Emery drops onto the edge of the bed, close enough that I feel the fizz of her scent cut through the honey and pine of mine. I try not to flinch. “How’s the arm?”
“Still attached.” I point to the pitcher. “What’s in there? It looks radioactive.”
She pours a glass, the liquid thick and blue. “Electrolytes. You’re not allowed to dehydrate on my watch.”
I take the glass, sniff it, then sip. It tastes like melted gummy bears and regret, but I drink anyway. “You ever try this stuff?”
“I’m not the one with the death wish,” she says, but her eyes flicker, just for a second, to my chest. I pretend not to notice.
The silence stretches, but it’s not uncomfortable. Emery opens her own container, starts spooning yellow Jell-O into her mouth with the blank-faced efficiency of someone who’s survived actual trauma.
I watch her for a minute. She’s not beautiful in the way Council omegas are bred to be—she’s too short, too intense, too unwilling to make herself smaller. But there’s a gravity to her. When she laughs, you feel it in your teeth. When she’s angry, it fills the room like a gas leak.
“I heard you and Wyatt are running bets on my life expectancy,” I say.
She swallows. “You were supposed to be asleep when we talked about that.”
“You’re not quiet,” I say. “Neither is he.”
Emery shrugs and then licks Jell-O from the spoon. “Wyatt says you’ll snap in a week. I say you’ll make it two, but only if you run out of things to throw at the staff.”
“Is there a prize?”
She considers. “Loser has to do all your laundry. Including the stuff you hide under the bed.”
I grin, sharp. “What makes you think I hide anything?”
She gives me a look, deadpan. “You’re a Silverwood. You guys invented hiding things.”
I laugh, and the movement pulls at my ribs. I wince, and she notices, of course. Emery sets down her spoon, folds her arms, and stares at me in that way she has—like she’s taking inventory, or planning how to fix a busted transmission.
“Are you actually okay?” she asks, voice softer now.
I consider lying, but there’s no point. “It hurts to breathe. Hurts worse to move. But I’m not dead, so, yeah. I’m okay.”
She nods, like that’s enough, but the thin press of her lips lingers.
We eat in silence for a while, the kind that only happens when two people have nothing to prove to each other. When she finishes, she closes the container and wipes her mouth with the back of her hand.
“I brought you something,” she says.
She digs into the front pocket of her hoodie and pulls out a remote, black and battered, the buttons shiny from years of use. She tosses it to me, and I catch it left-handed, barely.
“Thought we could watch something,” she says. “Since you’re not allowed to leave the bed.”
I click the TV on and scroll through the options. Every streaming app is logged in to at least four profiles. The most recent search is “car crash compilation” and “sharks eating people.” I glance at her. “Is this a threat?”
She shakes her head. “It’s research.”
“On what?”
She smirks. “Alpha attention spans.”
I scroll to horror movies, which is my go-to for anything involving company. I pick the first one with a skull on the cover and hit play. The opening scene is a jump scare, which I enjoy solely for the way Emery doesn’t flinch. She just watches, armsfolded, legs crossed at the ankle, like she’s auditing the movie for mistakes.
“Not a horror fan?” I ask, halfway through a slasher monologue.
Emery shrugs. “They’re fine. I just get annoyed when the characters make bad decisions. If I was in a haunted house, I’d leave. End of movie.”
