Mark of Sin: Bound to the Cruel Alpha

I ran a hand over my face, trying to gather my scattered thoughts and shake off the heavy, clinging exhaustion. My head throbbed with a dull, persistent ache.

Annie had flatly refused to get up for lectures. She had wrapped herself in her duvet like a silk cocoon, snoring softly and broadcasting to the entire room that she was mortally offended by my secrecy surrounding the "mystery of the luxurious black handbag."

As for me... I spent the rest of the day in my own personal hell.

I was completely worn out, forced to sprint back to my locker between every single class just to swap out textbooks and notebooks. Having no bag meant I couldn’t carry everything at once, but the physical fatigue was nothing compared to the dread of my philosophy lecture.

Professor Graves was a notorious chauvinist. I honestly couldn’t fathom why the administration allowed him to teach co-ed classes. Every single one of his lectures turned into a public execution, a systematic attempt to demean and humiliate.

And his targets were always, exclusively, the lower rank female wolves.

He never touched males of any rank. There were only a few of them in our small seminar, and they sat at the very back of the hall, lazily scrolling through their phones. Graves treated them like royalty, either completely ignoring their blatant disinterest or offering them approving nods whenever they deigned to look up.

The birth rates of Omega breeders had plummeted drastically during the years I was born. Now, despite the government’s desperate matchmaking incentives and subsidies, our numbers remained dangerously low. Our entire department cohort was only ten people. And our major... well, to put it gently, it was a dead-end joke.

Medical Administration.

It sounded respectable enough until you read the fine print. It wasn’t a path to becoming a licensed doctor or even a registered nurse. It was designed to churn out glorified service staff—elementary school counselors, clinic receptionists, and assistants to the nurse’s assistants.

Alphas or Betas who took these courses used them as a springboard to transfer into prestigious, higher-tier medical programs. But the Omegas? We were expected to graduate in two years with a degree that qualified us to work practically... nowhere.

Historically, Omegas weren’t even permitted to pursue higher education; they only finished basic schooling. Twice a year, the government would host the grand "Debutante Galas"—massive, country-wide balls where young sub-ranks were shipped in from every sector. The official mandate was simple: pair up. For those of us who had already started presenting as breeders, these balls were the only approved way to cross paths with our fated mates.

At those state galas, you could even voluntarily submit to a temporary runic brand to see if your fated match was in the room, watching to see whose skin would light up in response.

I had never attended one. To get through those secure palace doors, you needed your family’s official seal of consent, and my parents had never deemed me worthy of the registration fee.

In our world, finding a non-manifested breeder was considered the ultimate jackpot for an Alpha. Landmark state research proved that a breeder’s awakening—that violent, feverish awakening of the secondary pheromone set—was infinitely smoother, safer, and less painful if their fated mate was there to cocoon them in their scent and soothe the fever. Usually, the breeder’s first heat triggered within hours of that initial touch.

I used to think it would be fascinating to witness a gala, even just once, from a safe distance. To wander the edges of those gilded ballrooms and simply watch.

But that dream was dead now. I had a fated mate.

A fated mate who was a complete enigma, and who treated me like dirt clinging to the tread of his expensive boots.

"Lang, where is your lecture transcript?"

Professor Graves’s voice scraped across the lecture hall like chalk on a blackboard. I flinched, pushing myself to my feet.

"My... my bag was stolen, sir. Along with all my academic journals."

I knew that excuse was pathetic, but at least I was not lying.

Graves slowly slid his glasses down his nose, polishing the lenses with the hem of his tweed jacket, his eyes dripping with unvarnished contempt.

"Stolen? What a... highly imaginative excuse. Do you truly expect me to buy into such pathetic nonsense?"

"It’s the truth," I said quietly, feeling a hot, defensive flush creep up to my ears. I was praying he was in a good enough mood to just scold me and let the matter slide.

"You are expected to rewrite every single lecture, Lang. From the very first day of the semester. You will present the completed journal to me by the end of the week, or I will fail you. Sit down."

I collapsed heavily back into my seat, fighting the sting of tears behind my eyes. Rewrite everything? It was a physical impossibility. Graves routinely dictated twelve to thirteen dense pages per seminar—half a college-ruled notebook in tiny, cramped print. This was nothing short of academic hazing.

The state was firmly of the mind that breeders didn’t actually need higher education anyway. In their eyes, our only real utility was correcting the population deficit. We were treated like ghosts in our classes, rarely called upon, and handed passing marks simply for occupying a seat.

It wasn’t education; it was a farce.

But Graves was an unmated, bitter old Gamma who clung to patriarchal traditions that should have died out with the dinosaurs. In his archaic worldview, a breeder’s sole purpose was to wait by the door with slippers and a submissive smile. He made it his personal mission to drive every breeder out of the university.

I spent the rest of the class in a gray state of daze. The moment the final bell rang, I bolted from the lecture hall like a shot.

As I ran past the North Sector courtyard, my eyes involuntarily drifted toward the parking lot.

Magnus was already there.