She scoffs, and her nostrils flare as she gnashes her teeth. "You're both omegas. You knownothingof war or what it takes."
Dad inhales jaggedly.
"I know more than you think," I hiss. "And I know that if you don't declare a truce at the press conference you have tonight, then I'm going to publicly denounce you. And so will Ted. Then it won't just be Noths who accuse you."
A dry, wretched laugh starts to erupt from her throat.
But Dad cuts it off when he says, "Our children deserve a truce. And a chance at peace. You'll do this. Or we're done."
And for the first time in my life, I see my mother grow pale.
My father slips his hand over mine and squeezes.
47
BRYLEE
My fingernails clickagainst my phone case. I’m suddenly nervous, though I can't tell why. From my seat twenty rows back, I glance around the throne room, listen to the buzzing chatter of a hundred or so reporters, and try to analyze which of them has set me off.
Their voices echo in the vast space, pinging off pillars hung with flower wreaths for no apparent reason other than my mother felt like being ostentatious. None of the reporters has so much as glanced in my direction. I’m not Ted, so I don’t matter. And my brother’s still in his wing recovering, so they won’t get to see him.
They don’t seem too disappointed by that, though I do hear his name mentioned once or twice. In general, they ignore me, chatting or typing or sliding nicotine pouches into their cheeks in anticipation of a long night writing after this announcement.
So…why am I getting beads of nervous sweat along the back of my hairline?
I glance up, trying to breathe deeply and regain a sense of calm. The high, round windows lining either side of the room are surrounded by tacky neon lights that I think my grandmother installed in the eighties. We rarely ever turn them on, but night briefings require them because the chandelier lights are too dim. One neon ring flickers creepily, pulsing and snapping out bright flecks, buzzing like a bug zapper.
Maybe that's what's throwing me off.
Too many horror movies.
But my intuition won't let go. I start to bounce my foot as I scan the room a second time, reaching out and grabbing Luka's forearm for balance as I spin in my chair to check behind us.
There are only the run-of-the-mill servants refilling tables set with waters and pastry trays, which Colter is currently helping himself to—everyone else giving him such a wide berth in his skull mask that he has an entire table of treats to himself. Then there are a few guards posted near pillars, their posture lazy, ready to clock out for the day.
Everyone else is calm. Bored, even.
Perhaps I'm just paranoid.
"What's wrong?" Luka asks from his seat beside me, peering up from beneath a pair of reading glasses.
A tablet lights his face because he's opened all the news station tablets so we can track what they say live as the truce is reported.
"I'm not sure." My teeth dig into my lower lip as I try to settle back into my seat, and my eyes fixate on the empty throne.
A big broadcast camera has been rolled up the center of the aisle and will focus directly on Mother when she arrives. Several ring lights and spotlights also cluster around her golden chair, adding to the tacky practicality of royal pronouncements.
The door just behind the throne, off to the right, is where my parents will enter from. Ridge and Kylian stand near it, conversing with a few of my mother's guards as we await the official start of her press conference.
"What if…she doesn't announce the truce?" I whisper to Luka.
His jaw clenches so tightly that I can see it even beneath his thin beard. The glasses come off, and he slides them into the inner pocket of his suit jacket before he turns to me.
"We'll make our own announcement about Harpax Project." His eyes flicker with pleasure at the thought of detonating the room with that news. "Most reporters would give their right arm for a story like that."
"I'd give my right arm for itnotto be true."
"Your arm is too precious," he replies, reaching out and grabbing onto my hand.
