Chapter 9 Emery
Emery
The limo’s electric motor is so quiet it feels like we’re coasting through a graveyard. Eloise sits beside me, tapping her phone against her thigh, a staccato that has nothing to do with notifications and everything to do with dread. My hands are clammy, clutching my duffel in my lap.
“You ready?” Eloise asks, and when I don’t answer, she elbows me so hard my arm goes numb. “Emery. Are you ready?”
I want to say yes, but what comes out is: “If I don’t make it, torch my sketchbooks before anyone can see and judge them.”
She snorts, then checks her lipstick in the reflection. “If you don’t make it, I’m painting you on the side of their house, naked. Revenge is forever.”
I snicker.
The car glides to a stop at the bottom of the circular drive. For a second, we just sit and stare. The front door is already open, light spilling down the steps in a way that should be welcoming, but is so clearly staged it makes my teeth ache.
I get out first. My legs are gelatin. Eloise is right behind me, swinging her duffel over her shoulder like a weapon. We haul our bags to the foot of the stairs, where a trio of shadows waits just inside the threshold.
The alphas are all here: Bastion, Ranier, and Wyatt.
They’ve arranged themselves by height, which is the kind of petty I appreciate.
Bastion’s got his hands in his pockets and his head cocked.
Ranier’s in the center, arms folded and shoulders set to “don’t fuck with me.
” Wyatt leans against the banister, a loose huddle of sideways glances.
No one speaks for three solid beats.
Then Bastion, voice flat, says, “You brought a plus one?”
“She’s not staying,” I say. “Just helping.”
Eloise gives them a wave. “I’m the muscle.”
Wyatt’s lips twitch, almost a smile. “Noted.”
I haul my suitcase up the first step, and instantly the alpha wall breaks apart.
Ranier turns on his heel and leads the way up the staircase, not bothering to check if I’m following.
Bastion trails close behind, and Wyatt brings up the rear, just far enough back that he can’t be blamed if I trip and die on the steps.
The air inside is a few degrees warmer than outside, but the house itself is cold in a way that has nothing to do with temperature. Everything is polished, symmetrical, oppressive. Portraits of dead ancestors glare down from the walls with their faces pinched in judgment.
Ranier stops at the first landing. “Your room’s this way,” he says, voice clipped. He starts down a side hall, and I follow, boots muffled on the ancient runner.
The room they’ve given me is at the far end, just past a linen closet and two doors marked “PRIVATE.” Ranier pushes open the door and stands aside, letting me see my new kingdom.
It’s… underwhelming.
The bed is a basic queen, the sheets white and aggressively starched.
There’s a desk, a nightstand, and a dresser.
The walls are painted a shade of gray so pale it almost reflects, and the windows are latched tight.
The only concession to comfort is a cheap shag rug, the kind that leaves tufts of synthetic fluff on your socks.
There’s nothing on the walls. No art. No mirrors.
It could be a hospital room, or a prison with better lighting.
Eloise whistles low. “Sick setup, Grey.”
I drop my duffel at the foot of the bed and poke around. The closet is empty except for a single plastic hanger. The drawers stick a little, but they’re clean.
“Where’s the bathroom?” I ask.
Bastion points down the hall. “Shared. Two doors down, on the left.”
My stomach drops. “No en suite?”
Ranier’s expression doesn’t flicker. “Wyatt and Bastion have the only two with bathrooms attached.”
Eloise lets out a stage whisper. “I can sabotage their water heater if you want. Just say the word.”
I force a smile. “It’s fine.”
Ranier clears his throat, bored and annoyed all at once. “You need anything else, or are you good?”
I look at the barren bed, then at Eloise. “We’ll manage.”
The alphas leave as a unit, Wyatt lingering just long enough to give Eloise a two-fingered salute. The door closes behind them with a soft click.
Eloise immediately drops her bag and drops on to the bed, bouncing twice. “That was… frosty.”
I start unloading my stuff, organizing by emotional importance: art supplies on the desk, extra bedding for nest-construction, toiletries next to my pillow. Eloise helps without asking, as ever.
“Do you want the fairy lights now, or after we do the pillows?”
I think for a second. “Pillows first. If I can’t make it feel like home, I’m running back to yours.”
She snorts. “You won’t. You love it here already. It’s a challenge.”
She’s right. I do.
We start the transformation. Eloise unzips the duffels and unpacks the throw pillows, all in mismatched brights and neons and gaudy prints.
I line them against the wall, building a soft barricade behind the headboard.
Blankets come next. We layer them until the bed looks like a birthday cake for someone with boundary issues.
Then we put up the lights: battery-powered fairy strings and old Christmas LEDs, wound around the window latch and draped over the headboard. I plug them in and the whole room shifts, bathed in warm pink and yellow. For a second, it looks almost magical. Almost not like a cell.
Eloise helps me set up my easel, positioning it so I get the best possible daylight through the window. We arrange my paints and pencils on the desk, stash the sketchbooks in the top drawer. She hangs my first-ever gallery print on a nail above the bed, not caring that the glass is still cracked.
We step back and survey the mess. It’s not perfect, but it’s mine. For now.
“You’re going to kill it here,” Eloise says, collapsing into the nest and pulling me down beside her. “They won’t know what hit them.”
“I hope it hurts.” It comes out softer than I intend.
We lay there for a minute, staring at the ceiling, the fairy lights casting weird, dancing shadows above us. It’s the first time all day my heart doesn’t feel like it’s about to break my ribs.
Eloise nudges me. “You’re thinking too loud. Stop.”
I laugh. “I’m just… what if it doesn’t work out? What if I mess it up?”
She rolls her eyes. “Then we’ll go backpacking through Europe and I’ll introduce you to a French alpha who smells like croissants. You’ll live.”
A tap on the door interrupts us. It’s Wyatt. “Sorry, but visiting hours are over.”
Eloise sits up, grinning. “You afraid of girl talk, Whitlock?”
“Terrified,” he deadpans. “But Bastion gets grumpy if you’re not gone by curfew. House rule.”
Eloise stands and zips her bag. “You take care of her, or I’ll break your kneecaps.”
Wyatt gives a little salute. “Understood.”
I hope he knows that goes both ways. That if they treat her as bad as they’ve been treating me, I’ll take them down myself. But Wyatt is much younger than Bastion and Ranier. Maybe he needs to learn a lesson or two.
They start to walk out of the room together but Eloise turns back and launches herself into my arms for a long, tight hug. “Text me if you need anything,” she whispers. “Anything at all.”
“I’ll need everything.”
Eloise laughs. “Love you, cotton-candy.”
“Love you, too,” I whisper.
And then she’s gone, leaving me in an omega nest inside a home with three cold-as-ice alphas.
A challenge indeed.
I climb back up to my room and slip into the nest, pulling the blankets up to my chin. The lights glow soft and steady, and for the first time since the ceremony, I feel like I might actually sleep.
The house is silent, but I can feel the presence of the alphas, their scents leaking through the walls: woods, fire, ozone, a cocktail of threat and possibility.
I burrow deeper, inhale, and let a dark thought settle. They don’t want me here.
I smile. That’s fine.
I’m going to make them want me. I will not let all my years in finishing school, all my years dreaming of becoming an omega for an alpha pack, go to waste because of three royal alphas who think they’re better than me.