The snow fell with a funereal weight over the valley. At fifteen, the young omega felt like a glitch in the middle of that family gathering. He adjusted his headphones, letting the music drown out the adults' raucous laughter, and burrowed deeper into his oversized black hoodie, trying to become invisible.

But in that family of dominant bloodlines, invisibility was a luxury a pretty omega couldn't afford. The air in the cabin was thick with pheromones. The worst part was his uncle, Marcus, a middle-aged alpha with a smile that never reached his eyes. Every time he passed by in the hallway, Marcus found an excuse to brush against Angeló's shoulder or to make nauseatingly suggestive comments about his impending biological maturity.

"You're practically smelling like flowers, Angeló," he had whispered in the kitchen, cornering him against the counter. "It's a shame you're wasting that quality with such a gloomy attitude. An omega should be cheerful... and docile."

Angeló felt a chill run down his spine. The omega's fear wasn't just from the harassment; it was the indifference of his own parents, who saw Marcus's affection as mere familial tenderness. To them, Angeló was just a troubled teenager going through an emo phase.

Outside, in the garden, the chaos took another form. His cousins, a pack of six children between the ages of six and ten, ran around like frenzied wolf cubs. They were all alphas, tiny predators in training with gleaming eyes and an energy bordering on manic. Despite his cynicism, Angeló had always been the children's favorite. They constantly sought him out, tugging at his clothes, begging him to play with them in the snow. To the adults, it was a tender sight; to Angeló, there was something unsettling about the way they looked at him.

"Angeló is ours," the youngest, barely six years old, would say with a seriousness that sent shivers down your spine. "He won't go with anyone. We'd take better care of him."

Christmas Eve dinner was a display of hypocrisy. While the adults got drunk, the children remained strangely silent, sitting in a row, watching their parents with predatory intent. At midnight, when the fire in the fireplace dwindled to dying embers and the alcohol finally overcame the adults, the silence of the mountain became absolute. Angelo, locked in his attic room, heard a metallic clang. It wasn't footsteps; it was the sound of bolts being slammed shut from outside.

A bloodcurdling scream shattered the stillness. It was his aunt's voice, followed by the sharp thud of an axe striking wood and flesh. Panicked, Angelo tried to open his door, but it was locked. Through the small vent, the smell reached him: not the sweet scent of Christmas, but the hot, metallic smell of fresh blood.

When his bedroom door finally opened, Angelo backed away to the window. His cousins ​​filed in. Their flannel pajamas were soaked with red; their childlike faces reflected a terrifying calm. The eldest, a ten-year-old, held a hunting knife that had belonged to his father.

"It's over now, Angelo," the boy said, wiping a smear of blood from his cheek with the back of his hand. "You don't have to be afraid of Marcus anymore."

Angeló trembled, tears streaming down his pale face.

"What have you done?"

The children approached, surrounding him with the efficiency of a wolf pack that has finally cornered its prey. The youngest clung to Angeló's legs, rubbing his bloodied face against the denim of his jeans, marking him with the scent of death.

"They weren't protecting you," hissed the middle cousin. "They were just using you as decoration. We are true alphas. We know the worth of an omega like you. In this cabin, no one will ever be able to touch you again."

Now he was trapped in a glass cage, guarded by little monsters who loved him with a murderous devotion.