I hated the Choosing.

Every year, unclaimed omegas were forced into this brutal event where alphas chased, captured, and claimed us. They called it tradition. We called it cruelty.

I stood at the starting line, suppressants fading, my scent—vanilla and chamomile—growing noticeable. Alphas wanted omegas who resisted, who fought. I was small. Timid. Easy prey.

The signal blared. I ran.

The campus was a maze of shadows and moonlight. Behind me, laughter and screams rang out as omegas were caught. Some were wrestled to the ground, others dragged away. I wasn’t strong or fast. I just had to be smart.

I slipped into the old library, pressing against a shelf, heart pounding. Maybe if I stayed quiet—

Footsteps.

An alpha.

Tall. Dark-haired. She stood in the dim light, gaze sharp, unreadable.

I trembled, waiting for her to grab me, to claim me like the others.

She didn’t.

Outside, voices grew louder. They were searching.

She stepped closer, warmth radiating from her still form.

Then—she reached out.