Ranier whirls, eyes blazing. “I didn’t flinch. I—” He breaks off, as if remembering that someone else might be listening. Even in this room, privacy is a fiction. “Never mind. Just… why the fuck was her scent so strong?”
Silence. Even Wyatt stops typing. For a second it’s just the tick of the grandfather clock in the corner, counting down to our next scheduled disaster.
I let the silence stretch. I know the answer. So do they. But no one wants to say it first.
Wyatt does. “Because she’s a scent match,” he says, soft and flat. “We all felt it. Even you, Ranier.”
Ranier slams his fist on the table, rattling the glassware. “No. We do not need an omega. Especially not a—” He stops again, jaw working.
“A commoner?” I let it sting. “Or a girl with no legacy worth branding on a tea set? Come on, Ranier. Just say it.”
He does, finally. “We deserve better than to settle for a desperate, bottom-rung omega. If we accept her, it sets a precedent. That’s why my father?—”
The door swings open, hard enough to dent the plaster.Speak of the devil.Ranier’s father, who could probably pass for a grand inquisitor if the fashion called for it. He fills the room with a single glance, sweeping across the three of us like we’re specimens on a slide.
Ranier’s father shuts the door and waits for no one. “Explain yourselves.”
Ranier stands straighter, which is an accomplishment considering how rigid he was to begin with. “We didn’t find her suitable so we rejected her.”
The old man eyes us, but he’s looking for cracks in the story, not the surface. “You lied about there not being interest,” he says, voice as soft as a loaded pistol. “The three of you all went into sympathetic resonance the minute she stepped onto the dais. I could smell it from the gallery. Half the room could.”
Wyatt glances at me, and for a moment we’re allied, if only in mutual disgust.
Ranier’s father circles the table, zeroing in on me. “Silverwood. Your grandparents are already contacting the Council. If you can’t uphold your side of this arrangement, they want a replacement.”
“I did my part.” I hold his gaze. “We all did. That’s why we’re here. Besides, you didn’twantus to choose a commoner.” Did he conveniently forget that part?
Ranier’s father grins, a ghastly thing. “If you had done your part, she’d be here in this room with you all right now. Instead, she’s probably in the lobby, rallying half the rejected omegas behind her. Fix it. I don’t care at this point if she’s a commoner.”
Can’t have it both ways.I can see where Ranier got it from.
There’s a knock—polite, tentative—and a servant pokes his head in. “Sir, you’re wanted at the Council chamber. The Silverwoods have requested a word.”
“Perfect.” Ranier’s father straightens his jacket. “Silverwood, you’re with me.”
I follow him out, head high. The corridor is dim and lined with portraits of dead men, all of whom probably had to put up with less bullshit than I do. We pass a group of reporters, who pretend to be checking their badges but are definitely listening.
The Council chamber smells like old wood, ink, and disappointment. My grandmother is perched at the edge of a chair, elegant as ever, eyes sharp as awls. My grandfather stands behind her, his hands steepled in silent threat.
My grandmother speaks first. “Bastion. You know why you’re here.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She sighs, as if I’ve already let her down. “We spent thirty years restoring the family name. One scandal and it all evaporates. And nowanotherrejected omega. You understand this?”
“I do.”
Her eyes flick to Ranier’s father. “We were led to believe this match would be in our favor. Instead, the three of you put on a circus. If you’re incapable of choosing an omega, we’ll arrange for you to join another pack. One with more… discipline.”
My grandfather’s lips barely move. “Or you can go it alone, if you’re so inclined.”
The threat is real. There are solo alphas, but they’re usually social pariahs, or worse. I’m stubborn, not suicidal.
My grandmother goes on. “This isn’t about affection. Or chemistry. It’s about lineage, and you know it. The Everhart line is crumbling. The Silverwood legacy is fragile. Without a viable omega, both names die in a generation. Is that what you want?”
I could lie, but what’s the point? “No, ma’am.”
She softens, just a fraction. “Then you’ll fix this. You’ll make amends with the girl. Publicly, if you must. You’re not leaving this building until you do.”
