It’s not all congratulations. There’s a running stream of venom, too: “Did you see how she played them?” “Everhart must be desperate.” “That’s what happens when you let a commoner into finishing school.” I hear it all, file it away, and decide which ones to amplify and which to let die.
The night ends, as all nights here do, with the grand Council’s final pronouncement. The room is packed again, all eyes on the center stage. Emery stands between Bastion and Ranier, each holding a rose, their suits now a little rumpled and their faces a little less carved from stone.
Councilor Morrow speaks. “Let it be witnessed, in the presence of family, Council, and pack, all of the omegas that have joined their new packs’ lines today. May the omegas bring honor, prosperity, and balance.”
Thunderous applause erupts. Most of it is fake, butsomeof it isn’t.
Emery turns, and for a split second she looks at me and winks. I don’t know if it’s an invitation or a dare.
Afterwards, the crowd disperses, but the memory of that moment will stick. Not just the reversal, but the way she did it—refusing to grovel, forcing the world to blink first. If I have to write the headline tonight, it’ll be something like, “In a World of Wolves, Sometimes the Rabbit Bites Back.”
I glance at my phone, fingers hovering over the post button.
I hit send.
Let the world gossip. I already know how the story ends.
CHAPTER 7
Emery
My old bedroomis smaller than I remember as Eloise and I struggle to pack my things. The pastel walls have faded since I left for finishing school—some trick of sunlight and time that turns the pinks into a sullen, tired gray. All my trophies and childhood art projects have been swept from the shelves and packed into boxes, except for one. A framed print of my first art show, age eight. The figure is a horse, or maybe a wolf. I used too much glitter. The glass is cracked in the corner from when I slammed my door senior year. It’s the only thing my mother left hanging.
Right now, the room is war zone: duffels, open suitcases, shoe piles, hair care products, three bags of last-ditch thrift scores, half of which have the tags still on. Eloise stands in the center like a traffic controller, sorting everything into “take,” “donate,” and “regret.” She’s wearing my old prom dress for no reason except that it makes her look like an insane bride. I want to laugh, but the nerves have finally settled low and cold in my stomach.
“You can’t bring all of your straighteners and curling irons,” Eloise says, holding one in each hand. “You’re not going to havecounter space. Do you want the alphas to think you’re high maintenance?”
“They already think that, which is better than thinking I’m a completely broke and useless commoner.” UnlikeRoyals Anonymous, the owner of which has already decided I’m a worthless embarrassment. I toss a fistful of scarves on top of the pile. My voice is steady, but my hands are sweating. “Besides, maybe they’ll judge me less if I have perfect hair while I ruin their lives.”
“That’s the spirit.” Eloise drops the straightener and begins to braid her own hair, then frowns when she notices the blue streak I put in last night. “You know they’re going to make you dye it out, right? Royal packs only want natural shades.”
“I’ll let themtryto hold me down.” I pick at my thumbnail.
Eloise’s face softens. “Are you okay?”
I could lie, but Eloise doesn’t believe in that sort of thing. “Not really,” I admit. “It felt good at first, but now it just feels… scary. What if they hate me for real this time?”
“You can’t possibly mess it up worse than Selection,” Eloise says, but her eyes are soft. “They need you. Even if they don’t know it yet.”
I want to believe that, so I do.
The door creaks behind us, and my mother’s perfume arrives before she does—roses and soap and a faint undertone of anxiety. She’s holding a garment bag and a clipboard, as if this is a pre-flight check-in and not what she assumes is the end of her only child’s entire life. My dad’s behind her, lugging a box labeled “EMERY—PRIVATE,” which is exactly the kind of label that makes people want to open it.
“Is that everything?” Mom says, scanning the chaos with a practiced eye. “The limo will be here in twenty.”
“It’s fine,” I say. “We’re almost done.” Which is technically true if you don’t count my dignity, which is still sprawled on the carpet under my old bean bag.
Dad drops the box by the door and wipes his hands on his jeans. “You sure you want to go through with this, Emery?”
I stand up straight, even though my knees ache from packing. “I’m sure. The Council sealed it. If I back out now, they’ll blacklist me. And you guys did not spend years’ worth of tuition for nothing.”
Mom gives a brittle laugh. “We don’t care about the money, honey.”
“Yes, you do.”
Dad’s jaw flexes. He looks at Mom, then back at me. “We care about you not being a punchline in someone else’s story. What they did to you at the Hall was…” He trails off, not finishing the sentence. But we all know the word. Humiliation.
I meet his gaze, which is harder than anything I’ve done since the ceremony. “I survived it. I turned it around. It’s going to be okay.”
