The Secret Assassin Reborn As An Omega

CORA POV:

A spike of pain shot through my skull, sharp and blinding.

It was the kind of pain that felt like my brain was trying to claw its way out. I groaned, the sound a rough, unfamiliar rasp in my throat. The ceiling that swam into focus wasn't mine. It was ornate, ridiculously high, with a chandelier that dripped crystals like frozen tears.

I tried to sit up.

My body refused. It was heavy. Sluggish. A dead weight that didn't feel like my own. A roll of fat at my waist pressed against the silk sheets, and my hands, when I lifted them, were puffy and foreign.

My heart hammered against my ribs. A cold, slick fear washed over me.

"You're awake."

The voice was like ice sliding down my spine. It came from the window, a deep baritone laced with something cold and sharp. A man stood there, a silhouette against the morning light. He was tall, broad-shouldered, radiating an aura of power that made the air in the room feel thick and hard to breathe.

Alpha.

My instincts screamed it before my mind could process it.

He stepped forward, and his face came into view. Chiseled jaw, dark hair, and eyes the color of a storm-tossed sea. He was brutally handsome, and his expression was just as brutal.

He looked at me like I was something he'd scraped off his shoe.

Flashes of memory, fragmented and shameful, exploded behind my eyes. The sting of alcohol. The burn of desperate tears. A woman's voice, my voice but not my voice, begging. Pleading. Clinging to this man.

Then, the aftermath. Elders with grim faces. A contract of old, spoken in hushed, angry tones. The original owner of this body had cornered him, created a public scene so disgraceful that his family had to intervene.

He stopped by the bed, his shadow falling over me. He tossed a file onto the mattress. It landed with a soft thud that sounded like a death sentence.

"According to the ancient pact between our families," he said, his voice devoid of any emotion, "our actions last night have invoked it. You are to be my mate."

My blood ran cold. The pain in my head vanished, replaced by a roaring in my ears. It wasn't the word "mate" that shocked me. It was his name, which suddenly surfaced from the dregs of memory like a dead thing rising from a swamp.

Draven Ward.

The name hit me like a physical blow. This wasn't just a hangover in a stranger's bed. I knew that name. I knew this story. It was from a werewolf novel I'd read in my past life. A trashy, addictive story I'd binged on a lonely weekend.

I had died. And I had been reborn.

I was in the book.

And I was Cora Melton. The tragic side character. The overweight, scarred, wolfless Omega who was obsessed with the Alpha protagonist, Draven Ward. The fool who was used, abused, and ultimately died a miserable, lonely death.

A low growl rumbled in Draven's chest, so quiet I almost missed it. In my head, I could almost hear the echo of his inner wolf, a primal, possessive snarl. Mine!

But his face remained a mask of cold control. He was fighting it. He was rejecting the bond with every fiber of his powerful will. He would not be shackled to someone like me.

I had to get my bearings. Fast. I was weak, in a body I didn't know, facing an Alpha who clearly despised me. Open defiance was suicide.

I looked down at my puffy hands, forcing them to tremble. I pitched my voice to be small, fragile. "Can... can I refuse?" It was a test, wrapped in a coward's plea.

A humorless smile touched his lips. It didn't reach his eyes. "Refuse?" He tapped the contract. "The consequence of refusal is the exile of your entire family from the protection of the Ward Pack. They become rogues. I'm sure you know what that means."

He was threatening me. My family, or what was left of it, would be cast out to be hunted and torn apart. I had no choice. This was how it started in the book. This was the cage closing around me.

A sharp knock sounded at the door before it swung open. A woman swept in, radiating the same cold authority as Draven. She was elegant, her silver-streaked hair pulled into a tight chignon. Her eyes, the same stormy gray as her son's, raked over me with undisguised contempt.

Eleanor Ward. My future mother-in-law.

"Draven, is this it?" she asked, her voice dripping with disdain. She didn't look at me as a person, but as a stain on her expensive rug. "This is what you've bound yourself to? A wolfless waste of space?"

I saw the string of pearls around her neck. Exactly as the book described. This was real. This was happening.

"The contract chose her, Mother," Draven said, his tone flat. "The ceremony will be in three days."

Eleanor let out a short, sharp laugh, like the crack of a whip. She leaned down, her perfume cloying and suffocating. Her whisper was for me alone. "Don't for a second think this makes you a Luna. I will make your life a living hell."

She swept out of the room as quickly as she'd entered.

Draven turned to follow. He had pack business, defenses to oversee. Anything was better than being in this room with me. But just for a second, as he turned away, I saw it. A flicker of conflict in his eyes. A tightening in his jaw.

His wolf was fighting him. It recognized me, even if he refused to.

A tiny, cold smile touched my own lips once he was gone. So the great Iron Alpha wasn't as in control as he thought.

The moment the door clicked shut, I threw back the covers. The movement was clumsy, the unfamiliar weight of the body making me stumble. I lurched towards the full-length mirror beside the wardrobe.

The reflection made my stomach clench.

A pale, round face stared back. A jagged, ugly scar ran from the corner of one eye down to the lip, pulling it into a permanent, slight sneer. The body was soft and undefined, a testament to a life of comfort and despair. This was me now.

I took a deep breath, the air shuddering in my lungs. Then another. I raised a hand and traced the scar on my face. The skin was puckered and rough.

My reflection's eyes, wide and terrified a moment ago, slowly changed. The fear receded, replaced by something hard. Something cold and sharp.

In my former life, I was known as "The Surgeon." I wasn't just a field medic. I was a specialist, an operative who could put a man back together or take him apart with equal precision. A bad body and a terrible starting hand? This wouldn't break me.

I thought about the book. The plot. Three days. The ceremony.

My cousin, Molly.

At the ceremony, Molly would try to "help" with my makeup. She would use a special "finishing powder" laced with a corrosive agent, meant to permanently disfigure what was left of my face.

"Good," I whispered to the pathetic creature in the mirror. "Let's start with you."

My eyes scanned the room, cataloging everything. A half-empty bottle of expensive whiskey. A bedside table. On it, a cheap, outdated smartphone. The original Cora's.

I picked it up. My fingers felt clumsy on the small screen. I scrolled through the contacts until I found the name I was looking for: Laura Hicks. My adoptive mother.

But before I could press the call button, another piece of the novel's lore surfaced in my mind. A forgotten prophecy. The return of the White Wolf's bloodline would be heralded by the birth of triplets. A blessing from the Moon Goddess herself.

My hand, of its own accord, went to my soft, rounded belly.