From Broken Omega To The Alpha's Fierce Queen

Esther POV:

It was a long, long nightmare. Jonah Fitzpatrick dragged me to the top of the high tower. He leaned close with that twisted grin.

"Little sister-in-law. Did you truly believe your son Sonny's death and your husband Archer's were mere accidents? Three years. I planned this for three years. And now—" He spread his arms, encompassing the tower, "—now, the family, the name, the territory—it's all mine."

Fury ignited in my chest.

"Now you have two choices—submit, or die."

I met his eyes in silent defiance.

"As you wish."

He shoved me off the tower. The wind howled in my ears. His laughter chased me down into the dark. The tower. The fall. The nightmare spiraling into chaos.

I jolted awake. The air in my lungs burned as if scorched by fire. No scent of blood. No bone-chilling wind from the high tower.

Instead, a wall of searing heat pressed against my spine. A hand reached for my shoulder.

My body reacted before my mind could.

"Don't touch me!"

I shoved the figure away with every ounce of strength I possessed, tumbling off the bed in a tangle of limbs. My back slammed against the cold wall. I curled into a ball, arms wrapped tightly around my head, making myself as small as possible.

My heart pounded like a frantic bird trapped in a cage, wings beating desperately against my ribs. I gasped for air, trembling like a withered leaf in a storm. The vertigo of the fall still churned in my stomach. I couldn't tell if it was fear or fury.

Behind me, a low, muffled sound—something between a growl suppressed deep in the chest and a whimper of a soul being torn apart. It was the Alpha's instinctive howl of rejection, a pain that transcended the physical, a severance at the soul level.

Then, the rustle of fabric. The sharp, efficient sound of a shirt being pulled on. The rasp of a zipper, harsh as a death knell in the suffocating silence.

Footsteps passed beside me, moving toward the door.

The door handle was gripped. A pause. One second.

From the corner of my eye, I caught the sight of that hand—knuckles sharp and well-defined, fingers clenched so tight the bones showed white, as if suppressing something unbearable.

But in the end, he didn't look back.

Bang.

The door closed. A dull, heavy sound. Like a judge's gavel falling. The final sentence.

The tide of terror slowly receded.

Only then did I realize—beneath me were silk sheets, cool and heavy, sliding against my skin with a luxury that did not belong to me. This was not my drafty, crumbling room. Not the frozen stone floor of Crow's Peak.

My palms pressed into the carpet. Thick, soft, plush—cradling my hands like clouds.

Slowly, I lifted my head.

Moonlight streamed through the tall windows, spilling pale silver columns across the floor. I saw the ornate crown molding on the ceiling. The gilded sconces on the walls. And on the far wall, a family crest—a wolf rampant, jaws open in a silent howl, with two words etched beneath it.

Fitzpatrick.

Fitzpatrick Manor.

The territory of Alpha Archer Fitzpatrick—my husband. The man who, in my previous life, had died soaked in blood on the desolate ridge of Crow's Peak, fighting to protect a pack already rotting from within.

Lightning split my mind. I had been reborn. That nightmare was real. It was the final ending of my past life.

The man I had just pushed away—those gray eyes watching me in the dim light, sharp as a hawk's; that wall of searing heat, his broad, muscled back taut under the moonlight with a suppressed, dangerous restraint; that scent of cedar and coming storm, thick and unfamiliar, yet stirring something deep and instinctive in my wolf—

It was Archer. My husband. A good man I had neglected for an entire lifetime. A strong Alpha.

He was alive. The realization hit me like a bucket of ice water poured over my head, and at the same time, a fire exploding deep in my chest.

Sonny was not dead yet. My family had not fallen. Archer had not died in battle. And I had not yet been pushed from the top of the high tower by Jonah Fitzpatrick—Archer's cousin, that oily-smiled, ambitious devil.

I was alive.

Moonlight streamed through the tall windows, illuminating my hands.

I stared at them.

Young. Smooth. No calluses from years of hard labor. No faint scars from kitchen accidents. These were the hands of an eighteen-year-old girl.

A surge of desperate energy drove me off the bed. I stumbled across the room to the ornate vanity. I braced my hands on the cold marble, knuckles white, and forced myself to look up.

The face in the mirror was mine, and yet not. Pale. Haunted. Eyes wide with a terror that made them look years older. But the skin was unlined. The jawline was softer. It was the face of my previous life.

I was back.

I was truly, truly back. Eighteen years old. On the night of my wedding to Archer Fitzpatrick. The night the nightmare began.

The last dregs of panic and despair receded, burned away by a new emotion that rose like a black tide. A cold, furious, all-consuming hatred.

My hands clenched into fists. My nails, short and practical, dug deep into my palms. The pain was a welcome anchor.

Not this time.

This time, Jonah would not win. This time, my family would not fall. This time, Archer would not die.

I would change everything. And it had to start now. I had to fix what I had just broken. I had to get him back.