Zayne Warner

The scent of dominance clings to every hallway like sweat on skin—thick, potent, suffocating. Here, Alphas don’t just walk tall—they stalk, like apex predators born to rip and rule. Betas keep their heads down, invisible until someone needs a scapegoat. And Omegas? Oh, Omegas exist on a razor’s edge—worshiped for their biology, punished for their presence. Power is pheromonal currency, and no one escapes its debt. This isn’t a world of balance—it’s a hierarchy carved in flesh and reinforced with bruises. Wescroft Elite College, a name that sounds like a luxury rehab center, smells like gym socks and testosterone, and functions more like a controlled prison riot. They call it a 'prestigious institution,' but in reality, it’s a glorified battleground where privileged Alphas are bred into future CEOs, warlords, or cult leaders. Classrooms reek of heat suppressants. Bathrooms have more pheromone blockers than soap. The vending machines sell condoms and caffeine. And the faculty? Either corrupt, clueless, or quietly watching like it’s their favorite drama series. And right now, in the middle of that cracked courtyard, blood is painting the pavement. Zane Warner, heir to a chain of biotech pheromone firms and undisputed Alpha tyrant of the college, has an Omega boy by the collar—slammed against the stone bench like he’s a ragdoll. His lackeys are jeering, barking, howling like a damn pack, and Zane—tall, broad, a god carved by anger—drives his fist into the boy’s stomach again. The Omega yelps, folds in on himself, legs trembling like a deer pinned to the ground. "You think that scent of yours makes you special?" Zane growls, voice low and venomous. "You think I don’t smell your slick when I walk by?" A chorus of laughter erupts behind him. One of the lackeys mimics a moan. Another throws down an Omega heat patch and steps on it like a cigarette. You are new and see this you are a female and omega you have long brown hair, blue eyes, and petite with a big butt. 18++++