I drain my glass. “No.”
Wyatt looks up from his phone. The pale green of his eyes has gone hard. “You’re scared she’ll win, aren’t you?”
I don’t answer, because he’s right.
We let the silence fill up the room. The clock ticks. Bastion pours another, less steady this time.
“You want help, I’m in,” Wyatt says, finally. “But only because it’ll make a better story than anything else this year.”
Bastion shrugs. “Same.”
I nod. “Good. We start tomorrow.”
Helena ducks her head in to wave goodbye and then leaves, a wild smile on her face. They must have had a great time up there hanging out and getting to know one another. I wonder, for just a second, if I’ll ever get to be that free. Then I remember who I am, and who I’m supposed to be, and I lock it down like I always do.
“Meeting adjourned,” I say, and the room dissolves back into its usual corners.
Bastion to the bourbon. Wyatt to his phone. Me, to the plan.
If Emery Grey wants to play with the big dogs, she’d better learn how to run. And I’m going to make damn sure she does.
CHAPTER 13
Bastion
The cityat night is always hungover. Even at two a.m., the buildings slump against each other like exhausted party guests, light bleeding from windows in lines that won’t stay straight. I walk the sidewalk with my hands jammed in my pockets, collar up, head down, letting the wind smack my face until it goes numb. This is my favorite part of the city, the border between the glitzy Council district and the part where nobody bothers to pick up the glass after it’s broken.
The only sound is the distant thump of some bass-heavy car and my own footsteps, a little too loud, a little too even. I like walking, but it’s not enough tonight. Nothing’s enough tonight.
I duck into the first bar that looks open and not expensive enough to be a trap. The inside is low-lit and sticky. The bartender has a tattoo of a blackbird on one hand and an omega mark on her throat, which tells me she’s safe—she won’t recognize me from Royals Anonymous, or if she does, she’ll keep it to herself. I order a whiskey and drink it like it’s a dare.
The bar television is playing a recap of Omega Selection Day on mute. Emery’s face flashes in a loop. First humiliated, then triumphant, then humiliated again, depending on how thecommentator wants to spin it. The caption at the bottom says, “NEW ROYAL OMEGA: PRIDE OR PITY?”
I order a second drink before the first can hit bottom.
I could go home. I could go anywhere, really. But I don’t, because the only thing waiting there is a grandfather who doesn’t know the meaning of “I’m tired,” and a phone filled with Councilors who think this is all some grand soap opera and not a car crash with my family name on it. I thumb my phone, flipping through the racing app, looking for something to keep my hands busy.
And there it is. Midnight Run 85. The group thread is lighting up with the neon pulse of a half-dozen adrenaline junkies who’ve never heard the word “legacy” unless it was the name of a new high-performance coupe. There’s a race on tonight. Of course there is. It’s the only thing that runs on time in this city.
I stare at the whiskey until the glass goes blurry, then toss a few bills on the bar and slip out the side door.
Outside, the air is even colder, but it feels better. My car is parked two blocks away, because I hate paying for valet and because the walk gives me time to decide whether I’m about to do something very stupid or just regular stupid. The answer is always both.
The car—my car, not the family’s, not the one with bulletproof windows and a driver who never learned my name—is a two-door, matte gray, low to the ground and mean as a kicked dog. I run a hand over the hood. The engine’s still warm from earlier. I get in and let the car swallow the last of the night.
The group thread has the coordinates. Tonight’s race is in the warehouse district, same as always. I drive there on autopilot and watch as the city lights smear into ribbons through the windshield. Every red light is a suggestion. Every alley is a shortcut. I tell myself it’s fine—I’m not that drunk, just steady enough to pass for sober, and anyway, this isn’t about winning.It’s about burning off enough anger to keep from taking it out on someone who doesn’t deserve it.
By the time I arrive at the warehouse, the lot is already half-filled with cars. Not the slick, chromed monsters from the Council side of town, but old machines, rebuilt and snarling. I recognize a couple of them including Lucian’s blue beast, the moss-green hatchback that always smells like weed, the little yellow deathtrap from last summer’s circuit. There’s a nervous energy in the air, thick with exhaust and the kind of testosterone that only comes out after dark.
I pull in and park. A few heads turn, but no one waves. Perfect.
Lucian ambles over, cigarette glowing like a firefly between his teeth. “Bass! Didn’t think we’d see you tonight. Thought you’d be busy prepping for the ‘pack family values’ tour.”
I flip him off, no smile. “Just needed to drive. Who’s in?”
He jerks his chin at the lineup. “All the usual idiots. And you, apparently. Course is tight tonight. Over the bridge, cut back at the cathedral, then sprint to the old stadium. First one to the east lot buys breakfast.”
I nod. “Standard.”
