14. Brylee
14
brYLEE
Waking up on my bed with the sourdough scent of Alpha Jamie wafting from my clothes—he must have carried me up to my room—I take a second to wallow in burning humiliation that tastes like bile and regret.
That’s before the anger takes hold because I was ambushed.
Rolling onto my stomach, I reach for my phone and snatch it off the nightstand. My fingers punch at the screen far harder than necessary as I text Teddie.
Brylee
Did you know?
Teddie
She just told me five minutes ago. Apparently after you fainted. Way to make a first impression.
Brylee
You are NOT mocking me right now.
Teddie
She totally sucks for doing it. I’m trying to talk to Dad about it.
Dad will never oppose Mom, so I don’t know why Ted thinks he’ll do any good.
Brylee
Remind them you’re the heir and I’m just the spare…
I start to type the message but don’t hit send. That sort of thing used to make my brother smug. But nowadays it makes his face droop like a wilting flower. Erasing that, I change the message to:
Brylee
Tell them I say no.
Teddie
You tell them that.
Brylee
I’m going to be a spinster. That’s final.
Teddie doesn’t respond, but his lack of response speaks louder than any words. Without saying anything aloud this time, all his old arguments rise to the surface in my head, his voice echoing between my ears with phantom phrases.
“Don’t let your past define your future.”
“One bad group of alphas doesn’t mean they’re all bad, Bry.”
“One day, some guys will sweep you off your feet and prove you wrong. They’ll love you the way you deserve.”
Stupid fucking big brother lectures. All encouragement and hope. Sayings that I wish desperately could be true but that I know are fool’s gold. Of course, I doubt Teddie would be so “pro-alpha” if he knew the truth about what my exes did to me. Mom and Dad chose to keep my kidnapping hush-hush, and the trial was closed to the public. Very few people, even within the military, knew about it. I went along with it. Not because I don’t believe Teddie would support me, but…
Well…
Is it wrong to say that I’m embarrassed? Humiliated? Ashamed that I allowed it to happen to me in the first place? All of the above?
Rolling onto my back, I stare up at the ceiling and imagine how nice it would be to scream right now. To just peel my lips apart and let out a banshee-level screech that blasts a hole right through the ceiling. But that would make someone come running to check on me, which is the last thing I want.
A knock sounds at the bathroom door, and I sigh before wearily calling out, “Yes, Harper?”
The door cracks open, and one of her perfectly made-up eyes peers at me through the gap. “Um. Sorry to bug you. I just wanted to know if you want to walk together to Culinary Arts.”
I give a loud groan. “Only if you promise to help me burn it down.”
Her laugh is surprised and genuine, and the door opens a little bit farther, her pin-straight brown hair falling down over her shoulder. “No guarantees. But I promise to hate it just as much as you do.”
Huffing out a breath, I sit up. “I suppose that will have to do.” I glance down at the red gown I’m still wearing and groan. “Do you want this dress? It’s kind of ruined for me now.”
Her eyes widen in shock as I get up from the bed and head toward my closet. “Um…sure. You don’t want to keep it?”
“I don’t ever want to see it again.” I call from the closet, where I start yanking at the zipper. “You can come in.”
Tentatively, my roommate steps into my room, and I bite down on a grin as I notice her trying not to sweep her eyes over every last detail—not that I’ve decorated much. I brought a few photos and put up a poster for my favorite band, but that was the extent of my effort. Lots of omegas have had their rooms painted and have frilly covers and pillows and plants covering every spare bit of space in their rooms. Pre-nesting, they call it.
I don’t bother pre-nesting because I’m never going to nest, and it’s a slippery slope from what I’ve heard. Omega instincts run strong.
Tossing the red dress out of my closet toward Harper, I yell “Catch!” a little too late, and she spins around and fumbles, dropping the red monstrosity I never want to lay eyes on again.
“Sorry!” I give a quick apologetic shrug before I slide on my uniform skirt and blouse over my underthings. Darling allows slight variations to our tops, so today, my shirt has a very librarian ruffle, which fits my current mood, which is “No talking!” about what happened—ever. Also, no talking to that alpha team ever again.
The second bit will be a little harder given my mother’s interference, but I’ll find a way.
Darling is now my tiny bit of respite from the ass kicking I’m receiving at Eros, and I will not allow this new group of alphas to ruin that.
Changing out my heels for lower and more practical wedges, I turn to Harper only to find her sniffing delicately at the red dress, her nose slightly crinkled.
“Not a scent match?” I tease her, because she clearly caught a whiff of alpha.
She shakes her head firmly. “Not even close.”
“Not mine either. I’ll reimburse you for dry-cleaning,” I say as I gather up my bag for Culinary Arts. Inside is my apron, embroidered with the Darling Academy logo, a rolling pin, and an entire assortment of kitchen knives. “Grab your assassin kit and let’s go down and torture some…what are we making today?”
“Bread,” Harper answers with a laugh.
“Well, scoot your boot so we can go torture some bread.”
* * *
The scent of burnt toast wafts over to me, and I cringe in sympathy as I watch another omega pull her loaf of raisin bread from a wall oven set in a row of at least twenty. The woman is almost in tears at her mishap as Mrs. Lotty rushes over.
Our motherly, flowery-dress-wearing professor bends over the pan and inspects it as she clicks her tongue. “Oh dear, dear, dear. You’ll have to stay late and try again, Ms. Clara. But don’t worry, we’ll work together to get it right. I don’t want you to go to the next open social event empty-handed.” Her hand sympathetically rubs Clara’s shoulder as the red-haired omega nods contritely.
From her stool next to me, where she’s busy creating roses out of strawberries, Harper leans over and whispers, “Do not let me burn my bread. I don’t want to be stuck here with Clara.”
Her eyes sparkle with gossip, and I can’t help myself. I lean closer and ask, “Why?”
“We’ve both briefly dated this one alpha group. Full disclosure: I was in an experimental phase then, so no judgment. They had a band. Bad decisions were made.”
I hold up my gloved hands, abandoning the small watermelon I’m trying to decoratively carve into a centerpiece. “We’ve all been there.” Me more so than most.
“Thanks.” She gives me a grateful smile before she leans even closer and whispers. “Well, I don’t think Clara is over them. And it’s nails-on-a-chalkboard painful to hear her talk about it.”
“Got it. Let Operation Open the Oven Every Two Minutes commence.”
She lets out a chuckle.
For the next hour, we diligently work together, helping each other turn fruit floral—which is a completely illogical task. “Mrs. Lotty realizes how hard these fruits worked to turn from flowers into fruit, right?” I grumble, when Harper has to help me recarve a section of my watermelon. “This is forcing them all to regress.”
My roommate laughs from where she’s bent over our shared countertop, using a small pumpkin-carving utensil to create some petals. “You know, I don’t think most people know how funny you are.”
I shrug, but the timer for our ovens goes off before I can come up with a response, and I don my oven mitts, rushing to save our creations from the same fate as Clara’s.
As class comes to a close, conversation feels natural and comfortable with Harper, and I’m smiling nearly as much as I do with Ted and Caran. It’s been a long time since someone else has been able to breach my defenses, but I stare over at her, glad she didn’t give up.
“What?” she asks when she notices my stare. Her hand immediately starts dabbing at her face. “Do I have flour on me or something?”
“No. I was just thinking you’re not half bad.”
An unexpected snort comes out of her perfect nose. “From you, I expect that’s a high compliment.”
“Highest I give,” I return.
She beams.
The bell tower gongs, letting us know class is over. I let out a sigh of relief as Harper and I start to pack up our materials and clean utensils, grateful we made it through the afternoon without burning anything.
But then, Mrs. Lotty claps her hands. “Ladies! Ladies! Before you go, I just wanted to let you know that we have a surprise for you this afternoon! If you all could just wash your hands—leave your supplies and some of our cleaning staff will wipe up and deliver everything back to your rooms. But you all get to head to the Blue Ballroom. We have some special guests waiting for you there. And they’re very eager to meet you all.”
My stomach drops like an anchor. A lead weight. A piano smashing into the pavement—wood splinters and harsh notes flying everywhere.
An unsettling certainty washes over me, because I can feel the machinations of my mother at work.
She did this.
I made a terrible first impression and she’s trying to keep those alphas on the hook. Trying to keep their favor and show them that I’m not…whatever they might think I am after that disaster of a meet and greet.
Clearly, Teddie’s efforts working on Dad have failed.
My tongue traces the edges of my teeth in frustration. I can’t go to this stupid function. I have plans. I’m supposed to have my first kickboxing class with the beta instructors in an hour.
I turn to Harper and put a hand on top of hers. “I’m sorry, but I have to abandon you to your fate. And it’s a terrible one. But sacrifices have to be made.”
Then I turn and plant both palms on my stomach. Hunching over, I feign weakness as I approach Mrs. Lotty. “I’m so, so sorry. I don’t think I can go to this event. I struggled through class. But I’m just not feeling well. I fainted earlier. I don’t know if you heard.”
Mrs. Lotty turns a concerned face to me, murmuring all sorts of sympathetic things. From across the room, Harper subtly scratches her neck and flips me off.
I just give her puppy eyes as I let the professor lead me out toward the infirmary, where I’m given a juice for my blood sugar and dismissed to nap.
I’m so thrilled that I’m humming as I pack some workout clothes into a bag so I can sneak out of my window, and the noise keeps me from noticing when Harper pushes the bathroom door open.
She stands in the doorway with her arms crossed until I turn, scanning my floor for a tennis shoe, and startle upon seeing her. “Holy shit! Don’t do that to a girl.”
“You abandoned me. It’s a fair payback. Now, where are you going?” she asks.
Caught, I tell the truth. “Kickboxing class.”
Her eyes widen, mascara-coated lashes blinking in shock because my response is very un-omega. “Really?”
“Yeah. It’s all betas, so I figured, why not? Before I’m chained to a recipe book for the rest of my existence, I thought I’d try out pretending to be a badass.”
One of those little snorts fights its way up her nose again—seemingly against her will because she’s still mostly stiff and serious.
“Wanna come?” I ask, immediately feeling ridiculous and vulnerable for asking. I’m not supposed to be including anyone in this plan of mine. But she looks hurt and alone…and hitting things is supposed to be a rage-purging exercise…right?
Her eyebrows fly up. Her eyes blink a moment in disbelief. But then my supermodel suitemate surprises me.
“Yeah. Thanks. That sounds fun.”
And it is.
So much fun.
An hour of horribly humiliating kicks, grunting punches, sweaty foreheads, and eighties music later, we sneak back to the dorms and we’re full of giggles and inside jokes about Tight-Shorts Tim, our instructor.
It’s one of the best afternoons of my life.
Of course, that means everything turns to shit right after.