Mark of Sin: Bound to the Cruel Alpha

When the government allocated us our subsidized house, it came with three bedrooms on the second floor.

My parents claimed the master, my brother got the second, and the final room was supposed to be shared between my sister and me. But she threw an absolute fit. She sobbed and screamed until her voice cracked, terrified that she would somehow "catch" the breeder gene by sleeping in the same room as me.

She was hysterical, terrified of becoming a social outcast, a piece of state-breeding property. The government never fully disclosed the genetic triggers of awakening, so in her mind, my breeder marker was a contagious disease.

That tantrum involved shattered porcelain and endless tears, and it ended with my mattress being dragged down to the kitchen. I had initially hoped they’d let me sleep in the living room, but the couch there was brand new. My mother lived in absolute terror that my first heat would hit unexpectedly and ruin the expensive fabric.

The people I loved had completely abandoned me. I couldn’t even sleep peacefully at night; my brother would raid the fridge in the dark, gorging himself on whatever I had prepared for the family’s breakfast, and then seamlessly pin the blame on me.

Shaking off the memories, I pushed through the swinging doors into the kitchen, where the air was hotter and the tempers flared more quickly.

On my way out, the head chef intercepted me. She was a short, stocky omega woman with forearms thick enough to snap a cleaver in half if it dared defy her. I instantly found myself calculating whether I could outrun a flying meat axe if I made a break for it.

She locked her eyes onto mine, looking at me like she’d already read every pathetic thought in my head.

"Did you eat?" she demanded, the question barking out like an indictment.

I opened my mouth to tell her I’d eat later, but she was already scolding me. It wasn’t loud—just a dense, heavy whisper that made me flush with immediate shame, as if I’d been caught stealing.

I hadn’t touched a single scrap of food all night, yet here I was feeling guilty. But my defensiveness melted into utter shock when she aggressively shoved a foil-wrapped bundle of sandwiches into my hands.

"Take it. And don’t argue," she snapped. "You didn’t come back here once during the rush to refuel. That little wretch Ella sneaked back twice for tea and sandwiches, but what about you? Were you waiting for a royal invitation?"

I froze, entirely disoriented. Was I allowed to take this? Was I allowed to have anything at all anymore?

"Are you sure I can have this? Let me pay you for them," I offered hesitantly.

She glared at me with such sudden fury that I almost bit my tongue. Realizing I needed to pivot, I stammered, "Thank you... Maybe I can help by hauling your kitchen trash out to the alley then?"

That was a mistake.

The chef spun around so fast the dishtowel in her hand cracked against the metal prep table like a pistol shot. A sudden spike of fear hit me—not because I thought she was going to strike me, but because her eyes held something I hadn’t encountered in a very long time. Pure, unadulterated protective rage. On my behalf.

"Who the hell told you that you’re hauling trash?" her eyes flashed fiercely. "You earned that food!"

I stammered, shifting my weight. The owner had given me extra cash, but I knew these sandwiches hadn’t been factored into his cheap calculations. "The boss... he asked me to..."

She let out a harsh breath, looking as though she’d just swallowed a blade. Pinching the bridge of her nose, she closed her eyes and let out a string of filthy curses.

"No woman carries the garbage out of my kitchen. There are plenty of lazy males sitting out there who can lift a finger, you understand me? Go. Get home."

I left the kitchen without a single trash bag, holding nothing but the warm weight of the sandwiches she gave me. A strange, heavy sensation settled in my chest. It felt like she had given me something much larger than a free meal.

The back alley was completely dark when I stepped outside. I shoved the extra cash deep into my pocket, pulled the hood of my oversized sweatshirt low over my face to mask my scent, and began the trek back to the dorms.

I peeled back the foil on one of the sandwiches and took a massive bite. I had always loved eating on the go, free from the judgment of watching eyes. Out here in the quiet dark, completely alone, it felt incredible.

It reminded me of the only time I’d ever been to a movie theater. You sit there in the dark, chewing on popcorn, watching someone else’s life flicker across the screen. Eating this sandwich gave me that exact same detached feeling. To my surprise, it didn’t taste like cardboard smeared with cheap mayonnaise; it was rich, savory, and incredibly filling.

Before me, the city gleamed with a thousand artificial lights, and the air felt crisp. After the suffocating heat of the kitchen, the biting cold was a relief.

Cars glided past on the wet asphalt, but none of them could ruin this fleeting moment of peace—a rare pocket of time where I was just walking, and no one had the right to lay a hand on me.

I wanted to tilt my head back and find the stars, but the High City always burned too bright, drowning out the sky in a perpetual neon haze. Maybe the Omegas down in the Low City breathed a little easier, looking up at the constellations I’d only ever seen in school textbooks.

I almost believed the night was going to let me go.

Almost.

As I neared the dormitory, a familiar silhouette cut through the gloom, and my breath caught. The car was different. A deep, dark burgundy, but it stood out against our peeling, dilapidated building like expensive lipstick on the face of a exhausted woman. Leaning against the hood, casually smoking a cigarette, was the sole reason I’d spent my night in hell.

Magnus Rainn.