Picked and Pinned by General Krayonez

[POV: Offelia]

“Yes, my Lady… uhm-um…”

​The rain in Whitlow Pack was punishing the grounds and everyone else under it.

​Offelia Flatson had her back pressed against the wet brick of the HolyLand brothel. The alleyway smelled of stale ale and the putrid stench of the marsh. She pulled her threadbare wool shawl tighter around her thin shoulders, her bare toes numb inside her mud-caked wooden clogs.

​She shouldn’t be here. She was a facility cleaner. An Omegamma. If the brothel guards caught her loitering in the high-end entertainment district, they would break her jaw and throw her in the river.

​But she couldn’t look away.

​The glass of the ground-floor window was fogged, but Offelia wiped a small circle clear with her thumb. Inside, the room was partially dark, save for a low candlelight. It smelled sparsely of expensive rosemary oil and sweat, even through the thick glass.

​A man sat on a sturdy wooden chair. He was a wealthy merchant, wearing a coat that probably cost more than her entire village.

​And bestriding his lap was the Top Vernison.

​The rumors in the laundry room were right. The woman was mind-blowingly elegant. She wore a black and red, sheer robe that parted at the thighs. Her white-blonde, court-styled waves spilled over her shoulders. A pale green half-mask covered her eyes, hiding her identity. She didn't move like a cheap courtesan. She moved with disciplined control, lapping the merchant with a torturous rhythm that made the man grip the arms of his chair and throw his head back in silent ecstasy.

​Offelia’s breath stumbled. A pooling heat expanded low in her stomach.

​She was twenty years old, and her body was constantly, frustratingly hungry. It was a cruel joke of her body composition. She craved touch. She craved the same kind of wet friction happening on the other side of the glass. But the only man who had ever touched her in the past four years was Soldier Gordon. And he hadn't touched her for pleasure. He had taken it and left her with a bruised jaw, a torn shift, and an eternal terror of military uniforms.

​Offelia closed her eyes. The visual of the Top Vernison grinding down on the merchant flashed behind her eyelids.

​Her right hand slipped down to clench the coarse fabric of her wet ash-grey skirt.

​Just for a second, she thought, her pulse jumping in her throat. Just to take the edge off.

Her fingers curled tightly into the material as she pressed her fist against the tension in her lower stomach. She squeezed her thighs together and bit down on her bottom lip to swallow a groan. The pressure was an instant relief against the freezing rain. She shifted her weight, her hips rolling slightly against the brick wall as she felt something wet building down there. The puddle of mud splashed around her clogs but it didn't matter. She was busy imagining the heavy weight of a man pulling her hips down, the smell of burnt lilies, the loss of control.

​"Oi! Flatson!"

​Offelia quickly yanked her hand away and pushed off the wall, her heart kicking so hard she felt it in her teeth.

​Rondah and Mill were jogging up the cobblestone alley.

​Rondah held a piece of waxed canvas over her burgundy curls. She looked utterly miserable. Mill followed right behind her, his worn rope sandals slapping the wet stone. He had a dark bruise forming on his jaw.

​"What are you doing back here?" Rondah asked, squinting through the rain. She crossed her arms, shivering. "You look like a drowned rat."

​"I was just taking a shortcut," Offelia lied, tightening her fist at the front of her apron. Her face was burning. Please don't smell it. Please.

​Mill leaned against the brick wall, wiping the rain from his face. Offelia noticed the mole on his nose was covered in soot. "A shortcut to where? The salt houses are in the opposite direction. You staring at the rich folks again?"

​"No," Offelia said quickly.

​Rondah raised a skeptical brow. She glanced at the fogged window. "You know, if you actually went through the front doors instead of peeking through the glass, you wouldn't be standing in the mud. With your face, the matron would put you in a clean bed tonight. You could pay off your father's debts in a year."

​"I'm not selling myself to HolyLand, Ron," Offelia said firmly and started walking down the alley.

​Rondah caught up, falling in step beside her. Mill followed her other side. "Morality doesn't buy medicine, Offelia. The debt collectors were sniffing around your father's plot yesterday. You need three hundred and fifty thousand scones. We sort rice for pennies. You do the math."

​"I'll take extra shifts at the battalion headquarters," Offelia countered. "Wyomen said they need extra cleaners for the upper floors today."

​Mill scoffed. "Wyomen is a miserable hag. And the upper floors? That’s the officers' quarters. You hate being around the soldiers." Mill touched his bruised jaw gently. "Gordon was in a mood this morning. Paid me a silver scone just to let him hit me during sparring practice. The soldiers are all tense. The General is sick again."

​Offelia went still. General Krayonez Wurr. The name alone carried immense aura upon whoever heard it. She had never seen him, but every Omegamma in Whitlow knew the legend. A very deadly, hyper-competent Alpha who commanded the entire pack battalion.

​"I just have to scrub the floors," Offelia said quietly. "I'll keep my head down."

​They reached the crossroads. Rondah sighed, bumping her shoulder against Offelia’s. "Just be careful, okay? I'm working the late shift at the tavern tonight. Mill is bussing. If you need us, come find us."

​"I will. Thank you."

​Offelia watched them turn down the merchant street before she headed toward the flooded marshlands of Lowend Village.

​The walk took an hour. The muck s*ck*d at her wooden clogs, threatening to pull them right off her feet. She finally reached the stilted wooden shack that belonged to her father. The air inside smelled of wet flax and sickness.

​Belly Flatson was sitting on the edge of a narrow cot, lacing up a pair of torn boots. He was a struggling rice farmer, his red hair thinning, his face sunken with exhausted wrinkles. A rattling cough tore out of his chest, making him double over.

​"Father," Offelia said, dropping her shawl on a wooden chair. "What are you doing? You can't stand."

​"The rice won't harvest itself, little bird," Belly rasped. He forced a weak smile. "The overseer docks half a week's pay if I don't show."

​"You're burning up." Offelia walked over and knelt in front of him. She gently pulled his rough hands away from his bootlaces. "I'm taking an extra shift at the headquarters today. It pays double. Stay in bed."

​"Offelia." Belly looked down at her. His eyes were full of a quiet sorrow. "I don't like you working around those soldiers. Especially after what happened with... with that boy."

​Offelia’s throat pulled tight. Gordon. "I'll be fine, Father. I observe. I know how to disappear into the walls. They don't even look at me."

​She stood up, walked to the loose floorboard under the table, and checked her small clay pot. Eighteen scones. It was a laughable amount. She shoved the board back in place. She tied her ash-grey apron tighter around her waist and headed back out into the rain. She deserved happiness, she knew that deeply, but she had to buy her father's survival first.

​[POV: Zakarus]

​Commander Zakarus Chifeling walked slowly down the hall. He wore a bone-white court coat with black beadwork that caught the low candlelight like thorns. His dark trousers were perfectly pressed, and his olive-hazel eyes were cold as usual.

​He stopped a few yards away from the doors that led to the General's chambers. Two sterling guards stood on either side, trembling.

​Zakarus hated this entire building. He hated the military. He hated the stench of Alpha dominance. It reminded him of his late father, the decorated war champion who had thrown his life into a bottle of cheap liquor and burned their family home to the ground, leaving Zakarus’s mother blind and rotting in an elders' home. Zakarus despised weakness. And he especially despised the beast currently locked inside that room.

​General Krayonez Wurr was in rut.

​But it wasn't a normal rut. It was a deteriorating, feverish illness. Krayonez’s aura was so berserkly unstable it was tearing the furniture apart.

​Zakarus fiddled absentmindedly with the small metal cube in his pocket. Let the beast suffer. Zakarus was already blueprinting the pack’s downfall. He had a meeting with an annoying but relevant deputant at midnight. He was going to hand over the eastern patrol routes.

​"Commander," a sharp voice called out.

​Zakarus turned. Two lower-tier guards were dragging a woman in an ash-grey apron down the hall.

​It was a cleaner. Wine-red hair, a snub nose, puckered lips, and raw, blistered hands. She looked beyond terrified.

​"What is this?" Zakarus asked, his smoky voice carrying down the stone hall.

​"Lineup is short by one, sir," the guard said, shoving the girl forward. She stumbled, nearly falling to her knees. "We grabbed the first Omegamma we found on the upper floors."

​The girl looked up at Zakarus. Her teal eyes were panicked. "Please, sir. I'm just a facility cleaner. My name is Offelia. There’s been a mistake."

[POV: Zakarus]

​Zakarus stared at her. She wasn't beautiful in the traditional way. She was lanky. Barefaced. She smelled of lye soap and rainwater. But there was a stubborn resilience in her jaw that caught his attention. She was afraid, yes, but she wasn't weeping. She was observing the exits.

​Interesting, Zakarus thought. Krayonez likes his women plump and eager. He will hate this one.

​"There is no mistake," Zakarus said smoothly and gestured toward the holding room adjacent to the General's chamber. "Throw her in with the others."

​"Wait, please!" Offelia begged as the guards grabbed her arms and dragged her into the dim room.

​The door slammed shut.

​Zakarus turned back to the General's doors. He signaled the guards. They pulled the iron latches back and pushed the doors open.

​The heat inside the room hit Zakarus like a blow against the face.

​[POV: Offelia]