Chapter 6 Wyatt
Wyatt
I always know when the drama is about to start.
The air goes dry, then sharp, like there’s ozone in it.
In the Selection Hall, the sound bounces off the marble and feeds back on itself, until even the smallest rumor is a feedback loop.
Now, the space is stripped to its bones.
The Councilors are reassembled at the dais, their robes less ceremonial and more fortress, and the rows of parents, packs, and the designated are caught in the hush that comes when you know a bomb is about to drop.
Bastion hates a spectacle, but he loves a win.
His shoes are silent, but his stride is not—he stalks down the aisle with every inch of his family’s reputation jammed into his posture.
Ranier is behind him, all glare and zero blink.
Me? I’m a few steps back, which is where I do my best work: just out of focus, just unthreatening enough to overhear everything. And beside us, Emery.
Accompanying the cotton-candy scent she wears as armor is something new: a smirk, like she knows the audience is eating from her palm and she’s just deciding how long to make them wait.
She’s even painted her lips a shade of blue that matches the bruise I know is still on Bastion’s ego.
She barely comes up to my collarbone, but somehow she pulls the gravity of the whole room toward her.
We reach the dais. Councilor Morrow clears his throat. Morrow’s gaze skips over Bastion and Ranier as if they’re old news, then lands on me with a flicker of recognition. I tip my head—polite, but not subservient. He hates that.
“Everhart Pack,” he says, voice rolling through the benches. “It has come to our attention that your stance on this year’s omega selection… has evolved.”
Bastion’s chin rises. “It has.”
Someone in the third row actually gasps. I mentally start writing up the first two blog headlines about it.
Councilor Morrow cocks his head. “For the record, your previous statement was unequivocal. Has the pack changed its position?”
Ranier’s voice is raw, unfiltered. “We have.”
It’s not elegant, but it’s honest, which is almost better in this environment.
I feel the change in the room. The flinch of disappointment from the girls who were hoping for a shot at the three of us.
The shiver of vindication from the parents who never got over the class drama from last cycle.
And, somewhere, a curl of interest from the vultures waiting for a public self-destruction.
Emery’s scent goes bright and giddy. She’s not nervous—she’s excited. This is her win, and she knows it.
Morrow signals to an usher, who appears with the ritual roses.
One for each alpha, dipped in a solution that amplifies the scent of whoever touches it first. It’s a pheromonal branding, a tradition that’s part ancient biology, part sick pageant.
I watch as the roses are distributed, each stem cut at the same precise angle, thorns already sanded off. Only the bloodless need apply.
Bastion gets his first. He turns it in his hand, inspecting it for defects, then extends it to Emery with a ceremonial bow.
Ranier’s hand trembles, but his aim doesn’t—he presents his, and their fingers brush for half a second.
I almost laugh: all that dominance, undone by a girl who never learned to quit.
Mine comes last. The usher pauses, looking for a cue.
I take it slow, letting the blue pigment from Emery’s hair stain the white petals.
When I pass it to her, our scents blend—cotton candy and seawater, bright sugar and salt.
I wonder what the Council will call it when they write the history books.
“Hybrid vigor,” maybe, or just “embarrassing.”
There’s a protocol here. The omega is supposed to accept the roses, then say a few gracious words. Emery smirks, holds the flowers like a bouquet of knives, and says, “About time. I am honored to join the line.”
The girls in the front row audibly combust. Morrow’s nostrils flare, but he covers it with a cough. “Let the record show,” he says, “that Everhart Pack has formally extended an offer and received consent. The union will stand.”
Now the room can exhale. And it does—shoulders drop, conversations restart in hissed whispers, and parents all over the chamber recalibrate their strategies for the coming year. But not all of them. Not the ones who really care about what comes next.
I’m already composing my blog post in my head, trying out angles.
“Everhart reverses rejection. Is this the end of legacy politics?” or “Omega outsmarts the Council. Watch Everhart scramble.” I can already see the comments.
Half the internet will call us out for weakness.
The other half will crucify us for privilege.
I think of the headlines I would write if I were braver.
But then I see her.
Charlotte.
Of course she’s here. She’s everywhere she shouldn’t be. She’s sitting in the third row, squeezed between a pair of whispering Council wives, her hair a scalding halo around her face. She makes eye contact with me—just me—and holds it for a beat too long.
It’s not affection. It’s not even anger. It’s the look of someone who’s seen all your magic tricks and is waiting to see if you have any left.
Bastion sees her, too. I feel his pulse jump. Emery doesn’t. She’s too busy showing the other girls how a rejection turns into a coronation.
The Council calls a recess, a polite way to say “everybody out while we clean up the mess.” Ranier disappears instantly, probably to punch a wall or call his mother.
Bastion hangs back, lingering in a cluster of well-wishers and casual enemies.
I find myself orbiting near the doors, scanning the room for the next disaster.
Charlotte doesn’t approach. She lets the crowd flow around her, even as the other omegas give her a wide berth.
She’s radioactive, and she likes it that way.
I’m about to retreat to the back hallway when she finally stands, picks her way toward me, and pauses with just enough space between us to be plausible deniability.
“Whitlock.” The sound of Charlotte’s voice burns me from the inside out.
“Charlotte,” I reply, and regret it instantly. Too formal, too dry.
She nods toward the dais, where Emery is still being mobbed by the press. “So. You went for the glitter bomb after all.”
“Wasn’t my call.” I immediately hate myself for the disclaimer. I used to be better at this.
Charlotte shrugs. “Nobody’s ever in charge with those two. Not even you.”
I bristle, but she’s not wrong.
“You did well.” Charlotte’s neutral tone scares me a little. “It’s good optics. People like an underdog.”
I almost ask her what she’s doing here, but I already know. She’s waiting for us to fail again, so she can be the first to say, I told you so.
Charlotte glances up, locks eyes with me, and I realize she can read the whole script on my face. “You’re still a mess, Wyatt. But you’re a lot less boring than last year.”
Then she’s gone. Not in a dramatic swirl, just a smooth slip into the tide of bodies.
I find Bastion next, propped against a pillar, hand gripping the back of his neck like it might fall off if he lets go. He’s watching Emery pose for photos, but his gaze is somewhere else. I nudge him with my elbow.
“You think she’ll actually go through with it?” I ask. “Join the line, make it stick?”
Bastion snorts. “She’s already won. Why wouldn’t she?”
I want to say “because it’s a terrible idea,” or “because you’re all poison,” but I bite it down. I’m not here to fix anyone.
“Charlotte was watching,” I say instead.
His jaw locks, but he doesn’t react otherwise. “Let her. She’s old news.”
But the scent of him, bitter and sharp, says otherwise.
Onstage, Emery is soaking in the attention, fielding questions from the Council reps and swatting away the hungry gazes of the legacy packs. She looks like a queen.
I see her glance in my direction once, just a flicker, like a silent, “Did you see that?”
Of course I did.
The next hour is a blur of handshakes, staged photos, and the slow, stunned drip of social recalibration.
I work the edges of the room, trading barbs with the press, planting half-truths and rumors with the precision of a watchmaker.
When Bastion and Emery finally escape to the VIP lounge, I loiter in the hall, gathering the fallout.
It’s not all congratulations. There’s a running stream of venom, too: “Did you see how she played them?” “Everhart must be desperate.” “That’s what happens when you let a commoner into finishing school.” I hear it all, file it away, and decide which ones to amplify and which to let die.
The night ends, as all nights here do, with the grand Council’s final pronouncement. The room is packed again, all eyes on the center stage. Emery stands between Bastion and Ranier, each holding a rose, their suits now a little rumpled and their faces a little less carved from stone.
Councilor Morrow speaks. “Let it be witnessed, in the presence of family, Council, and pack, all of the omegas that have joined their new packs’ lines today. May the omegas bring honor, prosperity, and balance.”
Thunderous applause erupts. Most of it is fake, but some of it isn’t.
Emery turns, and for a split second she looks at me and winks. I don’t know if it’s an invitation or a dare.
Afterwards, the crowd disperses, but the memory of that moment will stick. Not just the reversal, but the way she did it—refusing to grovel, forcing the world to blink first. If I have to write the headline tonight, it’ll be something like, “In a World of Wolves, Sometimes the Rabbit Bites Back.”
I glance at my phone, fingers hovering over the post button.
I hit send.
Let the world gossip. I already know how the story ends.