Chapter 15
Ranier
The hardest thing about being in Emery Grey’s room isn’t the color, or her scent all over the place, or even the lighting which cycles in slow-mo from bright pink to acid blue depending on the fairy lights she’s mood-mapped for the day.
It’s the way every single object in here feels like it might leap up and start talking.
The art on the walls is the worst culprit.
She has gigantic canvases where sugar-shock color and spiky geometry fight for dominance, painted with a kind of violence I wouldn’t have believed possible from a girl so small.
Some of them are portraits, some are abstract.
All of them have eyes, and none of them look away.
Emery has a way of seeing right to the heart of someone.
It would appear her art is much the same.
Wyatt perches on the edge of the bed with one of Emery’s spiral notebooks open across his knee. “You know, I never understood her thing for the blob style,” he says. “But this… this is, like, legitimately good.”
I grunt, arms folded. “Don’t let her hear you call it ‘blob style’.”
He grins, tapping the side of his nose. “Oh, I want her to hear me. She’s the only person in the house with a sense of humor right now.”
I ignore him, moving from one painting to the next.
The one above her desk is just lines and triangles in electric colors, but it hums like it’s got a current under the paint.
I can’t tell if it’s supposed to be an animal, or a person, or if it’s just the inside of her brain after too much coffee.
Either way, it’s hard to look away. Maybe that’s the point.
Wyatt closes the notebook and lets it fall, careful not to let it touch the floor. “I’m serious, Starling. You could do a whole gallery off just what’s in this room and sell out opening night.”
“Isn’t that her plan?” Even I can hear the edge in my voice.
Wyatt leans back with his hands braced behind him.
He’s wearing a black shirt with a faded slogan, something about coffee and consequences, and his hair’s damp from a shower.
“She said she was going to debut at the City Center, but the Council made her sign a press embargo. No spoilers, no leaks, all hush-hush until the big night.”
I study a smaller canvas propped on the windowsill behind a tangle of succulents.
The frame is raw wood, the paint still tacky in the corners.
The image is simple: three figures, all blank-faced, sitting at a table.
I realize, with a jolt, it’s us. The three alphas, painted in shades of gray and blue and something that looks almost like bruises.
She hasn’t even bothered to add herself to the picture.
“She’s better than any of us.” And I don’t just mean with art.
Wyatt catches the shift and looks up. “You’re actually mad about it.”
I shake my head. “Not mad. Just…” I lose the thread and stare at the painting until it blurs. “She’s making us look like idiots, and she’s not even trying.”
Wyatt smiles, but it’s not sharp this time. “Maybe that’s what it feels like to be around someone who gives a shit. Kind of novel, yeah?”
I’m about to tell him to fuck off, or maybe just leave, when the sound of Bastion’s voice slices down the hall.
He’s yelling—loud, cranky, the way only a Silverwood can be when confined to a single floor and forbidden to operate heavy machinery.
The door to Emery’s room is open, and even through the din I can make out the edge of her reply: calm, snarky, unbothered.
Wyatt stands, smoothing the notebook. “If he throws another water glass, I’m not cleaning it up.”
I cross my arms. “Let the maid deal with it.”
Wyatt gives me a look. “She is the maid, Ranier. She’s doing all the work. And she’s not even being paid. Look.”
I follow him down the hall, pausing at the corner where the main corridor splits to the guest suite.
Bastion’s door is half open, and I catch a glimpse of him—arm in a sling, head bandaged, face puffy but alive—propped up in bed like a sultan of the damned.
The TV is playing a muted rerun of some car show, but Bastion’s attention is locked on the chessboard in front of him.
Emery sits across from him, legs folded under her on the chair, her hair pulled back into a braid that bleeds from lavender to blue at the ends. She’s moving a pawn, one space at a time, careful as a surgeon.
Bastion scowls, but there’s zero venom in it. “You know I can see through your strategy from here, right?”
Emery shrugs, the barest suggestion of a smile on her face. “You said you wanted to play. If you don’t want to lose, don’t invite me.”
Bastion groans, head rolling to the side. “Why are you even good at this? It’s not an omega skill.”
Emery plucks a bishop from the board and spins it between her fingers. “Finishing school required six hours of chess for ‘strategic thinking.’ I was the only one who didn’t get bored enough to start a fire.”
Wyatt pokes his head in. “How’s the patient?”
Bastion glares at him. “Bored. Hungry. Not allowed to take a piss without a chaperone, thanks to Nurse Grey here.”
Wyatt shifts his gaze to Emery, who winks. “He means, ‘Thank you, Emery. You’re a delight, and I’d be dead in a ditch without you.’”
Bastion flips him off with his good hand, but even that lacks conviction.
Emery stands and stretches her arms over her head. “I need to check the soup. Try not to cheat while I’m gone.”
Emery disappears down the hall, leaving a streak of cotton candy scent in her wake. I don’t realize I’m watching her until Wyatt gives me a nudge.
“You like her,” he says, low enough that Bastion won’t hear.
I shake my head, more out of reflex than honesty. “I don’t have to like her. I just have to not hate her.”
Wyatt shrugs, then grabs a box of crackers from Bastion’s bedside tray. “Whatever you say, man.”
The next hour passes in a strange, suspended haze.
Emery comes and goes, ferrying soup and snacks, fluffing pillows, and refusing to take shit from Bastion even when he doubles down on the snark.
She changes his bandages like it’s no big deal.
Her touch is matter-of-fact and almost gentle.
Wyatt sits in the armchair by the window, pretending to read but mostly just watching the weird new ecosystem take shape around the bed.
I lean against the wall. There’s no room for me in this little drama, not really, but I can’t make myself leave. If I’m honest, it feels safer here, even with the risk of Bastion throwing a cup at my head.
When Emery finishes with the bandages, she wipes her hands on a towel and glances up at me. “Do you want to help with dinner, Ranier? Or are you still allergic to the kitchen?”
I snort. “I’m allergic to being bossed around by a commoner omega.”
She smiles, full force. “That’s fine. I’ll ask Wyatt. He’s a much better sous chef.”
Wyatt bows, mock-serious. “At your service, milady.”
Bastion groans, then flops back on the pillows. “If you guys don’t shut up, I swear I’ll swallow a rook and make you all drive me back to the hospital.”
Emery laughs, the sound bright and clean. For a second, the whole room softens.
I follow her to the kitchen before Wyatt can, if only for something to do. The space is cold marble and steel, big enough to host a basketball game. Emery moves with surprising confidence, lining up ingredients with the precision of a general marshaling her troops.
I hover by the counter. “You’re taking this pretty well,” I say. “Bastion can be a dick.”
She doesn’t look up. “I have three cousins. All boys. After a while, you learn not to let it get to you.”
I watch her for a moment. She slices vegetables with quick, efficient strokes, never hesitating. “You’re not what I expected.”
She sets down the knife and turns to face me. Her eyes are bluer than I remembered. “What did you expect? Drama? Meltdowns? The tragic omega who can’t handle the big bad alphas?”
I feel my face go hot. “Maybe.”
She grins. “That’s not me.”
“I can see that,” I say, and then, because it feels necessary, “We’ve been shitty to you.”
She shrugs, not unkind. “You’ve been shittier to each other. I just get the splash zone.”
I almost laugh, and it surprises me. “You’re not afraid of us at all.”
Emery’s smile fades a touch. “You’re the only ones who should be afraid. I’m here to stay, Ranier. I’m not going anywhere.”
I feel the words land. Hard.
“Why?” I ask, and it’s not a challenge, just genuine confusion. “You could go. You could have any pack you wanted.”
She shakes her head, ponytail bobbing. “No. The Council could blacklist me after what I did at Omega Selection Day. You’re stuck with me, and I’m stuck with you. But that’s not why I’m doing this.”
I study her face. There’s nothing fake there. Not even the glimmer of calculation I’d expect from someone so determined.
“I want to belong somewhere,” she says, quiet now. “And I want to win. That’s it.”
I nod, not trusting myself to say more.
She turns back to the stove and dumps vegetables into a pot with a sizzle. “If you really want to help, you can set the table. But don’t mess up the forks, or I’ll never let you live it down.”
I smirk. “You’re a tyrant, Grey.”
She glances over her shoulder. “You have no idea.”
We work in companionable silence for a while.
I set the table, careful to line up the knives and forks exactly the way she likes it, because I know she’ll check.
The soup smells better than anything I’ve had since before Selection, and for a second, I can almost pretend the rest of the world doesn’t exist.
When we eat, it’s the four of us at the table. Nobody talks much, but nobody leaves, either. The food is good, and even Bastion manages to not complain. Emery eats fast, like she’s worried it might get taken away, but she never lets her eyes drift from the rest of us for long.
After dinner, I catch Wyatt in the hall. He’s wiping soup from his shirt, but there’s a real smile on his face.
“She’s going to destroy us,” he says, not bothering to keep his voice down.
I nod, watching as Emery disappears into the kitchen with a stack of plates. “Yeah,” I say. “She is.”
Wyatt claps me on the back. “Better to lose to someone who deserves it.”
I don’t answer. I’m still not sure I believe it.
But as I stand there, listening to the quiet clatter of dishes and the faintest echo of laughter, I realize something’s shifted. The house feels different. Lighter.
I retreat to the study and pull the door shut behind me. The walls here are lined with books, and the only light is the honey glow of a desk lamp. I sit at the old oak desk, hands folded, and stare at the grain in the wood until the room stops spinning.
There’s a blank sheet of paper in front of me. I grab a pen, mostly out of habit, and start to write a list. It’s not names, or plans, or strategies. It’s just the things I know for sure.
1. Emery Grey is not going anywhere.
2. The pack is doomed to repeat our mistakes with Charlotte unless something changes.
3. I am not afraid of her, but I might be afraid of what happens if I let her win.
I stare at the list until the ink bleeds into the paper, spreading out like veins.
For the first time in months, I don’t know what comes next. It’s messy, imprecise, like Emery’s laugh or the way her hands move when she gets going. My head tells me to run the numbers, calculate the risks. My gut says she’s the only variable that matters now.
I put down the pen, half expecting the universe to snap back to order.
But the room just gets quieter, the shadows from the lamp longer and softer.
There’s a restlessness under my skin, something I can’t solve with work or whiskey or a sharp word.
The absence of strategy feels like standing on a frozen lake in spring, every step a question.
I turn out the light and head for bed, trying to ignore the way every step feels like falling.
Falling for her.