MasukIn the Crescent Moon Pack, omegas were not blessed—they were cursed. For generations, omegas had been abused, sold, or forced into servitude. Their existence was considered a stain upon the pack's honor. Any omega discovered was either used until they broke or disappeared without a trace. Aiden had lived his entire life as a secret. Born an omega, he survived only because of his parents' love. His mother, the pack healer, carefully concealed his scent with rare herbs and medicines. His father, the Beta of the pack, used his authority to keep suspicious eyes away from his son. To the rest of the pack, Aiden was nothing more than a quiet beta. But secrets never stayed buried forever. One fateful night, Aiden's father stole an ancient relic from the Alpha's vault—a relic powerful enough to destroy the entire pack if it fell into the wrong hands. His reasons remained unknown, but the theft sparked chaos, betrayal, and bloodshed. As enemies closed in and the pack teetered on the edge of ruin, Aiden's carefully protected life shattered. Far beyond the Crescent Moon territory ruled King Damien. A warrior feared across kingdoms, Damien was known for his ruthlessness. He had conquered countless lands, led brutal wars, and left a trail of broken enemies in his wake. To most, he was a monster wearing a king's crown. When fate placed Aiden in Damien's path, the omega became nothing more than a prisoner in the king's eyes. Yet the more Damien learned about the quiet young man hiding behind fear and secrets, the harder it became to ignore the strange pull between them. What began as captivity would become something neither of them expected. And perhaps, something powerful enough to change their world forever.
Lihat lebih banyak************** Time dissolves into a blur of agony and damp stone. Days bleed into one another, marked only by the rhythmic cruelty of the guards. They drag Aiden from the darkness of his cell, their hands rough and invasive, hauling him to the interrogation room where the air smells of old copper and fear. The question is always the same, a broken record skipping in the silence. "Who sent you, you filthy traitor?" Aiden hangs from the shackles, his wrists raw and weeping, his body trembling with exhaustion. "I don't know," he gasps, his voice cracking. "I don't know anything." They don't believe him. They never do. The lash whistles through the air, biting into his skin, or the electricity crackles against his flesh, forcing screams from his throat that he doesn't recognize as his own. They break him, over and over, until he is a heap of shivering meat on the floor, until he can barely remember his own name, let alone a conspiracy. Then they throw him back into the cell, the
************* The heavy iron door groans open, revealing a chamber that smells of rusted iron and dried despair. The air is colder here, stagnant and heavy with the phantom scent of agony. Before Aiden can orient himself, the guards release their grip on his arms. He crumples, his knees hitting the stone floor with a sickening crunch. Pain shoots up his shins, sharp and immediate. He gasps, trying to push himself up, his trembling palms scraping against the gritty, damp ground. A heavy boot collides with his shoulder, flipping him onto his back. Before he can scramble away, the sole of that boot presses down on the side of his face, grinding his cheek into the filth. "Stay down, you worthless piece of shit," the guard sneers, his voice echoing off the wet walls. Aiden struggles, his hands clawing at the guard's ankle, trying to pry the heavy leather away. The pressure increases, crushing his head against the unforgiving floor. Spots dance in his vision. He can smell the mud c
****************** Darkness presses against Aiden’s eyelids like a physical weight, a suffocating blanket of black that smells of mildew, rust, and the copper tang of old blood. He huddles in the corner of the cell, his knees pulled tight to his chest, arms wrapped around his shins in a futile attempt to preserve body heat. The stone floor beneath him is a slab of ice, leeching the warmth from his skin through the thin, torn fabric of his trousers. Every shallow breath sends a sharp spike of pain through his ribs, a reminder of the brutal impact with the ground, but the throbbing agony in his left arm is a relentless, pounding drum. He buries his face in his knees, shoulders shaking with silent sobs. The tears are hot and fast, tracking paths through the grime and blood caked on his cheeks. The scene plays out behind his closed eyes in an endless, torturous loop. The flash of silver. The warm spray of blood across his face. The look in Wayne’s eyes—not just anger, but a shattere
*************** "No..." The word escapes his lips as a broken whisper, barely audible over the minstrels' lutes. Then, panic overrides decorum. He bolts from the high table, his chair screeching against the stone floor before crashing over behind him. The nobles gasp, their goblets pausing midway to their mouths as they stare in confused shock at the fleeing figure. Aiden doesn't look back. His boots slam against the marble, the rhythm frantic and uneven as he sprints toward the heavy oak doors, driven by a frantic, unseen urgency pulling him toward the gardens. Across the hall, Wayne has been motionless for hours, his dark eyes fixed intently on Harris. He watches the Prince excuse himself mere minutes ago, slipping away into the shadows, leaving Aiden alone at the table. Wayne’s muscles are tense, a predator waiting for a signal. When he sees Aiden suddenly sprint from the hall, face twisted in absolute panic, a knot of dread tightens in his gut. Something is wrong. Ignoring t
The air in the king's bedroom is thick, charged with the scent of omega in heat, the heavy curtains drawn tight against the outside world. Damien stands over Aiden, his presence towering shadow that consumes the available space. He doesn’t wait for permission or adjustment; he simply claims his m
********** The midday sun filters through the dense canopy of the herb grove, casting dappled patterns of light and shadow across the forest floor. Aiden moves with practiced ease, his fingers deftly plucking the sprigs of silver-leaf moss his mother needs for the poultice. The air here is thick,
********** The grey light of dawn barely touches the rough-hewn floorboards when Aiden’s eyes snap open. It is precisely six o’clock, the hour when the forest mist is thickest and the air still holds the night’s chill. He lies still for a moment, the sheets tangled around his legs, his breath shal
********** The air inside the small, secluded hut hangs heavy with the steam of boiling stew and the sharp, medicinal stench of crushed herbs. Aiden stands over the iron pot, stirring the thick broth with a wooden spoon, the heat from the fire prickling his skin. At the age of seventeen years his


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