesitate further. Instead, she raises the sword, adjusting her stance. It's obvious she hasn't trained a day in her life. Still, she isn't scared. She seems to be willing.. she's brave. Not a trait omegas have.
I don't give her time to think.
My moves are aimed to end this before it even begins.
She dodges.
Not by accident. Not by stumbling out of the way. She moves—deliberately. Her body reacts a split second before my strike would've landed.
The laughter from the warriors watching dies instantly.
I don't pause. I don't hesitate. If I did, it would mean acknowledging something I shouldn't have to—that she isn't reacting like an Omega should.
I press forward, adjusting. The second strike is even faster. It's angled low toward her ribs. The hit is meant to stagger. The wood barely grazes her side as she twists just in time. The movement is clean...too clean.
I narrow my eyes.
She shouldn't be able to keep up with me. She isn't strong, isn't trained. Her form is all wrong—no real guard, no proper footwork. But she's fast. Too fast.
She resets her stance quickly, gripping the wooden sword with both hands. I take a step forward. She doesn't retreat.
Interesting.
The fight should be over by now.
Instead, it stretches on. Longer than it should.
I test her. I attack her. Her reactions are normal since she is not trained but her instincts are deadly. She moves with a rhythm she shouldn't have, adjusting too quickly. Too well.
She's watching me as closely as I'm watching her.
A strike aimed for her shoulder—she ducks. A low kick at her legs—she jumps back, barely avoiding it.
The crowd watches in stunned silence.
Her breath comes harder now, but her body doesn't give out.
And then I see it—that emotion in her gaze. Not fear. Not exhaustion.
Determination.
She wants to prove everyone wrong.
I strike again, harder this time, and she barely raises her sword in time. The impact jars through her arms, but she doesn't let go.
Instead, she grits her teeth and shoves forward, trying to push me back.
It's pathetic, really. She's not strong enough to move me. But the fact that she tries—the fact that she doesn't submit, doesn't fold like every instinct in her body must be screaming at her to—makes something in my chest tighten.
I knock her down.
She hits the dirt hard and her wooden sword slips from her grasp. She should stay down.
She doesn't.
A hiss of pain leaves her lips, but she shoves herself back to her feet.
The warriors murmur now. They see what I see.
"She's not an Omega," someone mutters under their breath.
I don't look away from her. I don't loosen my grip on my sword.
Because I know.
I know he's right