My ballet shoes make almost no sound against the cracked pavement as I navigate the winding path from the secluded residential section toward the main campus arteries. The townhomes behind me—each one a testament to survival, to earning the right to exist outside the communal hell of the dormitories—cast long shadows in the pre-dawn darkness.
Mine sits at the end of the row.
Number 13.
Am I surprised it's 13?
The universe has a sense of humor, and I'm apparently the punchline.
Thirteen. The unlucky number.
Except I made it lucky through sheer spite and a body count that would make most people vomit.
The thought makes me giggle—soft, breathy, just this side of unhinged. I clap my hand over my mouth immediately, eyes darting to the shadows between buildings.
Shh. Quiet, quiet, quiet. The hunters are always listening.
My fingers tap against my lips in rapid succession: one-two-three-four, one-two-three-four.
Even numbers.
Safe.
"Seraphine," Ro's voice whispers through the speaker resting against my sternum, "your heart rate is elevated. Are you experiencing anxiety?"
"No," I breathe, barely audible. "Excitement."
"Biologically identical responses."
"Shut up, Ro."
But she's right.
My heart hammers against my ribs like it's trying to escape, and my skin feels too tight, too hot, tooawareof every sensation. The cool morning air kissing my exposed midriff. The bite of ribbon against my calves. The weight of my blades pressing against my spine.
I'm alive.
Goodness, I'm so fuckingaliveit hurts.
The residential section of Ruthless Academy is unlike anything in the other sectors—Hard Knot, Dead Knot, Savage Knot. Those places have their own flavors of nightmare: communal suffering in Hard Knot's overcrowded dorms, the isolated cabins scattered through Dead Knot's forest wherestudents hunt each other for sport, the brutal pack hierarchies in Savage Knot's compound living.
But Ruthless?
Ruthless gives you theillusionof independence.
Of safety.
Of home…
That's what makes it so much worse.
Because youearnthese townhomes. You earn the right to have four walls that are yours, a door that locks, and a space where you can pretend you're human instead of a weapon being honed by violence.
And the cost?
The cost is everything.
Packless Omegas like me—the ones who've survived long enough without bonding, without submitting, without breaking into pretty little pieces for Alpha consumption—we get special consideration.
