Chapter 13
thirteen
At some point in my life, I took a bullshit biology class about designations.
A lot of it was annoying drivel that made omegas sound helpless. Or painted alphas as slaves to their impulses.
Well, they got one thing right.
Omegas are fast.
And Ivy is an omega.
I might not know when or how our beta maid changed her designation, but her scent can’t lie. And even if it could? The way she darts into a narrow crack in the crowd doesn’t.
Grinding out a curse, I yank back the part of me that wants to launch myself after her. Because if everyone sees that, there’s no going back. She’ll be The Chosen One—and right now, she doesn’t even want to be in the room with us.
I don’t fucking blame her.
But I forgot one other thing from that bullshit class.
When omegas run?
Alphas chase.
Bast blinks at the blank patch of dance floor where Ivy stood. His pupils blow—and the urge to protect rears up inside of me. When he takes off, I’m right on his heels.
Asher meets us at the exit she raced out of, his chest heaving like he’s already run a mile—but his face is white as bone.
Cameras flash behind us, but there’s no time to worry about that shit.
She’s getting away.
And I haven’t even told her how sorry I am .
Ivy must truly be quick, though. Because despite Bast and all his athleticism sprinting ahead, she loses us.
Asher and I catch up to him at Maytown Manor’s front gate. It’s closed—the iron slats sealed with tangled vines—but I still see clusters of paparazzi stationed outside.
If Ivy had flown past them, wouldn’t they be after her?
And how the hell did she get through the gate?
Bast is thinking the same thing, turning from left to right and back again, scanning the dark lawn for any trace of her.
Normally, this is when our pack leader would start barking orders. Questioning nearby guards, ordering the security footage be reviewed.
But Asher… drops to his knees.
Right in the middle of the gravel path, in his white tuxedo.
He reaches for a sliver of silver, lifting it by its thin chain. The scent of bergamot and black tea descends into utter darkness. He sets the necklace in his palm and examines it for a long moment.
“It’s really her,” he says, almost to himself. “ Ivy .”
Bast’s toffee aroma is also burned to crisp. He spins back to us, clutching his hair with both hands, eyes flashing with wild desperation. “Who’s Ivy? Our mate? You know her?”
Asher closes his fist around the silver heart charm and swallows. His free hand gestures at his chest—where we both know he only has one tattoo.
“The girl,” he says. “Her name was Ivy. Is Ivy.”
“That was her ?” Bast crows, his eyes somehow even rounder.
“No,” I bite out. My eyes drop closed while regret and fear hurtle through me. “ That was our maid.”