I roll my eyes. “Tell the Council.”
He laughs, and the sound is lighter than it was this morning.
I stay with Bastion until the nurse chases me out. On the way home, I stare out the window and watch the city rush by. For the first time since Omega Selection Day, I feel like maybe I belong here.
It’s weird how easy it is to slip back into the manor’s rhythm, even with Bastion banged up and Ranier pissed at the entire world. When we get home from the hospital, the staff is in full triage mode: pillows plumped, blankets doubled, every snack in the pantry rotated to the front as if sugar alone can mend fractured ribs.
Wyatt vanishes for a bit, but Ranier is everywhere at once—answering Council calls, pacing the hallway, occasionally glancing into Bastion’s room to make sure he’s not dead yet.
Bastion’s room is the only part of the house that looks lived-in. There are clothes everywhere, half-assembled models and engine parts on every surface, and an entire shelf of trophies for things like “Best Acceleration” and “Most Reckless Finish.” The air smells like pine and honey, but underneath it is a raw, peppery edge that I’m learning to recognize as adrenaline that never quite drains away.
I help Bastion into bed and arrange the pillows so he can sit up without sliding sideways. He tries to protest, but the painkillers are already turning his words to pudding.
“I’m not an invalid, you know,” Bastion says, but his eyelids are at war with gravity.
I tuck theGet Wreckedbear under his arm. “Fine. I’ll just tell your grandmother you’re faking it. She can come over and break your other arm if you want.”
Bastion grins, then slumps against the headboard. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
“Maybe a little.” I arrange the flowers on his nightstand so the wolf balloon is the first thing you see when you walk in.
Bastion drifts off after a few minutes. I sit at the edge of the bed and doodle in my sketchbook. Maybe I should leave him alone. That’s what omegas are supposed to do. Keep to their place. Only intervene when called or needed. But nobody here plays by the rules, and I’ve never been good at pretending I don’t care.
So I start to clean.
Not like a maid. More like an archaeologist, picking through layers of history in search of something that explains why this pack is so impossible. I fold the t-shirts, line up the shoes, gather all the loose change and racing tokens into a coffee mug shapedlike a wolf’s head. I find a box of spare car keys taped to the back of his desk drawer, a collection of fake IDs in a hollowed-out book, and a photo of Bastion as a kid, grinning wide, with his arm around a boy I don’t recognize.
I line them all up on the desk, then realize it’s too personal, too invasive. I put everything back where I found it and pretend I didn’t just snoop through the most private parts of his life.
I’m halfway through straightening the pile of racing magazines when Bastion’s phone vibrates. The sound is so sharp in the quiet that I almost jump. The phone is face-down, but the screen’s glow against the desk is too much. I turn it over. INCOMING CALL: DEALER.
I freeze.
Dealer, as in what? Drugs? Cards? I know Bastion gambles, but the rumor was he only bet on races, never the kind of thing that gets you disowned or, worse, disappeared by the Council. I stare at the phone until the call ends, then check to see if he left it unlocked. He didn’t.
The phone vibrates again. This time, a text pops up:Call me back. The line is on you.
I swallow. My hands are shaking, but I’m not sure if it’s fear or excitement. If Bastion is in trouble—real, actual trouble—then it explains everything. The secrecy. The sabotage. The way he looks at Ranier like he’s waiting to be thrown out any second.
I look over at Bastion. He’s still asleep, mouth open, one arm draped across the bear. He looks peaceful for once, the anger wiped clean by exhaustion and whatever is left of the morphine.
I could just leave it. Put the phone down, walk away, pretend nothing happened.
But I can’t.
If Bastion is hiding something, so are the other two. And if I’m going to survive in this house—if I’m going to win—I need to know every secret before they use them against me.
I set the phone back on the desk and keep cleaning, but now my eyes are sharper, my movements quicker. I scan the room for anything else out of place. A pile of envelopes, most of them unopened, stamped with “URGENT” or “FINAL NOTICE.” A folder labeled “Everhart Legacy—Private.” A stack of legal pads filled with engine diagrams and, at the bottom, a single page torn out and stuffed between the other pages: a list of names, some circled, some crossed out.
I’m about to take it and shove it into my pocket when Bastion stirs. I jolt upright as he groans. Quickly, I tuck the paper back in and turn to find him opening his eyes and blinking at the ceiling, disoriented.
“What time is it?” he asks, voice thick.
“Almost five,” I say. “You slept all afternoon.”
Bastion sits up, winces, then looks at the cleaned-up mess around him. “You didn’t have to?—”
I cut him off. “Yeah, I did. Somebody’s got to keep this place from becoming a landfill.”
