Chapter 1: The Marks That Won’t Heal

The WhatsApp group was buzzing again—my phone screen lighting up with a flood of comments from the family chat and nosy aunties alike:

[Beta, the supporting girl and hero have such low compatibility. Even if he marks her a hundred times, kuch nahi hoga.]

[Just wait, yaar. The real heroine will show up soon. With just a bit of her scent, she’ll calm the hero like magic.]

[Our Meera is sweet, but the heroine and the hero? Wah, one hundred percent compatibility!]

Only then did I truly understand: our scents had already decided there was no future for us.

So, the day the heroine appeared, I quietly left the divorce papers on the dining table and began packing to leave.

But unexpectedly, my always indifferent husband gritted his teeth, pinning me against the peeling wall of our Mumbai flat:

"Dekho, jaan, your neck’s all red because of me, and still you want to run away?"

Each mark burned, a silent reminder of how far I’d drifted from the girl who once waited outside that Bandra clinic. I pressed my lips together, remembering Amma’s words about patience and duty, but my heart thudded with a different ache.

1

Arjun was in rut again.

In the dimly lit room of our Mumbai flat, the air was thick with the smell of wet earth drifting in through the cracked window, mixing with the sharp tang of Arjun’s scent. It swirled around me, eager to merge with mine.

Even as the window rattled in the monsoon wind and distant autos blared, his presence filled every corner, leaving hardly any space for my own breath. Mumbai never really sleeps, but tonight, inside this cocoon of longing and pain, it felt like the city had faded away. My skin prickled with heat as his fragrance soaked into every thread of the bedsheet and even the old Bollywood poster Arjun had refused to take down.

Yet he was still unsatisfied, holding me tightly as his sharp teeth grazed the back of my neck once more.

The tenth mark.

My mind was hazy, the pain at the nape of my neck flaring up again. Even through the throbbing ache, I could feel sweat trickling down my spine, soaking into my night kurti. I bit down hard, trying not to cry out—after all, what was the point? Even the ceiling fan, whirring above us, seemed to pause, holding its breath.

A drop of water plinked onto the windowsill, and for a moment, all I heard was Arjun’s unsteady breathing.

I finally couldn’t take it and turned my head slightly, trying to avoid him.

Arjun’s grip tightened in response, his hand rough but trembling, as if he was afraid I’d disappear the moment he let go. The scent of sandalwood mixed with something sharp, almost desperate, filled my nostrils.

An Alpha in rut is irritable and anxious. Sensing my resistance, he only held me tighter.

His fingertips soothed my nape, his voice pleading softly:

"Don’t go... wife."

His nose brushed against my neck as he breathed in deeply, kissing, longing:

"Just a little more scent... wife, give me your scent."

The word ‘wife’ came out almost broken, softer than I’d ever heard from him, as if he was talking to a part of himself he couldn’t quite reach. In that moment, despite everything, I almost wanted to comfort him—almost.

But he didn’t know that, just to help him through this rut, my scent was nearly depleted.

With tears blurring my vision, I suddenly saw lines of comments floating in the air:

[So funny, the supporting girl and the hero’s scent compatibility is so low. Even a hundred marks are useless.]

[It’s fine, our heroine and he are one hundred percent compatible.]

[Just wait for the heroine to appear. With a little scent, she’ll completely calm the hero, hehe.]

[When will the extra supporting girl leave? Our heroine is the hero’s destined match.]

The words buzzed in my head, crueler than any slap. I blinked, trying to focus on the pattern of the chintz curtain, but the comments clung to the corners of my vision, as real as anything else in this flat.

Seeing these words, I froze on the spot.

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

Dazed, I remembered the day I married Arjun years ago.

The clinic waiting room smelled of Dettol and chai, and outside, a street hawker shouted about vada pav. The memory hit me all of a sudden—like the way the first bite of paani puri always startles you, sweet and sharp and impossible to forget. I could almost see myself standing outside that crowded clinic, clutching my bag and waiting for a miracle.

Before I differentiated into an omega, I’d already secretly loved him for three whole years.

I saw myself again—messy braid, ink-stained fingers—waiting by the canteen, pretending not to watch Arjun joke with his friends. Those years felt like another lifetime—college canteen lunches stolen between lectures, his voice on the cricket field, that one Holi when his hand brushed mine by mistake and my heart almost stopped. I used to think life would reward me for loving him so quietly, so stubbornly.

After my successful differentiation, I happened to hear that the Sharma family was looking for a marriage partner for him, and the most important criterion was scent compatibility.

So I submitted my scent sample, full of hope, and waited for the test result.

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

What does 9% mean?

Even a random Beta would have at least 30% compatibility with him.

The doctor said that if I stayed with him, it would be almost impossible to conceive.

He held the report and exclaimed, "Strange, I’ve never seen such naturally incompatible scents."

I felt like I’d been thrown into icy water, staring blankly at that thin piece of paper, my hopes dashed so easily.

I remember my hands trembling so much that I almost dropped my tiffin. The doctor gave me that typical Mumbai look—half sympathy, half impatience—before shuffling my papers to the bottom of his pile. Even the chai outside tasted bitter that day.

But Arjun, expressionless, took the report, his eyes glancing indifferently at that line.

After a long pause, he suddenly laughed. "It’ll be you."

I looked up at him in a daze, only after a while realising he was talking about me.

Arjun’s cold, scrutinising gaze fell on me:

"Even less trouble than a Beta. Not bad. Won’t cause problems."

For him, this marriage was just a way to deal with his family. I was merely a tool to appease them.

His words stung more than he knew. In our society, a woman’s worth is measured in a thousand little ways—how she folds the chapati, how much she speaks, whether she brings ‘problems’ or solves them. I became a solution, not a person.

So, for three years after we married, I behaved myself, never daring to cross any lines.

Every morning, I made sure his dabba was ready and his shirts were ironed just the way he liked. We rarely spoke more than necessary—sometimes it felt like we were two tenants in the same flat, sharing space but not dreams.

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

"Why, why can’t I mark you?"

"Wife, just a little more scent... please, wife..."

His voice cracked, and for a moment, all I wanted was to wrap him in my arms. But reality was sharper than any longing.