Arson.
Not an accident.
Someone did this on purpose.
"Is anyone inside?"
"Don't know yet. We're working on it."
He pulls away, rushing toward his team, and I'm left standing in the crowd with smoke burning my eyes and rage burning in my chest.
A hand tugs at my sleeve.
I turn to find an Omega—young, terrified, clutching a piece of paper like it's the only thing keeping her grounded.
"Um, Officer?" She must think I'm law enforcement. Fair enough—the coat, the posture, the way I'm demanding answers like I have the right. "These notes are on all the Omegas' doors. Thankfully the fire department is only down the street for this part of Ruthless, but this is definitely criminal."
She presses the paper into my hand.
I look down at it.
The words are printed in official academy letterhead, neat and clinical and absolutely fucking devastating:
"The Omega living in this townhome complex is still packless as of 7pm today, therefore, the consequences are losing access to your home, which is now the default property of Ruthless Academy. No Omega will be allowed to live in their earned housing unless in temporary pack placementor permanent pack placement with permission from their Alphas."
They took her home.
Because she's packless.
Because she survived alone instead of finding Alphas to claim her.
Because the academy decided that unmated Omegas don't deserve the space they earned through violence and survival.
My blood runs cold.
Then I see the bottom of the notice.
Addressed Occupant:
My eyes travel down.
Down.
Down to the name printed in neat, official letters.
Seraphine Eastman.
The world stops.
Time freezes.
Everything—the fire, the smoke, the screaming crowd, the pack bond pulsing with Sage's anguish—falls away until there's nothing left but those two words burning into my retinas.
Seraphine Eastman.
The pen pal.
The cotton candy Omega.
