I grunt, arms folded. “Don’t let her hear you call it ‘blob style’.”
He grins, tapping the side of his nose. “Oh, I want her to hear me. She’s the only person in the house with a sense of humor right now.”
I ignore him, moving from one painting to the next. The one above her desk is just lines and triangles in electric colors, but it hums like it’s got a current under the paint. I can’t tell if it’s supposed to be an animal, or a person, or if it’s just the inside of her brain after too much coffee. Either way, it’s hard to look away. Maybe that’s the point.
Wyatt closes the notebook and lets it fall, careful not to let it touch the floor. “I’m serious, Starling. You could do a whole gallery off just what’s in this room and sell out opening night.”
“Isn’t that her plan?” Even I can hear the edge in my voice.
Wyatt leans back with his hands braced behind him. He’s wearing a black shirt with a faded slogan, something about coffee and consequences, and his hair’s damp from a shower. “She said she was going to debut at the City Center, but the Council made her sign a press embargo. No spoilers, no leaks, all hush-hush until the big night.”
I study a smaller canvas propped on the windowsill behind a tangle of succulents. The frame is raw wood, the paint still tacky in the corners. The image is simple: three figures, all blank-faced, sitting at a table. I realize, with a jolt, it’s us. The three alphas, painted in shades of gray and blue and something that looks almost like bruises. She hasn’t even bothered to add herself to the picture.
“She’s better than any of us.” And I don’t just mean with art.
Wyatt catches the shift and looks up. “You’re actually mad about it.”
I shake my head. “Not mad. Just…” I lose the thread and stare at the painting until it blurs. “She’s making us look like idiots, and she’s not even trying.”
Wyatt smiles, but it’s not sharp this time. “Maybe that’s what it feels like to be around someone who gives a shit. Kind of novel, yeah?”
I’m about to tell him to fuck off, or maybe just leave, when the sound of Bastion’s voice slices down the hall. He’s yelling—loud, cranky, the way only a Silverwood can be when confined to a single floor and forbidden to operate heavy machinery. The door to Emery’s room is open, and even through the din I can make out the edge of her reply: calm, snarky, unbothered.
Wyatt stands, smoothing the notebook. “If he throws another water glass, I’m not cleaning it up.”
I cross my arms. “Let the maid deal with it.”
Wyatt gives me a look. “Sheisthe maid, Ranier. She’s doing all the work. And she’s not even being paid. Look.”
I follow him down the hall, pausing at the corner where the main corridor splits to the guest suite. Bastion’s door is half open, and I catch a glimpse of him—arm in a sling, head bandaged, face puffy but alive—propped up in bed like a sultan of the damned. The TV is playing a muted rerun of some car show, but Bastion’s attention is locked on the chessboard in front of him.
Emery sits across from him, legs folded under her on the chair, her hair pulled back into a braid that bleeds from lavender to blue at the ends. She’s moving a pawn, one space at a time, careful as a surgeon.
Bastion scowls, but there’s zero venom in it. “You know I can see through your strategy from here, right?”
Emery shrugs, the barest suggestion of a smile on her face. “You said you wanted to play. If you don’t want to lose, don’t invite me.”
Bastion groans, head rolling to the side. “Why are you even good at this? It’s not an omega skill.”
Emery plucks a bishop from the board and spins it between her fingers. “Finishing school required six hours of chess for ‘strategic thinking.’ I was the only one who didn’t get bored enough to start a fire.”
Wyatt pokes his head in. “How’s the patient?”
Bastion glares at him. “Bored. Hungry. Not allowed to take a piss without a chaperone, thanks to Nurse Grey here.”
Wyatt shifts his gaze to Emery, who winks. “He means, ‘Thank you, Emery. You’re a delight, and I’d be dead in a ditch without you.’”
Bastion flips him off with his good hand, but even that lacks conviction.
Emery stands and stretches her arms over her head. “I need to check the soup. Try not to cheat while I’m gone.”
Emery disappears down the hall, leaving a streak of cotton candy scent in her wake. I don’t realize I’m watching her until Wyatt gives me a nudge.
“You like her,” he says, low enough that Bastion won’t hear.
I shake my head, more out of reflex than honesty. “I don’t have to like her. I just have to not hate her.”
Wyatt shrugs, then grabs a box of crackers from Bastion’s bedside tray. “Whatever you say, man.”
