Sunlight knivesthrough the glass of the front set of manor windows. It paints the floor with bars of gold. I sit on the edge of a bench that, by rights, should only ever see the tailored trousers of important men. But today, I’m in a hoodie and yoga shorts, legs folded up and bare toes against the cold tile, scrolling the news feeds with the kind of grim fascination usually reserved for obituary comments.
As predicted, most of it is talk about Emery regarding last year’s Omega Selection Day events, and the predictions of which omegas might do crazy things this year.
As if standing up for yourself in the face of alpha men is radical.
A delivery van pulls up to the front gates, which part to let it enter. I watch the van come up to the door. A tall, lanky man no older than twenty-five emerges long enough to deposit a box outside our front doors. Before he’s back through the gates, Zane’s already appeared with the package and set it down beside me.
“This just came for you.”
“Thank you.”
Zane’s eyebrows twitch. “How are you today?”
Is it that obvious that I’m not that well? “I’m fine, Zane, thank you. I didn’t sleep well. I’ll be okay.”
“I can get coffee for you?”
He’s trying, but I’m not in the mood to be courteous today.
I give him a small smile, then take a closer look at the package. “You’re my bodyguard, not my personal assistant. I’ll get my own coffee in a bit.”
The return label is from the Omega Finishing School.
I sigh. “This appears to be a graduation parcel of sorts.”
Zane gives me a curt nod and then waits expectantly, like he wants me to open it and be sure it’s not dangerous before leaving me alone with the parcel’s contents. But at two feet by two feet wide, I can’t imagine what might be in here that’s so very dangerous Zane needs to stay by my side.
I pull at the twine wrapping the box quite nicely. Whoever packaged this parcel did a fine job. Inside is no different, with another finely decorated box. The inner box has a note on top, written on thick letterhead in swirling cursive font:
Helena,
We are so proud of you. May this little gift inspire the creation of a nurturing home, wherever you may land.
— Headmistress Crowthorne
There’s a wax seal with the school’s insignia: an omega symbol surrounded by three stalks of lavender and the year of our establishment.
I peel back the tissue paper to find the giftbox is actually a “nest starter kit.” It’s a real, trademarked product. Included are color-matched blankets in the school’s signature blue, a set of sachets containing scents designed to “maximize tranquility” (lavender, again, but also honey and sandalwood),a glass jar of milk bath, and a set of glossy cards printed with affirmations in looping script.
You are enough.
Your pack needs your light.
Nesting is an act of courage.
At the bottom, folded in a tight square, is a “future pack agreement.” I pick it up with two fingers as though it might bite. The paper is blank, save for my name at the top and a line at the bottom where signatures will eventually march in their expected order: alphas, then omega, then beta supports if there are any.
It hits me then, the full slap of inevitability. I am, apparently, the last person in the tri-county area who believed that by finishing school, by doing everything right, I might buy myself a year or three of peace—or the confidence that I’d done the right thing byme. That I actually wanted this and Omega Finishing School would make that decision feel more right.
My fists ball around the edges of the box as a rising fire burns within me. One flaming the desire to run.
This is not what I want anymore.
But do I get to decide that?
Zane clears his throat. “That’s, uh, quite the kit. Congratulations?”
I snort. “If this is a gift, I’d hate to see their idea of a threat.”
