But underneath the surface normalcy, I could feel the shift.
Everything was different now.
Twilson was in custody. The evidence was mounting. The council was finally looking at the feral crisis as what it really was—not a natural phenomenon, but a manufactured atrocity.
And at the center of it all was me.
An Omega.
The thing they'd tried so hard to destroy.
"What are you thinking?" Cole asked quietly, leaning across the table while the others were distracted.
"That this is just the beginning."
"It is."
"That there's going to be a lot more fighting before this is over."
"Probably."
"That I'm scared."
He reached across the table. Took my hand.
"Being scared is smart," he said. "It means you understand what's at stake." His thumb traced circles on my palm. "But you're not alone. You never have to do this alone."
"I know."
And I did know. That was the miracle of it—after everything, after years of feeling like an outsider, after weeks of confusion and fear and transformation, I finally knew what it meant to belong.
I had pack.
I had family.
I had five men who wore my bond in their eyes and would stand with me against anything.
Twilson could rot in custody. The council could investigate. The whole world could try to figure out what to do with the first Omega in thirty years.
I wasn't afraid anymore.
I was ready.
Chapter twenty
The preliminary hearing lasted four hours.
I sat in the back of the council chamber, flanked by Cole and James, watching the slow machinery of justice grind forward. There was no drama this time. No shouting matches or explosive revelations. Just documents passed between council members, quiet discussions, the occasional clarifying question.
Twilson sat at a table in the center of the room. He'd been allowed to dress in his usual suit—a small dignity that felt out of place given the circumstances. His face was blank. Controlled. But I could see the cracks underneath. The slight tremor in his hands when he reached for his water glass. The way his eyes darted to the exits every few minutes.
He knew how this was going to end.
The evidence was presented methodically. First the documents Kane and Kade had retrieved from Europe—thefragmentary records of experimental programs, the references to transfer authorizations, the clinical language describing procedures that made my stomach turn. Then the materials found in Twilson's office—his own handwriting, his own signatures, connecting him directly to the horrors that had created wolves like Stone.
A council member I didn't recognize read excerpts into the record. Treatment notes describing subjects who "resisted conditioning" and required "enhanced protocols." Transfer forms for wolves whose names had been redacted but whose subject numbers matched records from known experimental facilities. Correspondence with Emory herself, discussing "asset acquisition" and "program expansion."
Twilson's defense attorney objected occasionally. Questioned chain of custody. Challenged authenticity. But the objections felt perfunctory, like even he knew they wouldn't change anything.
