He laughs again, then presses a napkin to my split eyebrow. The blood slows. The pain starts to make sense.
The city is waking up around us—delivery trucks rumble by, streetlights flicker, somewhere a church bell rings. I watch it all from the curb, feeling like I’m outside of myself, watching a stranger fuck up the one thing he’s good at.
Lucian claps me on the back, says something about catching up next week, and then he’s gone. I sit there for a while, watching the sun crawl up behind the buildings, the light turning everything a sickly shade of gold.
When I finally stand, every joint screams. My head throbs, my mouth tastes like blood and defeat, but I start walking anyway. I have nowhere to go, but that’s fine. That’s always been fine.
I reach into my jacket for my phone. The screen’s cracked, but the group thread is still there, a dozen new messages already roasting me for the crash. I thumb out a reply:Next time, I’ll bring the good car.
As I walk, the ache settles into something manageable. I feel the bruises blooming, the cuts on my hands, the sting in my ribs. But I also feel awake—more awake than I’ve been since before Omega Selection Day. The pain is honest. The pain is mine.
I walk until the city turns from gray to blue, then to gold, then to the color of regret. I keep going, one foot in front of the other, because that’s what you do when you’re a Silverwood. You carry the name. You keep moving.
And maybe, just maybe, you try again.
I’m not dead yet. That’s something.
But the thought of having to explain any of tonight to Ranier and Wyatt while in this state makes my feet freeze on the pavement.Fuck.
I turn and walk toward the hospital.
CHAPTER 14
Emery
I wakeup to the sound of someone slamming a door. Not gently, but the kind that says, “I don’t give a fuck who’s sleeping.” The entire wall shudders, and my fairy lights flicker like they’re about to short out. I lie in my nest for a minute, half-dreaming that I’m still at finishing school and the drama outside is just another omega sobbing about her failed baking project. But the voices in the hallway are low, angry, and at least one of them is Ranier’s.
It’s not even light out yet. My phone says 5:27. I should stay in bed. There are rules about omegas getting involved when alphas are in one of their “moods,” but curiosity is hard to ignore, and I’ve never been able to let someone else have the first read on a disaster.
I pull on my warmest hoodie and crack the door open. A fresh wave of smoke and ozone hits my nose, which is wrong, because none of the alphas actually smoke and I’m pretty sure the house is up to code. Down the hall, Ranier is pacing in a pair of black sweats and a t-shirt with a faded boarding school crest. He’s on the phone, gesturing with the hand that’s not gripping his hair. At the far end, Wyatt sits on the bottom step of the main staircase, hunched over, phone glowing in his lap.
I can’t see Bastion.
My stomach does a slow backflip. I step out into the hall and the floor is cold, almost wet, under my feet. The thermostat is set for “polar research station.” I shiver, drawing Wyatt’s attention. He blinks up at me, eyes ringed in red, like he’s been up all night.
Wyatt doesn’t say anything right away, just looks at me and then at the hoodie I definitely didn’t steal to add to my nest while the alphas were busy. The gaze lasts for a long moment before he’s staring back at his phone again.
I almost retreat to my room and pretend I don’t exist. But I’m stubborn and, also, I need to know. So I go down the hall, avoiding Ranier, and sit on the bottom stair next to Wyatt.
It’s clear something with Bastion has happened, but whether it’s him or one of his family members, I’m unsure.
“Is he dead?” I whisper jokingly. It’s too early for subtlety.
I mean it as a joke, but Wyatt looks at me sideways with a slow blink that’s almost a wince. “No. Bastion’s at City Hospital. Broke a lot of things, but nothing you can’t duct tape together.”
Wyatt scrolls his phone. The screen is open to a private group chat, and from the few words I catch, the phrases “totaled” and “stupid fucker” are being thrown around a lot.
My heart sinks.Oh my god.“What happened?”
It’s like the entire world just sags under a fresh layer of gravity. For a second, my hearing fuzzes out, and all I’m aware of is the damp cold biting through the hem of my pajama pants and the dark, gnawing pit opening up at the bottom of my stomach. I don’t even like Bastion half the time. He’s a walking ego trip with a gambling problem and the emotional intelligence of a houseplant. But in the weird, non-optional way of pack life, the mere thought of him being really hurt—city hospital, “totaled,” the tone of Wyatt’s voice—makes my palms get clammy and my brain short-circuit.
It’s not just fear. It’s the creeping sense that something bigger is at work, that the fragile web the Starlings and I have been tap-dancing around all week is about to snap in a way nobody can ignore. My body goes into hyperdrive, every sense kicked to high alert. Something in my muscles wants to run, or scream, or do something constructive, but all I can manage is to clutch the banister and try to breathe without making it obvious I’m panicking.
Wyatt scratches the back of his neck. He smells like ocean rain and old sweat. “Midnight race. Bastion lost control. The other racers pulled him out before bailing from the scene, but he walked to the hospital on his own.”
I don’t even know where to start processing all of that information. Midnight street racing. Walking hurt to the hospital. “Why was he racing?”
Wyatt shrugs, but it’s clearly a stand-in for something else like guilt or exhaustion. “Because it’s what he does. He gets pissed off, he drives. Sometimes he comes back quickly and unhurt, even in the same car he left in. Sometimes he doesn’t.”
