Someone brushes past us. His scent is sharp, winter mint and bourbon. I pull myself from the reverie and note he’s the head of Starling House. He’s tall, with a dark suit and blue eyes, and although he doesn’t make eye contact, the tilt of his jaw says he knows exactly where we are.
“Did you see that?” I hiss, elbowing Eloise.A scent match for me.
She’s half a glass in already, thanks to a passing waiter, and giggles at me. “See what? The walking jawline?”
“Do you think he’s here for the Selection?” I ask, but Eloise is already distracted, her gaze darting from face to face as if she’s scanning for threats. Or opportunities. Probably both.
A flash goes off to our left, and I almost jump. Reporters. They’re not allowed past the first atrium, but they stick their cameras through the open windows anyway, hungry for drama. I duck my head and pray I don’t look too much like a deer in headlights.
We’re corralled with other omegas in an area toward the front of the beautiful ballroom and stand together until Eloise is whisked away to where the other families of other omegas are.
And then it’s just me. Me and every other eligible omega in this room and only a few royal alpha packs with openings.
It’s me against them with the weight of every dollar Mom and Dad spent investing in this very future. The same parents I can see in the crowd now, waving Eloise over to where they stand.
At least they’re here to support me even if they don’t agree with me.
“Good luck,” Mom mouths.
I nod and then return my attention to the ballroom as a man in a plain silver suit steps up to a microphone stand and welcomes everyone to Selection Day.
No one warned me how slow the Selection moves. Three Council members at the dais, each one a study in pale stone and ceremonial silk, reading from their scrolls with grave, priestly diction. It’s supposed to be formal, reverent. To me, it feels like watching a python uncoil.
The room hushes for every name. For some, there’s applause—the prodigies, the legacy lines, the rare few who pair with high-demand packs. For others, only the click of a pen as the Council member records the outcome. The odd cry or muffled sob, but mostly silence. It’s as if everyone’s holding their breath, waiting for the axe to fall or the sky to open.
My palms are sweating so badly I nearly drop my number card.Steady now, I tell myself like I’m some wild animal. I want to laugh, but my tongue is glued to the roof of my mouth.
A few feet away, a girl with gold-threaded hair and perfect posture steps up. The Councilor intones: “Lydia Hale for Whitby Pack—do the parties accept?” She nods, her would-be pack nods, and the room actually breaks into clapping. Lydia beams, winks at someone, and glides away as if she were born for it.
I try to mimic her posture. I feel like a scarecrow in a charity shop dress.
Name after name. Some get matched, some do not. Each time an omega is rejected, the tension spikes. I wonder if it’s possible for a room to burst from so much hope and failure crammed inside it.
Finally, it’s my turn.
The Councilor—tall, lantern-jawed, reading glasses perched on his nose—draws a breath and lets it out, as if this one is going to be a problem. “Emery Grey for consideration by Everhart pack.” There’s a rustle in the crowd, like wind through dried leaves. Heads turn. A few girls whisper behind their hands.
I’m supposed to walk to the dais. My legs are a suggestion, not a reality, but I manage to put one foot in front of the other. My pulse is a siren. The lights are a million daggers, the crowd a sea of judges.
I don’t dare look at Eloise. I don’t dare look at my parents.
I look atthem.
Everhart Pack stands at the far end of the hall, each in a suit so severe it looks like it could cut. Ranier is front and center, Bastion just behind him, and Wyatt a half-step back and to the left. It’s like a police lineup, if police lineups were conducted by supermodels.
My scent is supposed to help, supposed to draw them in. Instead, I’m sure it’s betraying every scrap of terror running through my blood. I see Bastion wrinkle his nose, see Wyatt’s lips twitch in something like amusement.
But I already know one of them is a scent match for me. And I’m starting to realize the other two are as well.
“Everhart pack, do you accept the match?” The Councilor’s voice reverberates. There’s an extra lilt to it, as if he’s as curious as the rest of the room.
Ranier takes his time stepping forward. He’s taller than he looks in the press photos, and when he smiles it’s wide and… cruel. Not friendly. “We reject,” he says, loud enough for the back row to hear. He doesn’t bother to couch it in the polite phrases everyone else has used. “We’re not interested in a charity case.”
There’s a gasp followed by the scuffling sound of every omega in the room trying not to look too delighted. I stand frozen, the humiliation washing over me so hot I think it might burn right through my dress.
The Councilor blinks, thrown off-script. He recovers. “Noted,” he says. “Any further comment from the pack?”
Bastion steps forward, pushing Ranier aside with a hand to the shoulder. He’s more animated, eyes sparking with mischief or malice or both. “We’re traditionalists,” he says, and the words drip with sarcasm. “We thought the Selection was about excellence. Not… pity.”
