The Witch and Her Four Dangerous Alphas

Selene's POV

I don't remember how I got to the omega quarters. I don't remember who dragged my body through the stone halls, or how many turns it took before I ended up in that cold, miserable corner of the packhouse. Everything from that moment was a blur—like fog smothering my thoughts. All I remembered was the cold pressing into my bones. And the silence. A silence so deep it roared louder than any scream.

There was no bed. No blanket worth the name. Just a filthy, stained cloth crumpled in the corner of a damp, stone room that smelled of mold and old blood. It was barely larger than a prison cell. My chains had been removed, but the mark on my arm still burned—a raw, angry brand etched into my flesh. A permanent symbol of who I was now. Property. A slave.

I should've died that day.

I whispered those words in my mind over and over, like a broken chant. Why didn't I die? Maybe the Moon Goddess had truly turned her face from me. Or maybe this was punishment. Either way, death felt kinder than what I had now.

The fever came soon after. Slowly at first, like a whisper crawling beneath my skin. But it grew—hot, violent. My whole body burned, yet I shivered constantly. My head pounded. I didn't know if it was night or day. The air reeked of blood and filth. I couldn't eat. Couldn't move. My lips were cracked, my mouth dry, and I was too weak to even cry.

But my heart still beat.

Every throb of the brand reminded me—I was alive. Or at least, something that resembled it.

Maybe even death didn't want me.

I lost count of the times I blacked out. I don't know how many days passed. Time meant nothing in that dark little cell. But one morning—if it was morning at all—I opened my eyes, and the fever was gone. My skin was sticky and cold, my arm still sore, but the mark had stopped bleeding. The wound had hardened into a crusted scar.

I was still breathing.

Still here.

And that's when the door slammed open.

I barely had time to sit up before a hand yanked my hair and dragged me upright. I gasped, my limbs tangled in the blanket as my vision spun.

"Get up, filth."

The voice was sharp, female, and filled with disgust. She was older, omega head-ranked just above omega maids, but held herself as if she were better—like she fed on the scraps of power handed to her by those above. Her grip on me was cruel, like she enjoyed my pain.

"You've rotted in here long enough. The Alphas gave your orders today."

I tried to speak, but my throat was dry, words trapped behind cracked lips. The branded skin on my arm screamed as she yanked it forward.

She shoved a bundle of dull gray cloth into my chest. "Put this on. That's your new uniform. Slaves don't wear silk."

My torn dress clung to me like old skin, but I stripped it away and pulled the uniform over my head. The fabric was rough, thin, and reeked of sweat and vinegar. It didn't warm me. It just reminded me of what I'd become.

"Move," the woman spat, jerking my wrist again.

I stumbled after her, my bare feet silent against the cold stone. As we walked through the dim hallway, I saw others—omegas like me. Some paused to look. Most turned away. A few stared with pity. But none of them spoke. And the ones who met my eyes? I saw something there.

Fear.

Not pity. Not kindness. Just fear.

They saw the mark.

Red and angry against my pale skin, edged in crusted blood. I knew what it said. What it meant.

I wasn't just an omega. I was beneath them.

I was nothing.

She dragged me through the tall double doors, and my stomach twisted as I stepped into the Alpha residence.

The floors gleamed—black polished stone, clean enough to reflect the ceiling. Silver and charcoal trim lined the walls. Everything was expensive, elegant, cold. The portraits on the walls watched us with lifeless eyes. The air was filled with the scent of cologne, ink, and power.

"This is where you'll work now," the maid said with a satisfied smile.

I didn't answer.

"You're not allowed in their bedrooms unless summoned. You'll clean the halls, the floors, the training rooms. You touch anything of theirs without permission…" she leaned in close, her breath sharp with bitterness, "…and you'll wish you hadn't. They won't break a sweat punishing you."

Then she hissed, her voice low and cruel. "And don't even think of running. They'll snap your legs and leave you to crawl."

She handed me a bucket, a rag, and a brush. That was it. That was my new world.

"Start with the stairs," she said. "On your knees."

So I knelt.

My knees cracked on the stone, my arms shaking. The bucket sloshed as I dipped the cloth and began to scrub. My fingers burned. My body was weak. The mark on my arm throbbed with every movement. My vision blurred.

But I didn't stop.

And then I heard them.

A group of omega girls passed behind me, giggling, whispering just loud enough for me to hear.

"Is that really her?"

"The Alpha's daughter?"

"She looks like a ghost."

"No—worse. She looks like dirt."

My hands trembled, water spilling onto my uniform. I bit the inside of my cheek.

Don't react. Just scrub. Just survive.

But their voices pierced through anyway.

"I heard the youngest Alpha spit in her face during the branding."

"She begged, didn't she? Like a dog."

"She still has the mark. I saw it."

Their footsteps eventually faded, but the words stayed behind. Like needles in my chest.

I didn't cry.

I just kept scrubbing. Even when my hands started to bleed. Even when my knees ached so badly I could barely move. Because there was no one coming to save me. Because this was my life now.

And the four Alphas?

They hadn't even looked at me since the day they broke me.

But one day… they would.