-Vaughn Blackmore:
-Two Months Ago-
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.
My body is built from years of refusing to be weak. Defined muscle, broad shoulders, and strength that I carved out for myself piece by piece since I was fourteen years old. I remember the first time I picked up a weight, how my arms shook, how everyone laughed.
They don't laugh anymore.
But none of that changes what I am.
Soft, russet-colored ears flick slightly at the top of my head, catching the movement of air. Fox.
Of course, it had to look... Cute.
Small. Quick. Harmless.
My jaw tightens.
My personality doesn't match it. Never has. Everything about me feels like it belongs to someone bigger, stronger—someone who walks into a room and owns it. Some people don't question.
Someone who isn't an Omega.
But biology doesn't care about what I want.
It doesn't care that I could still be forced into a life I never chose. That my body is still built to yield, no matter how much I fight it.
I look away first.
I always do.
—
The house is quieter when I step out of the gym, the familiar warmth of it settling around me. It smells like home—like wood and something faintly sweet. It's subtle, but it's there.
It always is.
My parents are in the kitchen.
Mom leans against the counter, arms crossed loosely, her expression softer than usual but her eyes sharper—watchful. There's something different about her compared to the rest of us—something beneath the surface.
She's half wolf, half fox, just like me.
It shows in the way she carries herself. In the way she looks at things, she's always calculating.
Dad is beside her, calmer, quieter, entirely fox in the way he moves, the way his presence fills the space without overwhelming it.
They both look up when I walk in.
Their gazes drop immediately to the sweat, the flushed skin, the exhaustion I haven't bothered to hide.
"You're pushing yourself too hard again," Mom says.
Not accusing.
Worried.
"I'm fine," I reply, already moving past them toward the stairs.
I don't stop long enough for it to turn into a conversation.
—
The shower helps. A little.
Hot water beats against my skin, washing away the sweat, the tension—but not the thoughts. They linger, stubborn, pressing at the edges of my mind like they always do.
You don't belong there.
The words have been said in a hundred different ways, by a hundred different people.
I've never listened.
By the time I step back into my room, dressed in clean clothes, the air feels different.
Still.
Waiting.
My gaze lands on the suitcase sitting by the door.
Packed.
Ready.
For a second, I just stand there, staring at it.
This is it.
No more proving myself in private. No more quiet defiance in a home gym where no one is watching.
This—
This is where it matters.
I grab the handle before I can think about it too much and head downstairs.
My parents are waiting.
Of course they are.
Mom straightens the second she sees the suitcase, her expression tightening just slightly. Dad's gaze follows, quieter, but just as heavy.
"Vaughn…" she starts, hesitating for a fraction of a second before stepping closer. "Are you sure you want to do this?"
I don't answer immediately.
Because I know what she's really asking.
Are you sure you want to put yourself somewhere they'll remind you what you are?
"It's an Alpha training camp," she continues softly. "They're not going to go easy on you. I'm just—" Her voice falters, just barely. "I'm worried."
I tighten my grip on the suitcase.
"I know what it is, and it's called a training camp, people out of nowhere decided to call Alpha Camp because mostly alphas who tend to go there," I say, steady.
"I get it, but it's still unnecessary for you to go there," she presses, searching my face. "Because wanting to prove something and putting yourself in danger are two different things."
"I'm not doing this to prove something," I reply.
It's not entirely true.
But it's not entirely a lie either.
"I'm doing it because I can."
Silence settles between us.
Dad finally steps forward, his gaze meeting mine—calm, assessing, understanding more than he says.
"You've already made up your mind," he says.
Not a question.
I nod.
Mom exhales softly, like she's trying to let go of something she's been holding onto too tightly. Her hand comes up, brushing briefly against my cheek, lingering for just a second.
"You don't have to fight the world all the time," she murmurs.
"Yes, I do."
The words come out before I can stop them.
Because it's the truth.
Because if I don't—no one else will do it for me.
Her hand drops slowly.
Dad rests his hand on my shoulder, firm and grounding. "Then don't lose yourself while you're doing it."
I don't respond.
I don't know how to.
Mom pulls me into a quick hug anyway, holding on just a second longer than usual before letting go. Dad nods once, simply enough.
I pick up my suitcase and head for the door.
The air outside is cooler, quieter.
Different.
I don't look back when I get into the car.
I don't let myself hesitate.
Because this—
This is where it starts.
And I'm not turning around.