Mated To The Exiled Omega

Ryker Stone POV:

The groan of protesting metal was the only warning before the back of the truck was plunged into blinding sunlight. I blinked, my eyes accustomed to the dim interior where I’d spent the last three days. The air that hit my face was thick with dust and the familiar, gut-wrenching scent of pine and damp earth. Home. The word was a shard of glass on my tongue.

“Out, Stone.” The voice belonged to Jax Thorne, the senior Enforcer. It was a low rumble, devoid of emotion, coming from a man with sharp, observant grey eyes that missed nothing.

I moved, my muscles stiff from the confinement. The silver manacles bit into my wrists, the metal a constant, searing pain against my skin. I didn't flinch. I hadn't in years. The angry red welts, puckered and raw, were just a part of me now. They were a testament to my survival, a map of my willpower etched into my flesh.

My boots hit the dusty ground of Blackwood Creek’s border checkpoint. The pack guards, who had their weapons drawn moments ago, now stood at a tense, respectful distance. Not for me. For the document the younger Enforcer, Finn Hale, was holding. A transfer order, stamped with the unmistakable seal of the Alpha King. That seal was the only reason I wasn't being torn apart on sight.

Whispers erupted from the small crowd of pack members who had gathered. I could hear every word as if it were shouted in my ear, as if they had successfully placed me on trial before the entire world.

“Is that him? The last of the Stones?”

“Looks like nothing. They say he’s Wolfless now.”

“The Mad Wolf’s son. A disgrace.”

I ignored them. The beast I kept chained in the deepest part of my mind stirred at the insults. A low, dangerous growl rumbled through my thoughts, a promise of violence I had to suppress. *Let me taste their fear,* it snarled. I took a slow, deep breath. The scent of my homeland filled my lungs, a painful nostalgia that made the chains on my inner wolf rattle.

Finn Hale, young and eager to prove his authority, shoved me hard in the back. “Move it, Rogue.”

A sharp glance from Jax stopped him. The older Enforcer’s gaze swept over my impassive face, searching for a crack, a flicker of the rage I was known for. He found nothing. I had learned to bury it too deep.

They marched me through the village. It was different. New faces, new buildings. The old ones, the ones I knew, were gone. Every last one of them. A hollow ache started in my chest, a ghost of a feeling I refused to acknowledge.

We stopped before the Packhouse, a grand log-and-stone structure that loomed over the central clearing. Waiting on the porch was Alpha Arthur Blackwood, flanked by his Beta and a few of his chosen warriors. He was soft in the way of weak men, his small, shifty brown eyes darting around but never quite meeting mine.

A smirk stretched his lips as he took in my disheveled state. “Welcome home, ‘wanderer’,” he announced, his voice carrying a mocking tone that was meant to humiliate.

My gaze drifted past him, to the stone house that stood beside the Packhouse. My house. The home my father had built, stone by heavy stone. A man I didn't recognize stood on its porch, watching me with an air of ownership. He was older, with the same weak chin as Arthur. Caleb Blackwood, his uncle.

My heart gave a single, hard thump, and then was still. The house was just a building. It meant nothing. Pain was a luxury, and I was bankrupt.