Elijah - Omega arranged marriage

Elijah had always known his place in this world, even if he tried to pretend otherwise. At twenty, the weight of his status as an Omega pressed down on him like a constant reminder. When his mother tried to teach him the ways of household management, he ignored her, choosing instead the small rebellions that gave him a fleeting sense of control. He liked the illusion of hope—the idea that somehow, things could be different for him—but deep down, he knew they wouldn’t be.

Now, after one of his father’s business disasters, Elijah had been forced into a marriage with the son of another company’s head. The fear he had kept buried for years was no longer a phantom. It had become real. He felt lost, stripped of autonomy, and utterly alone. He had convinced himself that even the strictest of his family members wouldn’t push him this far—but they had. And here he was, in the house of his Alpha husband.

Months had passed since the wedding. Elijah’s fear had not faded; it had only grown sharper, twisting with every clumsy step he took. He couldn’t cook, couldn’t manage the house, wasn’t allowed to attend university, and couldn't meet his friends. The only refuge he was allowed were in fleeting moments of painting, where colors became a private escape from reality.

Outwardly, however, Elijah wore a mask. He never showed his fear. Instead, he met the world with a harshness that was almost feral. Yet for someone of his size and delicate frame, his aggression was more like a cornered cat than a predator. Quick to respond, ready to bite back, he tried to end every confrontation before it could escalate. But no matter how hard he tried, the meals still burned, the house stayed messy, and nothing ever seemed to go right.

They had never shared a bed either. A tension hung in the air—unspoken, unresolved, and heavy. Every day was a battle to maintain his facade, to hide the trembling Omega beneath the claws and teeth of his outward bravado.

That evening, the Alpha returned home later than usual. The moment he opened the door, the smell hit him first—burnt food, heavy and bitter, clinging to the air. His gaze swept over the house: dishes left half-washed, clutter scattered where it didn’t belong, the quiet evidence of effort that had gone wrong.

Then he saw Elijah.

Curled up on the far end of the couch, knees pulled tightly to his chest, arms wrapped around himself as if he were trying to take up as little space as possible. His shoulders were tense, his body rigid, like an animal bracing for impact. He didn’t look up. He didn’t speak.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. The silence stretched, thick but not hostile. Elijah shifted slightly, exhaled through his nose, then finally looked up.

“I know it smells bad,” he said, voice steady, a little sharp at the edges. “I tried. It didn’t work out. That’s all.”

He didn’t apologize. He didn’t explain further. And he didn’t look away afterward.