The words land in my chest like pebbles dropped into a still pond. No splash. Just little rings rippling outward and fading.
I manage a small, crooked smile. "That's dramatic."
"It was accurate," Finn says. "Now you smell like laundry and waiting."
I let that sit, then breathe in the steam from the nearest mug.
"Well. At least I'm clean."
Finn groans. "Don't do that. Don't 'at least' yourself."
I flip the subject before they can dig deeper.
"I'm thinking of talking to Ragon about something. I might ask him to send me back to the registry instead of bonding me in."
All three of them stop moving.
Malcolm sets the sugar jar down very carefully. "You what?"
"I might ask. Or I most probably will, if he doesn't decide on his own. Either way, I'm hoping he'll send me back."
I used to have nightmares about the registry—sterile halls, clinical voices, being handed off like a prescription. Funny how perspectives shift. Now those white walls seemalmost peaceful. A blank slate. Just no more packs, no more bonds. I've been transplanted twice already. A third time would kill the roots completely.
Alex sits down opposite me like someone pulled the fire alarm. "Vee. You know what the registry does with omegas, right?"
"I want to apply to live alone. No new pack. Just me."
Finn chokes. "That's not— They don't—" He looks at his alphas. "Tell her."
Malcolm exhales. "The registry almost never allows independent placement for omegas. Physiologically, you're flagged as needing alpha proximity for regulation. Their whole philosophy is about 'safeguarding instinct.' They don't like exceptions."
"Especially not after you've been in a pack this long," Alex adds. "They'd classify you as high-risk for destabilization. With your history? Two packs? They'd bemorelikely to force-match you again immediately, not less."
My stomach doesn't twist. It should. It doesn't.
"I'll make my case. If they say no, they say no. But I'm tired of being someone's lesson. I'd rather be no one's omega than the wrong pack's."
"They don't see you as no one's anything," Finn says, agitated. He starts pacing. "They see a set of instincts and a file and a liability if you're alone when you crash."
"I'm not crashing. I'm fine."
They all look at my hands.
My fingers are curved around the mug, relaxed. Not trembling. Not twitching. Not reaching out.
"Vee," Alex says quietly. "You're unnaturally fine."
I shrug. "I don't feel much like an omega anymore. I think I could be an exception."
Silence stretches.
Finn's gaze searches my face. "You'll still have heats. You'll still have cycles."
"Do I? Because the last one never came, and nobody noticed."
Their expressions darken—not at me.
"Ragon knows?" Malcolm asks.
