Tending Our Omega

I’ve spent my life being treated horribly by those who see me as less than. I won’t allow my son to suffer the same fate.

Most omega girls are lavished with gifts when their designation first presents itself. I’m not most girls. I got a mate, one arranged without my knowledge, input, or consent.
Six years later, my mate is challenged. The prize? Me.
But in their alpha chest-beating and gnashing of teeth over an omega, they kill each other, leaving me a single omega—and mother of a son the pack deems unworthy.
So, I do what any mother would; I escape my dead alpha’s pack, going rogue.
Going rogue means scraping by. Working a job or two to make ends meet and pay the rent for our cabin in the woods. Making every second count because my son needs all the attention I can give him.

No one knows I’m an omega. I use every suppressant and scent-blocker I can afford, hiding who I am. No one will ever decide my fate again—or the fate of my son.