Chapter 27
Emery
It takes a long time for their knots to go down.
I’m not a scientist but I’m pretty sure Bastion’s is an evolutionary off-ramp designed to trap unwary omegas for at least one REM cycle.
Not that I mind. Once the aftershocks roll out and I’m no longer jelly between two slices of pack, I let myself drift in and out, my body boneless and aglow.
Each time I shift, a sweet ache blooms where Bastion’s teeth marked my shoulder and where Wyatt's fingers dug into my hips.
Their breathing surrounds me—Bastion's deep and rhythmic, Wyatt’s with that little catch at the end of each exhale.
Around us, the canvas bears witness: handprints in blue and red, the torn edge of a sheet twisted into a rope, and a pillow leaking feathers that catch in my hair when I turn my head.
For a little while, it’s perfect.
I don’t want to get up, but my bladder has other ideas.
I worm my way out from between Bastion and Wyatt, careful not to wake either of them.
Bastion’s mouth is open and he’s drooling on his own bicep.
Wyatt’s face is mashed against the pillow with blue streaks of paint haloing his eyes like avant-garde eye shadow.
The floor is slick, but I make it to the bathroom and back without incident.
I’m struck by a different sensation as I return.
Fullness, but not the physical kind. I’m brimming, a hot-air balloon threatening to take off through the skylight.
The loneliness is gone. I have a pack, even if it’s the world’s weirdest one.
I crawl back into the nest. Bastion stirs. “Morning, angel.”
Wyatt wakes up last. He blinks himself into consciousness and then, with the confusion of the truly sleep-drunk, looks at his own hand like it’s a foreign object. “What time is it?”
“Don’t care,” says Bastion.
Wyatt’s hand drifts lazily down my arm. “You paint last night?”
I glance at the canvas, a delirious smear of color and maybe some evidence of three people rutting for hours. “Sort of. We made something.”
Wyatt looks at me and a smile that blooms on his face. “Yeah. We did.”
For a while, we just lie there. I close my eyes and pretend we’re the only pack that matters.
But nothing gold can stay.
Wyatt’s phone buzzes once, then again, then goes full vibrating rattle on the floorboards. He doesn’t move at first, but when the buzzing becomes impossible to ignore, he groans and gropes around for it, squinting at the screen.
“It’s just notifications,” he says, tossing the phone toward the pile of dirty laundry without locking the screen again. It bounces and lands face-up on the rug, still alight and shuddering every few seconds.
But then it goes off again, and again, and again.
After the sixth or seventh burst, I get up to check it, mostly to shut it the hell up before Bastion murders us all.
I pick up the phone. The lock screen is a blizzard of pop-ups—comments, likes, and other pings.
It’s the digital equivalent of a mob outside our front door.
I expect it to be group chats or maybe my art account.
But the icon on every single notification is a cartoon wolf I’d recognize anywhere: Royals Anonymous.
I freeze.
Wyatt’s phone is still unlocked. Heck of a lockout timer.
I open it with one thumb swipe and the app opens, flooding the screen with a list of new posts, some already in the hundreds of upvotes.
Some flagged while others are marked with a gold star for trending.
The first is a meme of Ranier in a suit with the caption “Beta Energy, Alpha Salary.” The next is a blurry photo of Bastion, his expression so sullen it looks like it was drawn in MS Paint.
Below that, a screen grab from last night’s debut, with me front and center.
The caption: “Blue omega takes center stage. Is the Everhart pack doomed?”
My stomach drops. There’s a part of me that wants to close the app, but I can’t. I click on the notification queue. There’s a little red flag on the admin dashboard. Wyatt is logged in, but not as a lurker. As a moderator. No—an owner.
I feel the world tip sideways. Every bright bubble of joy from last night pops in reverse.
I scroll. There are drafts half-written about every pack in the city, but most of them are about us.
About me. There’s a queue for user-submitted posts with comments attached.
“What even is her deal?” “She looks like an off-brand anime character.” “Why would they claim someone like her? Is it a fetish?” “Prediction: she’s gone in a month. ”
And then, right at the top, a new draft. I click it before I can stop myself.
Title: “OmegaFail: Why The Everhart Experiment is Already Dead”
Body: Saw the "commoner" omega at the Council debut today.
Blue hair like a gas station slushie and a dress from the children's department.
Everhart's new pet talks like she's auditioning for a comedy special nobody would watch.
If this pack is desperate enough to claim street trash with no bloodline or breeding, they deserve extinction. #OmegaFail #TrashPack
It’s not posted yet. But it’s there, written in a voice that could almost be Wyatt’s, sharp and clever and hiding the blade until it cuts.
My hands shake. I want to believe it’s a joke or a prank. Maybe even a trap for trolls. But the voice in my head says: You always knew. You knew, and you let yourself believe anyway.
I slam the phone down on my desk so hard it leaves a crack in the screen.
Bastion jerks awake and clutches his head. “The fuck?”
Wyatt blinks, not yet piecing it together. “You okay?”
I don’t answer. I grab the phone and throw it at him. It bounces off the blanket and lands at his feet.
Wyatt picks it up and sees the open draft. His mouth goes slack. “Emery—”
“Is it true? You think I look like a gas station slushie?” I don’t even know if I want the answer to that question.
Wyatt’s eyes go wide. “I—what? No, I—”
“You run Royals Anonymous?” My voice is so shrill it bounces off the windows.
He stares, caught.
Bastion sits up and rubs his eyes. “What’s going on?”
I toss my hair out of my face. “Did you know? Did either of you fucking know?”
Bastion looks from me to Wyatt, then back again. “Know what?”
I jab a finger at Wyatt. “He owns Royals Anonymous. The troll blog that’s been roasting us since day one.”
Wyatt winces, but doesn’t deny it. “It’s just a stupid account. I started it as a joke, it’s not—”
“It’s not real?” I cut in, laugh sharp as glass. “Because it looks pretty fucking real from here.”
Bastion glares at Wyatt. “What did you write?”
I pin Bastion with a glare. “You did know?”
What the actual fuck.
The betrayal turns my insides to permafrost, a spreading cold that starts in my gut and radiates outward until even my fingertips feel numb.
My chest constricts as if someone has wrapped barbed wire around my lungs and pulled tight, each breath a reminder that I've been made a fool of by someone I trusted.
The world narrows to pinpricks of light as my vision tunnels, and I can hear my heartbeat in my ears, each thud a metronome counting down to the moment when I'll shatter completely.
Wyatt nods, small and ashamed. “I didn’t mean—I never posted that draft. It’s probably someone else on the admin team. I just—sometimes I write drafts to see if anyone bites—” His brow furrows deep. “But that… that’s not me, Emery. I swear, Bastion.”
Bastion swipes Wyatt’s phone right from his hands and starts reading. Every word seems to etch anger deeper into his face.
I want to scream. “You were planning to post it.”
Wyatt flinches. “No! Emery, I swear—”
I point at my chest. “You called me trash. You said I had no bloodline. You said I’d be gone in a month.”
Wyatt shakes his head, frantic. “I didn’t write that. Not really. Look, there are a dozen people who have access. I started the account, but it’s not just me—”
Bastion cuts in, tone gone dark. “A dozen people? Wyatt, are you insane after what happened before?”
Wyatt’s face flushes red. “I know, I’m sorry. I didn’t think about it that way. But this blog, it’s all bullshit—”
“It’s my bullshit.” My voice is icy. “I’m the one who gets to be a joke. Not you.”
Bastion stands up, looming over both of us. “Why the fuck would you even draft something like this?”
Wyatt’s eyes dart around the room for help that isn’t coming. “I didn’t.”
“You’re a coward,” Bastion spits. “You won’t even own up to it. You’re too young for this life and you’re a fucking coward. Christopher would be so disappointed in you.”
Wyatt’s gaze goes cold.
I take that moment as the perfect time for escape. I grab my bag from the chair and don’t look at either of them.
Bastion sees me packing and goes soft. “Emery, don’t.”
I sling the bag over my shoulder. “Why not? I was never going to last anyway. Might as well give you something to blog about. Ranier will be so fucking happy.” I spit the last word. This pack gave me the world. These two gave me everything before Ranier even considered. And now they’d done this.
From the start, I was never meant to stay in Everhart Pack. Maybe Bastion and Wyatt had fooled themselves. Maybe Ranier was the only one of my alphas with a backbone.
And maybe Mom and Dad were right.
A commoner omega has no right trying to find love in royal matches.
Wyatt jumps out of the nest and grabs my arm. “Emery. Don’t go. Please. I’m sorry. I’ll delete the account. I’ll burn it all down—”
I pull away. After last night, after everything, his touch burns. “It doesn’t matter. It never mattered. I was always just a joke. You just wanted to see if I’d break. And now the whole world knows. But I’ll give you this much, you had me convinced.”
His eyes are wet. “No. No, I swear—”
But I’m done listening. It’s all right there for all three of us to see, clear as day.
I shake my head. “You can’t even name one of the people you gave admin rights to who might have written this. Because you did. Wyatt, even if it was just for clicks and reads, words matter. Especially to your pack.”
I march down the hall and out the door before either of them catches up. The morning is cold and crisp, and the city looks different in light of everything I’ve just learned. But it doesn’t matter. None of this does.
I need to get out.
Behind me I hear the footsteps of Bastion and Wyatt chasing me. I break into a run, down the steps, past the gate, and on to the street. I don’t stop until the manor is gone from sight. Until the world is nothing but me and the taste of regret in my mouth.
I don’t know where I’m going. I just know it isn’t home.