"But it applies to you," I say instead.
Statement, not question.
Her smile is sharp enough to cut.
"Yeah. Omegas aren't worthy of communicating with the outside world, I guess."
The bitterness in her voice is palpable. Heavy. The sound of someone who's just lost something precious and is trying not to show how much it hurts.
"Not surprised, though." She shrugs—the movement too casual, too practiced. "That's what I get for being packless."
Packless.
The word echoes in my mind.
This beautiful, broken, bloodstained girl ispackless.
Alone in a place designed to destroy anyone without protection. Surviving through violence and stubbornness and whatever darkness has taken root in those mismatched eyes.
She presses the envelope into my hand, her fingers brushing mine for just a moment before she pulls away.
The contact sends electricity up my arm.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
"There you go," she chirps, already turning away. "Wouldn't want you to lose that. Letters are important, you know?"
Something in her voice breaks on the last word.
Letters are important.
Yeah.
Yeah, they fucking are.
She heads for the door, pink hair swishing against her shoulders, ballet shoes silent on the linoleum. She moves like a dancer—all grace and precision and control—but there's something wild underneath. Something barely contained.
"Wait."
The word escapes before I can stop it.
She pauses.
Doesn't turn around.
The line of her shoulders is tense, her spine straight, her whole body vibrating with the effort of not looking back.
"You smell like vanilla," she says to the door. "And smoke."
I blink.
Observant.
Most people can't pick apart individual scent notes—they just get the overall impression, the dominant chord. But she identified both my primary and secondary without hesitation.
"Smoking is bad for you," she adds.
The non sequitur makes me want to laugh. It's so random, so unexpected, so utterlyunhingedin a way that should be alarming but somehow isn't.
