Chapter 4
Bastion
When the selection is over and the last poor omega has run her gauntlet, we’re herded out of the grand chamber and back into Everhart Pack’s private personal suite.
Which is funny, because even with the heavy oak door closed, everyone knows exactly what’s happening inside.
The three of us—Ranier, Wyatt, and myself—are slumped across the velvet benches, each feigning composure in our own way.
Ranier is prowling, hands shoved so deep in his trouser pockets it’s a wonder he hasn’t torn the lining.
He’s muttering to himself in short, vicious syllables I can’t quite catch.
The angle of his jaw says he’s replaying our moment on the dais, frame by frame, trying to find an edit where he doesn’t look like a bastard.
Wyatt’s in the bay window. He’s got his legs kicked up on the marble sill and he’s scrolling his phone with glazed eyes and his thumb flicking the screen over and over.
The blue glow from his screen paints the hollows of his face, making his freckles stand out like constellations.
Every few seconds he looks up, gaze flicking to me, then back to the phone. He’s waiting for the next move.
And me? I’m pouring myself a glass of the worst scotch Ravencroft Hall could justify.
I down it in one go and pour another. My tongue is still sweet with cotton candy, but underneath it burns the bitter aftertaste of public spectacle.
I shouldn’t care, but my hands are still unsteady and I catch myself grinding my teeth.
“Next time,” Ranier says, finally, “they can at least give us candidates who aren’t in it for the free tuition and some generic headline. Fuck’s sake. We’re not a rescue operation.”
Wyatt doesn’t look up. “Your father is going to love that spin. ‘Everhart pack turns down desperate, scent-matched omega out of charity.’ Let me know when you want me to leak it. Might as well steer the narrative.”
“Can you not, Whitlock?” Ranier growls. “Some of us have enough on our plate.”
I glance at Wyatt, daring him to escalate.
Wyatt just shrugs. “What? Don’t pretend you’re not following Royals Anonymous. I know you are. Everyone does.”
Wyatt’s phone buzzes. He angles it away, but the screen is mirrored in the glass: a new tip about Emery Grey, already making the rounds.
I laugh, low and mean. “At least they got my best angle.” I point at the photo—me, smirking as Ranier publicly crushes a girl’s future in three words or less.
He doesn’t laugh. “You looked like a smug asshole, Bastion.”
“Better than looking like I’m about to piss myself,” I retort. “You flinched. Cameras caught it.”
Ranier whirls, eyes blazing. “I didn’t flinch. I—” He breaks off, as if remembering that someone else might be listening. Even in this room, privacy is a fiction. “Never mind. Just… why the fuck was her scent so strong?”
Silence. Even Wyatt stops typing. For a second it’s just the tick of the grandfather clock in the corner, counting down to our next scheduled disaster.
I let the silence stretch. I know the answer. So do they. But no one wants to say it first.
Wyatt does. “Because she’s a scent match,” he says, soft and flat. “We all felt it. Even you, Ranier.”
Ranier slams his fist on the table, rattling the glassware. “No. We do not need an omega. Especially not a—” He stops again, jaw working.
“A commoner?” I let it sting. “Or a girl with no legacy worth branding on a tea set? Come on, Ranier. Just say it.”
He does, finally. “We deserve better than to settle for a desperate, bottom-rung omega. If we accept her, it sets a precedent. That’s why my father—”
The door swings open, hard enough to dent the plaster. Speak of the devil. Ranier’s father, who could probably pass for a grand inquisitor if the fashion called for it. He fills the room with a single glance, sweeping across the three of us like we’re specimens on a slide.
Ranier’s father shuts the door and waits for no one. “Explain yourselves.”
Ranier stands straighter, which is an accomplishment considering how rigid he was to begin with. “We didn’t find her suitable so we rejected her.”
The old man eyes us, but he’s looking for cracks in the story, not the surface.
“You lied about there not being interest,” he says, voice as soft as a loaded pistol.
“The three of you all went into sympathetic resonance the minute she stepped onto the dais. I could smell it from the gallery. Half the room could.”
Wyatt glances at me, and for a moment we’re allied, if only in mutual disgust.
Ranier’s father circles the table, zeroing in on me. “Silverwood. Your grandparents are already contacting the Council. If you can’t uphold your side of this arrangement, they want a replacement.”
“I did my part.” I hold his gaze. “We all did. That’s why we’re here. Besides, you didn’t want us to choose a commoner.” Did he conveniently forget that part?
Ranier’s father grins, a ghastly thing. “If you had done your part, she’d be here in this room with you all right now. Instead, she’s probably in the lobby, rallying half the rejected omegas behind her. Fix it. I don’t care at this point if she’s a commoner.”
Can’t have it both ways. I can see where Ranier got it from.
There’s a knock—polite, tentative—and a servant pokes his head in. “Sir, you’re wanted at the Council chamber. The Silverwoods have requested a word.”
“Perfect.” Ranier’s father straightens his jacket. “Silverwood, you’re with me.”
I follow him out, head high. The corridor is dim and lined with portraits of dead men, all of whom probably had to put up with less bullshit than I do. We pass a group of reporters, who pretend to be checking their badges but are definitely listening.
The Council chamber smells like old wood, ink, and disappointment. My grandmother is perched at the edge of a chair, elegant as ever, eyes sharp as awls. My grandfather stands behind her, his hands steepled in silent threat.
My grandmother speaks first. “Bastion. You know why you’re here.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She sighs, as if I’ve already let her down. “We spent thirty years restoring the family name. One scandal and it all evaporates. And now another rejected omega. You understand this?”
“I do.”
Her eyes flick to Ranier’s father. “We were led to believe this match would be in our favor. Instead, the three of you put on a circus. If you’re incapable of choosing an omega, we’ll arrange for you to join another pack. One with more… discipline.”
My grandfather’s lips barely move. “Or you can go it alone, if you’re so inclined.”
The threat is real. There are solo alphas, but they’re usually social pariahs, or worse. I’m stubborn, not suicidal.
My grandmother goes on. “This isn’t about affection. Or chemistry. It’s about lineage, and you know it. The Everhart line is crumbling. The Silverwood legacy is fragile. Without a viable omega, both names die in a generation. Is that what you want?”
I could lie, but what’s the point? “No, ma’am.”
She softens, just a fraction. “Then you’ll fix this. You’ll make amends with the girl. Publicly, if you must. You’re not leaving this building until you do.”
“Understood.” Hell if I know how, though. Or if I want to.
Ranier’s father says nothing.
I’m dismissed. Wyatt’s waiting out in the corridor, leaning against the wall like he’s been there the whole time. “How’d it go?”
“They want me to grovel or get out.”
He smirks. “Told you. Royals Anonymous has bets running on how long you’ll last. The current line is ‘less than a season.’”
I laugh, but it’s hollow. “Fuck off, Whitlock.”
He falls in step beside me. “You know, you don’t have to do it their way. You could just… bail. Do your own thing.”
“Says the guy who’s allergic to commitment.”
Wyatt shrugs. “At least I know what I want. Do you?”
It’s a good question. One I don’t want to answer.
We reach the lounge. Ranier’s still there, alone now, staring into a tumbler of something darker than regret. He looks up, sees me, and for once, doesn’t bother with a speech.
He just says, “You coming back?”
I sit. Pour myself a drink. Watch the light slosh in the glass. “Yeah. For now.”
Wyatt rolls his eyes and heads for the door. “Let me know when you’re ready for the next public disaster. I’ll be watching.”
He’s gone, leaving only the scent of rain and ozone in his wake.
Ranier finally looks at me. “They’re not going to let this go, you know. Sooner or later, she’ll be back in play.”
I swirl my drink, thinking of Emery Grey and her glitter-pink hair, her eyes steady even as she was crushed in front of a thousand people. “Maybe. But next time, we’re doing it my way.”
He snorts. “And what’s that?”
I grin. “The way where we win.”
I raise my glass. Ranier clinks it, hard.
Outside, the corridor hums with the noise of a hundred futures, all of them waiting to be set on fire.