CHAPTER 10

  Wyatt

  The foyer of Everhart Manor is a monument to acoustics. Every door shut resonates down the columned spine. I never liked it, even as a kid. Right now, the echo is a stand-in for the nervous tremor in the air as I walk Eloise out, keeping three careful steps between us.

  I hold the door for her. “You want to wait inside? Driver’s on a personal break for another five.”

  Eloise flicks her hair, the ends catching blue from the chandelier, and steps past me onto the stone porch. “I’ll risk frostbite,” she says. “Better that than risk getting caught in a pack’s den at night.”

  She says it like a joke, but there’s real heat under the sugar.

  The night’s cold. Wet, but not raining, which is a novelty in this city. The limo’s parked at the curb. I watch as Eloise hugs herself against the wind. She looks less like a threat out here and more like a college kid who forgot her coat. I wonder if she knows how effective that camouflage is.

  “Nice place,” Eloise says, flicking her gaze up at the gothic lines of the manor. “Reminds me of a haunted frat house.”

  “That’s not a compliment,” I say.

  She shrugs. “Neither is this.” She looks me up and down, her eyes clear, sharp, and more awake than anyone ought to be at this hour. “You’re not the worst of the three, Whitlock, but that’s a low bar.”

  I want to agree. Instead I smile. “If you’re here to threaten me, you should get in line. Bastion’s grandmother has the top spot and she’s very possessive.”

  Eloise’s grin is a blade. “I’m not here to threaten. Just to warn.”

  I let my hand drift to the doorknob, casual, like I might close it at any moment and lock her out. “And what’s the warning?”

  She steps in, toe to toe. No fear. “If you or your pack hurt Emery again, I’ll make sure you never forget it. If you humiliate her in public again, or drive her out, or do anything that sets her back, I’ll make it so everyone you care about knows what a coward you are. Even the ones you haven’t met yet.”

  I could tell her I’m not scared of threats, but that would be a lie. People who threaten to punch you never do. It’s the quiet ones—the ones who warn you and then move on—that leave a scar.

  “Emery’s your best friend. Is that it?”

  Eloise shakes her head, then softens it with a slow smile. “She’s more than that. She’s the only one in our year who didn’t treat me like a beta with a beta brain. She’s the reason I got into gallery work, you know. Because she said I could, and because she meant it. I owe her.”

  I believe her. I want to say I admire it, but I know better than to give away that kind of approval for free. I let the moment stretch before replying.

  “If Emery wants to star in the next viral Royals Anonymous blog post who am I to stop her?” I say. “She made this circus on her own.”

  Eloise’s smile turns almost gentle. “If she wants it, yes. But if you push her into an unearned limelight, I’ll break your kneecaps with a wrench.”

  Yet Charlotte burned the Everhart name without lifting her voice.

  “Message received,” I say. “And for what it’s worth—I don’t want to hurt her. I don’t think Bastion or Ranier do, either.”

  Eloise snorts. “Good. Maybe you’ll last longer than three days.”

  The limo driver arrives back from his break and stands by the car. Eloise tucks her hands into her jacket and leans in, close enough that I catch the faint perfume of oil paint on her hands and peppermint on her breath.

  “Take care of her, Whitlock,” she says. “Or at least, don’t be the reason she goes.”

  I hold her gaze, let her see whatever is left of my own sincerity. “I won’t.”

  She smiles, big and wild, like she’s already forgotten the threat. “We’ll see,” she says, and then she’s down the steps, heels clicking on the stone.

  I watch as the limo swallows her up, as the taillights fade down the drive and the silence folds back over the porch.

  The night feels even colder, but the house is bright and loud behind me. I glance up at the high windows and think about what it must look like from the outside: the three alphas, the commoner omega, the impossible weight of legacy.

  Emery Grey has a better friend than any of us deserve.

  I close the door, latch it, and head back to my room to write down everything Eloise just said. Not for the blog. Just to remember what real loyalty looks like.

  CHAPTER 11

  Emery

  The house is a giant seashell amplifying every sound when I wake the next morning. I wake up too early, adrenaline still whirring in my blood, and for twenty minutes I lie there and listen to the bones of Everhart Manor creak as if the whole building is debating whether to reject me too.

  The nest I built last night is mostly intact with the blankets still folded like layers of pastry, pillows barricading the headboard, fairy lights casting a soft haze on the ceiling. If I close my eyes and ignore the faint smoke and ocean tangs in the hall, I can almost pretend I’m still at Eloise’s, where the worst thing you wake up to is someone microwaving soup at five in the morning.

  But I’m not there. I’m here. In the house of the three alphas who would, given half a chance, eat me alive or at least go out for brunch and gossip about the taste.

  My graduation art exhibition isn’t for another month, but I’ve been treating it like a lifeline. It’s something to focus on, something to drag me out of the trenches every time I catch my reflection and see the girl who got famous for being rejected on live-stream. I open my sketchbook on the desk, uncap a pen, and start tracing over yesterday’s work. If I keep my hands busy, maybe the rest of me will get the memo.

  Three lines in, a tap comes at the door. Not the code-violating bang of an alpha, but something softer, more polite.

  I blink once, take a breath, and call, “It’s open.”

  The door swings inward, and Helena Starling materializes on the threshold like a fashion-forward ghost. She’s in a pale blue tennis outfit, not a hair out of place, and carries a mug with the Starling family crest painted in gold. If she’s here to kill me, at least she’ll do it with elegance.

  “Morning,” she says, voice a little breathless, as if she jogged here. “Do you mind a visit?”

  I shake my head, then realize I haven’t put on real pants. Or any pants, unless you count the sleep shorts with cat faces. I pull a blanket over my lap and wave her in.

  Helena does a slow scan of the room, eyes lingering on the pillows and fairy lights, and gives a tiny nod of approval. “You settled in fast. When I first moved in at finishing school, I didn’t unpack for a week.”

  “Unpacking is a coping mechanism.” I set down my pen. “If I keep busy, I won’t spiral and drown in my own hormones.”

  Helena grins, and I realize she’s not at all like Ranier. She’s softer at the edges, but the eyes are the same shade of crystalline blue.

  “I brought tea,” she says, holding out the mug like a peace offering.

  I reach for it, then freeze. “I’m not allowed to drink out of the family crests, right? Isn’t that a thing?”

  Helena laughs. “That’s only for the silver. Porcelain is up for grabs.” She sets the mug down and perches on the edge of the desk, one knee crossed over the other in an artful pose that’s probably been drilled into her since infancy.

  I take a sip. The tea is some herbal blend, maybe chamomile and citrus, but with a weird undernote of licorice. Not my thing, but I’m not going to die for refusing it.

  Helena folds her hands and leans in conspiratorially. “So, how are you really? The guys said you survived night one, which is a record in this house.”

  My brain replays every moment since I arrived. Bastion’s smirk. Wyatt’s sidelong glances. Ranier’s refusal to even say my name unless forced. “It’s fine.” Universal code for: Not fine at all, but I won’t give you the satisfaction.

  Helena seems to catch it anyway. “They’re a lot, aren’t they? Even for alphas.”

  “Is that why you only come home during breaks?” I ask before I can stop myself.

  She grins again, not offended. “Partly. But mostly it’s the parents. I think if I lived here year-round, I’d forget how to have a personality.”

  “Your brother has enough for all of you, so you’d be safe.”

  She laughs, then covers her mouth, as if joy is something she’s not supposed to leak in this house. “Ranier is… complicated. He looks like he wants to murder everyone, but it’s just how his face works. Underneath, he’s a marshmallow.”

  I snort. “A marshmallow with a hatchet.”

  “Exactly.” Helena glances at the window in time to watch a sparrow dive past, then fixes me with a look that’s suddenly a little more serious. “You heard about their last omega, right? Well, only omega.”

  I freeze again. I know the rumors, but I never trust a story that’s been through more than three gossip chains. “I heard she left. Or was chased out.”

  Helena shrugs. “Both. It was… complicated. But she wasn’t a bad person at the start. It’s left Everhart Pack very unwilling to trust.”

  “Or be sincere in return.”

  Helena looks at me for a long moment. “You have the right idea, you know. Not faking it. Not groveling. They respect that, even if they pretend not to.”

  I blink, taken aback by the compliment. “Has anyone told Ranier that? Because he spends a lot of time looking like he wishes I’d vaporize.”

  She laughs again, more freely now. “He’ll come around. He always does. Bastion, too. And Wyatt… well, if you crack Wyatt, you should write a book about it.”

  “He doesn’t seem so bad,” I say. “Just, like, wounded.”

  Helena nods, her face dimming a shade. “He is. But he’s also the smartest, and the one most likely to look out for you if you end up on the wrong side of a prank war. Which is a thing, by the way. Last semester I woke up to every dress I owned replaced with exact replicas, but in neon yellow.”

  “Let me guess: Bastion.”

  “And Ranier,” she says, almost fond. “Wyatt just documented the whole thing and leaked it to whoever runs Royals Anonymous.”

  I shake my head in wonder. “I didn’t even know you could buy that much neon in this country.”

  “Money and spite will get you anything.” Helena nods gently toward the painting propped on my desk. “You’re good. Did you study at finishing school, or…?”

  “Art degree,” I say.

  “It’s beautiful,” she says. “You’re having an exhibition soon, right? I heard the pack talking about it. The Council wanted to make a big deal of it in the press.”

  “It’s mostly a student thing.” Is that downplaying the only good news in my life? Yes, but here we are. “But the Council wants me to put on a happy face, so… yeah. It’s happening.”

  Helena’s voice goes soft. “You should be proud. Not a lot of omegas can say they made it through finishing school and got a degree, let alone an exhibition. I barely survived my first year without throwing myself in the river.”

  I study her face. For the first time, she looks tired. Not physically, but in the way that happens when you’re always trying to live up to something you didn’t sign up for.

  “You’re the best part of your family, you know that?”

  She laughs, startled, then shakes her head. “You’re full of shit, but thanks.”

  We lapse into a comfortable silence. I drink the tea. Helena picks up my sketchbook and flips through, lingering on a page with a cluster of angry, abstract faces. She taps the paper. “You ever think about painting these onto the walls? The house could use more color.”

  “I’d get executed by dinnertime.”

  Helena closes the sketchbook and hands it back. “If you survive the week, I’ll sneak you into the attic and show you where I hid all my old paintings. It’s a secret museum. No one but Wyatt knows.”

  “Deal.” I almost believe I’ll make it that long.

  She stands, stretches, and fixes her hair in the window reflection. “I should go. The Council is on a group call with my mother in twenty, and if I’m late, she’ll send a search party.”

  I laugh. “Do they use hounds, or just the usual drones?”

  “Both, if they’re feeling fancy.” Helena steps to the door, then pauses. “You’re doing fine, Emery. For what it’s worth.”

  I swallow the lump in my throat. “Thanks, Helena. Really.”

  She smiles, soft and sincere. “We’re not all monsters here, you know.”

  “Noted.”

  The door clicks shut, and the house is a seashell again, only this time I can hear the echo of laughter and tea and something almost like hope.

  I look at the sketchbook, then at the painting, then at my own hands, stained with blue and red and a little bit of orange. I pick up the pen and draw a single, bold line across the page.

  Maybe, just maybe, I’ll win Everhart Pack over after all.

  CHAPTER 12

  Ranier

  The sitting room has always felt haunted to me. Not by ghosts, but by the ancient furniture that’s survived through generations. Maybe that’s why I can’t fully wrap my mind around the idea of staying angry with Emery for what happened at Selection Day. Maybe the status quo needs a shakeup.

  I stretch out on the blue velvet sofa, arms hooked behind my head, and stare at the ceiling and its swirl of plaster roses. What might my life have been like if I’d been born a beta?

  Bastion occupies half a loveseat and most of the bourbon on the cart. Wyatt is splayed at the far end of the sofa, fingers flicking at his phone with more focus than he’s ever given a human being. It’s a rare moment of peace in the Everhart house, if you don’t count the ticking of the grandfather clock. I can hear Helena upstairs with Emery as their laughter fills the halls of the second floor.

  Bastion’s the first to crack. “You should be worried about it, you know.”

  I look at him. He’s chewing the edge of his glass. His brown eyes are fixed on the sunlight filtered through the bottle onto the table. “Worried about what?”

  Bastion nods toward the stairs. “Helena’s been up there for a while now. If you’re not careful, your sister’s going to actually like her.”

  Wyatt snorts without looking up. “Wouldn’t that be a tragedy. Two omegas who don’t hate each other on sight.”

  I roll my eyes. “Helena can do what she wants. It’s not like I can stop her.”

  Bastion tosses back the rest of his drink and then sets the glass down with a sharp clack. “You can, but you won’t.”

  He’s right, but I’m not in the mood to say it out loud. Instead I let the silence build and count every tick of the clock until Wyatt sighs like he’s been asked to personally solve world hunger.

  “She’s not going to break,” Wyatt says. “Grey. Emery. Whatever we’re calling her now. She’s stubborn as hell and smarter than you’d guess.”

  I scoff. “Define smart.”

  Wyatt’s thumb glides across his phone screen. “She did two programs at once. Art school and finishing school. Do you know how hard that is? I checked the records—she graduated top of her class for both.”

  Bastion leans forward, interest piqued. “How do you even get into two programs at once? The Council doesn’t allow overlap unless you’re a prodigy or a legacy. And she’s not a legacy.”

  Wyatt’s smile is thin and clinical. “She’s a scholarship kid. Outscored every omega in the city on the placement tests. They had to make an exception. Then she ran every club at the finishing school and sold three paintings to a Council wife in the same semester.”

  Bastion whistles low as if he’s impressed in spite of himself. “Is that on the blog already, or are you saving it?”

  “Depends how petty I’m feeling,” Wyatt says, scrolling. “But it gets better. Her parents hate the whole thing. They wanted her to be literally anything else but someone’s omega. All this is her idea. She’s the one who put herself up for Omega Selection Day. The Council thought she’d flame out, make a good story. Joke’s on them.”

  I feel the headache start behind my left eye. “So she’s better at being an omega than anyone here is at being an alpha. Great.”

  Bastion grins. “Not hard to beat your record, Starling.”

  I ignore him and get up to pour myself a drink. The bourbon stings. I let it burn.

  “So what’s the move?” Wyatt asks, finally looking at me. “Are you going to bully her until she leaves? Because I don’t think it’ll work.”

  I watch the light catch the liquor in the decanter. “We make her want to leave. Or we make the Council want her gone. Either way, we control the narrative.”

  Bastion snorts. “You want to out-manipulate the Council? Good luck.”

  “Not them. The press,” I say. “The other packs. The parents. The public. Emery is a sensation right now, but that only lasts until the next disaster. If we’re careful, we can push her into one.”

  Wyatt’s interest is genuine. He sits up straighter, eyes sharp. “You have a plan?”

  I nod. “There’s an art exhibition coming up at the gallery downtown. It’s her first solo show. She’s been bragging about it since Omega Selection Day. If we ruin that, the whole scholarship-omega prodigy thing turns into a joke. Nobody wants a pack omega who can’t even run an art show without drama.”

  Bastion frowns. “You’re sure about this? It’s… kind of dirty.”

  I snort. “Not as dirty as what the Council could do if we don’t act first.”

  Wyatt is already typing on his phone, fingers flying. “She’s scheduled for a panel interview next week. Press will be there. If anything goes wrong, it’ll be viral by noon.”

  “Perfect,” I say. “We’ll figure out how to light the fuse. Let her burn it down herself.”

  The door to Emery’s room shuts and Helena’s footsteps start echoing down the hall. I follow the sound and sigh.