-Vaughn Blackmore:
The bar digs into my palms, metal biting into skin that's already raw.
I don't stop.
"Again," I mutter to myself under my breath, teeth clenched as I push the weight up, arms trembling slightly before locking out. My chest burns, my shoulders strain, but I hold it there for a second longer—to prove I can—before lowering it back down with control.
The plates clang softly.
Not enough.
It's never enough.
I sit up, dragging in a breath, sweat clinging to my skin, my shirt sticking uncomfortably to my back. The home gym is quiet except for the sound of my breathing and the faint creak of metal settling back into place.
Most Omegas don't train like this.
Most don't need to.
I do.
Because nothing about me has ever fit the way it was supposed to.
I push to my feet, grabbing a towel and wiping my face before glancing up at the mirror across the room—and there it is again.
The contradiction.
