Wyatt laughs. “No, but the rumor is the lapels are so sharp they can cut through Council bureaucracy.”
I snort. Some of the nerves burn off. “How long until we have to go?”
Wyatt checks his phone. “Now, basically. Car’s waiting downstairs.”
I stand, brush off imaginary lint, and make sure my lipstick is still intact. I grab the clutch that Eloise let me borrow, even though it’s so tiny it can only hold a pack of gum and maybe one emergency inhaler.
We walk out together. The hall is empty, but I can hear someone—probably Bastion—swearing at his reflection in the guest bathroom. Wyatt holds the front door for me, then steers us down the steps with a hand on my elbow. It’s not necessary, but I actually really like it.
The car waiting at the curb gleams under the streetlights, its black surface catching every reflection like a mirror. My eyes find themselves in the window—pupils wide, lips pressed tight. The driver steps out and tips his hat, revealing a stern face with sharp angles. His mouth remains a flat, professional line as he swings the door open with white-gloved hands, then stands at attention beside it.
Inside, Bastion sits slouched on one side of the backseat, legs splayed, tie already loosened. He lifts an eyebrow when he sees us and whistles low.
“Damn, Grey. Are you trying to seduce the press, too?”
“Do you think it’ll work to get me back in some good graces?” I settle in beside him.
Bastion snorts. “Wish I knew, they barely tolerate me.”
Wyatt slides in last and closes the door. The driver takes off moments later. The three of us sit in a weird, charged silence. Bastion picks at the hem of my skirt with one finger, like he’s curious what it’s made of. Wyatt cracks his knuckles in time with the blinker. I stare out the window, counting streetlights until the car pulls into the main drag.
It’s cold outside. The city is decked out for spring, but the wind is winter’s ex-boyfriend, refusing to take the hint and leave. I shiver, and Bastion shrugs off his suit jacket to drape it over my shoulders. “Here.”
“Thanks.” I huddle deep inside it and breathe in his woody scent. It mingles with Wyatt’s ocean waves here in the back of the car. And while the silence is charged, it’s not our fault.
Ranier is missing. It’s Ranier who refuses to give this pack a try. But Wyatt and Bastion, they are mine and I am theirs.
All that remains to be seen is if Rainer will accept that, or leave entirely.
The donation drive—today’s royal PR event—is at an old church that’s been repurposed into a shelter. There are already camera crews outside, a slow wave of people pressing toward the doors. The Council’s PR team is everywhere, corralling the media, passing out folders, and making sure no one is close enough to catch us unsupervised.
The Council may not like me after the events of Omega Selection Day, but they’ll do whatever is necessary to keep me physically safe, it seems. I’m happy for it.
Our driver pulls up to the curb and opens the door. Bastion hops out then turns to offer me a hand. I accept and nearly eat shit on the icy sidewalk, but Bastion catches me before I go down.
“Careful,” he murmurs, close to my ear.
I nod gratefully.
Wyatt gets out, straightens his shirt, and herds the two of us to the door. The head of house is supposed to arrive fashionably late, so it’s just the three of us on the front steps, blinking in the flashbulbs.
A woman in a green pantsuit materializes in front of us. She’s holding a clipboard, a phone, and a pen she uses as a baton to direct the action.
“You’re on in sixty seconds,” she says, not looking up. “Please refrain from swearing or belittling reporters. Also, don’t mention the incident leading to Bastion’s hospitalization or any rumors involving illegal gambling.”
Bastion salutes. “Scout’s honor.”
Wyatt snorts. “You’ve never been a scout.”
“Not in this lifetime,” Bastion says, and winks at me.
The woman does a quick visual check, then gives me a once-over that’s only half disapproving. “Good color choice, Grey. Blue is nonthreatening.” She hands me a printed schedule. “You’re expected to greet the mayor, shake hands with at least three donors, and answer questions from the press at 10:15 sharp. Do not wander off.”
I tuck the schedule into the clutch, which is now dangerously close to critical mass.
The doors open and we file in, blinking against the blast of light and the thrum of voices. The inside is a wonderland of chaos—tables piled with donated food and clothes, stacks of canned goods, and rows of cots along one wall. Volunteers in color-coded vests scurry everywhere. The press is corralled near the entrance, but a few have wormed their way deeper.
We are herded toward the main stage where a banner reads: “Everhart Pack: New Traditions, Stronger City.” I almost laugh, because the only new tradition so far is “don’t get run out of town,” but I guess the Council has lower standards than I thought.
