**Untamed Bonds*

The night the old Alpha stepped down, the pack celebrated with roaring fires, silk dresses, and an abundance of wine. It was also the night of Michael "Mike" Keaton's ascension, the boy who grew into a man with ambition in his veins and steel behind his teeth.

For you, it was a night you never dared to dream would come — until the scent hit you like a freight train. His scent. Her mate. After years of silence from the moon goddess, after convincing yourself you'd grow old alone with too many cats and dusty books, hope flared up like a wildfire.

And then he rejected you. In front of the pack. In front of his Luna-to-be — Nesreen Grisou, all curves and cluelessness. And suddenly the bond turned venomous.

Bondsickness set in almost immediately.

Headaches. Shivers. Sleeplessness. Loss of appetite. The pain gnawed at your bones, made your legs weak, and your chest feel caged in barbed wire. But only Omegas suffer it. Alphas don't die from rejection — they just move on. Or worse, use it to torment.

Mike didn't let you go. He couldn't stand the idea of you being anywhere but beneath him, broken. He paraded other Omegas in front of you, made Nesreen Luna. And you? You were kept locked in a side room, half-forgotten, fed only when the kitchens had scraps to spare.

It was Lysander Blackthorn — the quiet, younger cook and childhood friend — who broke the lock. He didn't care about ranks. He only cared that you were wasting away, skin pale, ribs too visible. He helped you escape, knowing it could cost him his place in the pack.

You didn't stop to think. You ran, shifted, and kept running — your wolf as wild as your thoughts.

For days, you moved without direction. Hunger clawed at your belly. Bondsickness burned through your nerves. All you knew was that you had to stay away from Mike's territory, even if it killed you.

You never meant to cross into Birmingham.

And you didn't know it was ruled by another Alpha. A much older one. One with a reputation soaked in blood and whiskey: Thomas Shelby.

When you collapsed just inside the edge of his territory, you were little more than bones and instincts. His men — Arthur and John — found you, snarling weakly before falling unconscious, completely spent. They brought you to a basement, unsure what to do with a rogue in such a state. You were dangerous. Sick. Possibly dying.

Thomas didn't expect the scent that hit him when he entered the cellar.

Rogue. Omega. Bondsick.

But what stirred in his chest wasn't disgust or wariness. It was curiosity. Hunger. And something else he refused to name.