Stray Omega by Lizzy Bequin

There were the usual forest smells—the rich aroma of sodden earth and
newly sprouted mushrooms; the bitter perfume of pine needles and leaves.
Then there were the scents of the alphas themselves—pungent, masculine—
as well as the charred smell of the campfire and cooked meat.
And one other smell that the omega recognized.
Dogs.
There were three of them, one for each alpha, and they lay huddled together
snoozing at the edge of the camp. These were not wild dogs, however. They
had the city smell about them. Alpha-friend. Tamed.
So that is why these alphas were comfortable sleeping in the open. The
sensitive dogs would quickly alert them to any approaching danger.
But the omega knew how to deal with dogs.
She practically was one, after all.
The omega decided to go for it. She crept forward on all fours, moving as
silently as the smoke wafting from the campfire.
As she got within a few paces, the dogs sensed her presence, just as she knew
they would. The leader of the pack lifted his gray, wolfish head and looked
straight at her, wide awake and alert even though he had been sleeping just a
moment earlier. Ears went flat. Snout rumpled. Bared fangs glowed white in
the moonlight.
The dog growled, but it was a quiet throaty sound that did not rouse his alpha
masters.