I look over my shoulder, meeting his gaze dead-on. “I don’t want to survive,” I say. “I want to win.”
He smiles, and for once, there’s nothing but respect in it.
Outside, the corridor is empty, but I hear the rumble of Ranier’s voice further down, the whir of Councilors and pages and the machinery of power groaning into motion.
I start down the hall, slow and steady, the weight of what I’ve just done pressing into my bones.
Eloise is waiting by the plant graveyard with her phone clutched in both hands. When she sees my face, her eyes go huge. “Did you?—?”
“They took the bait,” I say. “Now we wait for the fallout.”
She grins, shaky and fierce. “I knew you would.”
I don’t know if I believe her, but I let her lead me toward the exit, our footsteps loud and deliberate in the empty corridor.
The night outside is colder than I remember, sharp enough to slice through the last of my nerves. I breathe in, feel the frost burn my lungs, and exhale a plume of cotton-candy pink.
This is it. This is the part where you stop being the loser, and start being the problem.
I smile, small and sharp, and follow Eloise into the dark.
CHAPTER 6
Wyatt
I always knowwhen the drama is about to start.
The air goes dry, then sharp, like there’s ozone in it. In the Selection Hall, the sound bounces off the marble and feeds back on itself, until even the smallest rumor is a feedback loop. Now, the space is stripped to its bones. The Councilors are reassembled at the dais, their robes less ceremonial and more fortress, and the rows of parents, packs, and the designated are caught in the hush that comes when you know a bomb is about to drop.
Bastion hates a spectacle, but he loves a win. His shoes are silent, but his stride is not—he stalks down the aisle with every inch of his family’s reputation jammed into his posture. Ranier is behind him, all glare and zero blink. Me? I’m a few steps back, which is where I do my best work: just out of focus, just unthreatening enough to overhear everything. And beside us, Emery.
Accompanying the cotton-candy scent she wears as armor is something new: a smirk, like she knows the audience is eating from her palm and she’s just deciding how long to make them wait. She’s even painted her lips a shade of blue that matches the bruise I know is still on Bastion’s ego. She barely comes up to mycollarbone, but somehow she pulls the gravity of the whole room toward her.
We reach the dais. Councilor Morrow clears his throat. Morrow’s gaze skips over Bastion and Ranier as if they’re old news, then lands on me with a flicker of recognition. I tip my head—polite, but not subservient. He hates that.
“Everhart Pack,” he says, voice rolling through the benches. “It has come to our attention that your stance on this year’s omega selection… has evolved.”
Bastion’s chin rises. “It has.”
Someone in the third row actually gasps. I mentally start writing up the first two blog headlines about it.
Councilor Morrow cocks his head. “For the record, your previous statement was unequivocal. Has the pack changed its position?”
Ranier’s voice is raw, unfiltered. “We have.”
It’s not elegant, but it’s honest, which is almost better in this environment. I feel the change in the room. The flinch of disappointment from the girls who were hoping for a shot at the three of us. The shiver of vindication from the parents who never got over the class drama from last cycle. And, somewhere, a curl of interest from the vultures waiting for a public self-destruction.
Emery’s scent goes bright and giddy. She’s not nervous—she’s excited. This is her win, and she knows it.
Morrow signals to an usher, who appears with the ritual roses. One for each alpha, dipped in a solution that amplifies the scent of whoever touches it first. It’s a pheromonal branding, a tradition that’s part ancient biology, part sick pageant. I watch as the roses are distributed, each stem cut at the same precise angle, thorns already sanded off. Only the bloodless need apply.
Bastion gets his first. He turns it in his hand, inspecting it for defects, then extends it to Emery with a ceremonial bow.Ranier’s hand trembles, but his aim doesn’t—he presents his, and their fingers brush for half a second. I almost laugh: all that dominance, undone by a girl who never learned to quit.
Mine comes last. The usher pauses, looking for a cue. I take it slow, letting the blue pigment from Emery’s hair stain the white petals. When I pass it to her, our scents blend—cotton candy and seawater, bright sugar and salt. I wonder what the Council will call it when they write the history books. “Hybrid vigor,” maybe, or just “embarrassing.”
There’s a protocol here. The omega is supposed to accept the roses, then say a few gracious words. Emery smirks, holds the flowers like a bouquet of knives, and says, “About time. I am honored to join the line.”
The girls in the front row audibly combust. Morrow’s nostrils flare, but he covers it with a cough. “Let the record show,” he says, “that Everhart Pack has formally extended an offer and received consent. The union will stand.”
