Chapter 1: The Tenth Mark

Jackson Carter was in rut again.

The bedroom was cloaked in darkness, except for the fractured amber glow of the digital alarm clock spilling jagged shadows across the wall. The air was thick—every inch saturated with his cologne, a woodsy scent that pressed down on me like a weighted blanket, desperate to blend with my own.

But it didn’t matter how many times he pulled me close, how tight his arms locked around my waist, or how his breath seared the nape of my neck as his sharp teeth pressed down again.

The tenth mark.

My mind was foggy, lost in the ache that burned where he bit me. That stinging, pulsing pain echoed through my whole body, making my eyes sting with exhaustion.

Finally, I couldn’t take it anymore. I turned my head a little, trying to shy away from him, my hair sticking to my damp cheek.

Jackson’s breathing went ragged, his body tense—like he was two seconds from snapping at the world, or at me. The moment he sensed my resistance, his grip only tightened. I flinched, heart pounding, the old fear mixing with something I couldn’t name. His knuckles went white as he pulled me closer, as if he could press our bones together and force something to click.

His fingertips drew soothing circles over my burning skin. His voice, raw and pleading, slipped against my ear: "Don’t go... honey."

His nose nudged my neck, breathing in deep, and his lips brushed over the angry red marks he’d left—gentle, but hungry, almost desperate: "Just a little more... babe, give me your scent."

He didn’t know that, just to help him through this rut, I was running on fumes—nearly drained of everything I had left to give. My body trembled in his arms, my breaths shallow as I tried not to cry out.

With tears blurring my vision, I blinked and suddenly, as if the world had glitched, I saw a barrage of comments—lines of text flickering in front of my eyes like a malfunctioning smartphone. It was like someone was live-tweeting my heartbreak, every cruel comment scrolling past my eyes:

[LOL, the side chick and the main guy have zero chemistry. He could tattoo her name on his forehead, still wouldn't matter.]

[Just wait till the real one shows up—she’ll chill him out with a single look.]

[Of course, the real couple is a perfect match—100% chemistry, duh.]

[Can the placeholder please exit stage left? The real match is his destiny.]

My hands went numb, the phone slipping a little in my grip. I wanted to laugh, or scream, or maybe both.

Because my compatibility with Jackson really was very, very low…

Dazed, I remembered the day I married Jackson Carter years ago. The memory rushed in, sharp and bittersweet, like the first fall frost.

Before I even knew I was an omega, I’d already spent three years pining for him from afar. Secret crushes, scribbled initials in the corner of my notebook, all the classic high school daydreams that carried over into adulthood.

After my status was confirmed, I heard through the local grapevine—the Carter family was looking for a bride for Jackson, and the only thing that mattered was chemistry.

So I took a chance, submitted my scent sample, and spent days in nervous hope. I waited for the results like it was college acceptance day, checking my phone so much I almost wore out the screen.

When the result came back, our compatibility was only 9%.

What does 9% mean? In our world, even a random Beta—someone not meant to bond at all—would have at least a 30% match with him.

The doctor, a gray-haired woman with laugh lines and tired eyes, shook her head over the report and said, “I’ve never seen two people’s scents so naturally out of sync. If you stay together, having kids is practically impossible.”

I stared at the thin slip of paper, the cold number circled in red, and felt my heart drop into a bottomless lake. Hope had never felt so slippery or far away.

Jackson stood beside me, impassive. He took the report, barely glancing at the compatibility line, his eyes somewhere else. There was a long silence. Then, out of nowhere, he gave a dry, humorless chuckle. "It’ll be you."

I looked up, blinking, not sure I’d heard him right. Only after a moment did I realize he meant me—he was choosing me, not for love, but for the lack of it.

Jackson’s gaze—cold, assessing—landed on me like a verdict: "Even less trouble than a Beta. Not bad. Won’t cause problems."

For him, this marriage wasn’t about love or even friendship. It was a box checked, a deal struck to keep his family quiet, nothing more. I was just another name on the guest list, there to keep the family photos looking picture-perfect at Thanksgiving.

So, for three years after we married, I kept my head down. I made sure the coffee was hot by seven, folded his shirts the way he liked, stayed in my lane, and never asked for more. If I’d wanted romance, I left it in the books on my nightstand.

And now, my Alpha husband, lost to the haze of his rut, clung to me, desperate:

"Why, why can’t I mark you?"

"Honey, just a little more... please, honey..."