The word lands in my chest like a physical object.
Small. Warm. Dangerously close to the locked compartment where I keep things that matter.
“Because maybe to the world, they don’t see her value.” Violet’s voice softens by a degree that would be imperceptible to anyone who hasn’t spent years cataloguing the emotional nuances of powerful women’s vocal patterns. “But in my eyes, Miss Sinclair is the only one who will be able to carry this task and get you useless lot out of your circumstances.”
Useless lot.
Delivered with affection, somehow.
Only Violet Martinez could call three dangerous Alphas useless and make it sound like a term of endearment.
“So you should deem yourselves lucky, in my eyes,” she concludes, her chin lifting with the particular authority of a woman who has delivered her verdict and considers the deliberation closed. “For any other chosen Omega would have been your demise.”
Silence.
The kind that follows a speech so comprehensive in its dismantling of available objections that the people it was delivered to have no remaining material from which to construct a response. The Prime Alpha stands near the door, his fists still clenched but his posture shifting from aggressive to contemplative. The twins sit in their chairs, exchanging another microsecond look that I can’t fully decode but that seems to translate roughly toshe’s right and we know it.
When no one answers, Violet smirks.
She leans back in her chair—the red silk rustling against the leather, her white hair catching the amber light—and settles into the posture of a woman who has achieved exactly the outcome she engineered and is now transitioning from prosecution to administration.
“Those invitations will get you into the ball,” she declares, gesturing to the crimson envelopes on the desk. “Make sure at least one of you has it at the end of the masquerade when the clock strikes twelve.”
Her violet eyes sweep the room one final time.
“And remember. Unless you’re bonded, none of this matters.”
The Prime Alpha speaks from his position near the door. His voice has lost the explosive energy of his refusal and settled intosomething flatter, more resigned—the register of a man who is accepting terms he finds distasteful because the alternative is worse.
“So you literally want us to be in a loveless pack?”
Violet shrugs again—that unexpectedly casual gesture that disarms formality as effectively as a well-aimed joke.
“If you opened your heart,” she says, and her voice carries something that sounds almost like tenderness, “like you struggle to do with your eyes, you’ll soon realize how similar you all are.”
Similar.
The word snags on something inside me.
I think of the stare-off. The void behind his eyes that matched the void behind mine. The way his composure shattered and rebuilt with the same mechanical efficiency that mine employs. The shutdown face.
Similar.
Maybe.
Or maybe Violet just sees patterns in people the way I see patterns in danger, and calling them similar is her version of strategic matchmaking dressed up as observation.
She rises with a smile that is pure and unsettling in equal measure—the expression of a woman who has just arranged the pieces on a board that only she can see the full layout of.
“Knot Academy is notorious for getting our matches right on. Not a single pack has proven otherwise since acquiring freedom.” Her violet eyes carry a glint that might be pride or might be the particular satisfaction of someone who has been playing this game longer than anyone in this room has been alive. “It’ll be interesting to see if you’re able to prove otherwise.”
She declares that we may leave.
The dismissal is gracious but final—delivered with the warm authority of a host who has concluded the evening’sentertainment and is now politely but firmly indicating the location of the door.
“You may wear whatever to the masquerade, but remember—this is a ball of a lifetime.” She pauses, and something playful enters her expression for the first time since we arrived. “So try to be rather extravagant, if you can.”
We share a look.
