The next hour passes in a strange, suspended haze. Emery comes and goes, ferrying soup and snacks, fluffing pillows, and refusing to take shit from Bastion even when he doubles down on the snark. She changes his bandages like it’s no big deal. Her touch is matter-of-fact and almost gentle. Wyatt sits in the armchair by the window, pretending to read but mostly just watching the weird new ecosystem take shape around the bed.
I lean against the wall. There’s no room for me in this little drama, not really, but I can’t make myself leave. If I’m honest, it feels safer here, even with the risk of Bastion throwing a cup at my head.
When Emery finishes with the bandages, she wipes her hands on a towel and glances up at me. “Do you want to help with dinner, Ranier? Or are you still allergic to the kitchen?”
I snort. “I’m allergic to being bossed around by a commoner omega.”
She smiles, full force. “That’s fine. I’ll ask Wyatt. He’s a much better sous chef.”
Wyatt bows, mock-serious. “At your service, milady.”
Bastion groans, then flops back on the pillows. “If you guys don’t shut up, I swear I’ll swallow a rook and make you all drive me back to the hospital.”
Emery laughs, the sound bright and clean. For a second, the whole room softens.
I follow her to the kitchen before Wyatt can, if only for something to do. The space is cold marble and steel, big enough to host a basketball game. Emery moves with surprising confidence, lining up ingredients with the precision of a general marshaling her troops.
I hover by the counter. “You’re taking this pretty well,” I say. “Bastion can be a dick.”
She doesn’t look up. “I have three cousins. All boys. After a while, you learn not to let it get to you.”
I watch her for a moment. She slices vegetables with quick, efficient strokes, never hesitating. “You’re not what I expected.”
She sets down the knife and turns to face me. Her eyes are bluer than I remembered. “What did you expect? Drama? Meltdowns? The tragic omega who can’t handle the big bad alphas?”
I feel my face go hot. “Maybe.”
She grins. “That’s not me.”
“I can see that,” I say, and then, because it feels necessary, “We’ve been shitty to you.”
She shrugs, not unkind. “You’ve been shittier to each other. I just get the splash zone.”
I almost laugh, and it surprises me. “You’re not afraid of us at all.”
Emery’s smile fades a touch. “You’re the only ones who should be afraid. I’m here to stay, Ranier. I’m not going anywhere.”
I feel the words land. Hard.
“Why?” I ask, and it’s not a challenge, just genuine confusion. “You could go. You could have any pack you wanted.”
She shakes her head, ponytail bobbing. “No. The Council could blacklist me after what I did at Omega Selection Day. You’re stuck with me, and I’m stuck with you. But that’s not why I’m doing this.”
I study her face. There’s nothing fake there. Not even the glimmer of calculation I’d expect from someone so determined.
“I want to belong somewhere,” she says, quiet now. “And I want to win. That’s it.”
I nod, not trusting myself to say more.
She turns back to the stove and dumps vegetables into a pot with a sizzle. “If you really want to help, you can set the table. But don’t mess up the forks, or I’ll never let you live it down.”
I smirk. “You’re a tyrant, Grey.”
She glances over her shoulder. “You have no idea.”
We work in companionable silence for a while. I set the table, careful to line up the knives and forks exactly the way she likes it, because I know she’ll check. The soup smells better than anything I’ve had since before Selection, and for a second, I can almost pretend the rest of the world doesn’t exist.
When we eat, it’s the four of us at the table. Nobody talks much, but nobody leaves, either. The food is good, and even Bastion manages to not complain. Emery eats fast, like she’s worried it might get taken away, but she never lets her eyes drift from the rest of us for long.
