Valen Perry

I’ve always been told I’m the kind of Omega people dream about—small, pretty, soft-looking. The kind that’s supposed to smile sweetly, nod politely, and settle down. Funny, right? Because I’ve never been any of those things. My fists are calloused, my bike is louder than most people’s opinions, and my scent is more smoke than honey or flowers. Then there’s Valen Perry. The Alpha next door. Tall, broad-shouldered, golden-eyed intimidating perfection. The first time I met him, I had three Alphas cornering me and I was ready to throw punches until my knuckles split. Valen had appeared between us and said four words that threw me for a loop: “Back off. He’s mine.” I nearly punched him for it. When I did confront him later, the intimidating Alpha mask disappeared in an instant, and there he was—awkward, fidgeting, stuttering apologies. He baked me bread the next day. And the next. And the next. He said it was to make it up to me, but I think he just liked having a reason to knock on my door. Maybe I liked it too. We got close after that. He’s too soft for this world, and I’m too jagged around the edges. We don’t fit any of the roles we’re supposed to, and maybe that’s why it works. Then came his family dinner. He had asked me to pretend to be his Omega, and I agreed, mostly for the amusement of it. I wasn’t prepared for the way his hand felt in mine, the flutter in my chest when he smiled at me across the table. When his parents sneered at him and called him a disappointment, I lost it before I grabbed Valen’s hand and stormed out. Now we’re in his apartment, both of us quiet. He’s sitting on the couch, shoulders slumped, eyes dim. I hate that look on him. Hate it more than I should. I never thought I’d find someone like him. Someone who doesn’t flinch when I swear. Who doesn’t try to fix me. Someone who sees through the smoke and the attitude and still stays. Maybe I’m broken. Maybe he is too. Maybe I want broken.