Chapter 3
Helena
Sunlight knives through the glass of the front set of manor windows.
It paints the floor with bars of gold. I sit on the edge of a bench that, by rights, should only ever see the tailored trousers of important men.
But today, I’m in a hoodie and yoga shorts, legs folded up and bare toes against the cold tile, scrolling the news feeds with the kind of grim fascination usually reserved for obituary comments.
As predicted, most of it is talk about Emery regarding last year’s Omega Selection Day events, and the predictions of which omegas might do crazy things this year.
As if standing up for yourself in the face of alpha men is radical.
A delivery van pulls up to the front gates, which part to let it enter.
I watch the van come up to the door. A tall, lanky man no older than twenty-five emerges long enough to deposit a box outside our front doors.
Before he’s back through the gates, Zane’s already appeared with the package and set it down beside me.
“This just came for you.”
“Thank you.”
Zane’s eyebrows twitch. “How are you today?”
Is it that obvious that I’m not that well? “I’m fine, Zane, thank you. I didn’t sleep well. I’ll be okay.”
“I can get coffee for you?”
He’s trying, but I’m not in the mood to be courteous today.
I give him a small smile, then take a closer look at the package. “You’re my bodyguard, not my personal assistant. I’ll get my own coffee in a bit.”
The return label is from the Omega Finishing School.
I sigh. “This appears to be a graduation parcel of sorts.”
Zane gives me a curt nod and then waits expectantly, like he wants me to open it and be sure it’s not dangerous before leaving me alone with the parcel’s contents. But at two feet by two feet wide, I can’t imagine what might be in here that’s so very dangerous Zane needs to stay by my side.
I pull at the twine wrapping the box quite nicely. Whoever packaged this parcel did a fine job. Inside is no different, with another finely decorated box. The inner box has a note on top, written on thick letterhead in swirling cursive font:
Helena,
We are so proud of you. May this little gift inspire the creation of a nurturing home, wherever you may land.
— Headmistress Crowthorne
There’s a wax seal with the school’s insignia: an omega symbol surrounded by three stalks of lavender and the year of our establishment.
I peel back the tissue paper to find the giftbox is actually a “nest starter kit.” It’s a real, trademarked product.
Included are color-matched blankets in the school’s signature blue, a set of sachets containing scents designed to “maximize tranquility” (lavender, again, but also honey and sandalwood), a glass jar of milk bath, and a set of glossy cards printed with affirmations in looping script.
You are enough.
Your pack needs your light.
Nesting is an act of courage.
At the bottom, folded in a tight square, is a “future pack agreement.” I pick it up with two fingers as though it might bite.
The paper is blank, save for my name at the top and a line at the bottom where signatures will eventually march in their expected order: alphas, then omega, then beta supports if there are any.
It hits me then, the full slap of inevitability.
I am, apparently, the last person in the tri-county area who believed that by finishing school, by doing everything right, I might buy myself a year or three of peace—or the confidence that I’d done the right thing by me.
That I actually wanted this and Omega Finishing School would make that decision feel more right.
My fists ball around the edges of the box as a rising fire burns within me. One flaming the desire to run.
This is not what I want anymore.
But do I get to decide that?
Zane clears his throat. “That’s, uh, quite the kit. Congratulations?”
I snort. “If this is a gift, I’d hate to see their idea of a threat.”
He moves closer, the cadence of his walk purposeful but unhurried.
I want to be angry at him, but all the oxygen has been sucked out of my lungs.
There’s something about his presence—the way it fills the gaps in a room, like maybe I do have a choice in something about my life, even if it’s just to punch him or not.
He glances at the cards, picking one up. “‘Nesting is an act of courage,’” he reads, then he tosses it back in the box. “Sounds exhausting.”
“It is.” I sink to the floor, my back against a sun-warmed wall, and pull my knees up to my chest. “I thought—never mind. I didn’t think this would feel so final.”
He crouches next to me, just outside the radius of my personal space. If I needed to, I could hit him with one of the pillows, and I get the feeling he’d let me. Instead, I pull the blanket out and fold it over my knees, pressing the softness to my fists until my knuckles ache.
My voice is small and flat when I say, “I’m not sure I want this.”
Zane doesn’t say anything. He just waits. I almost wish he’d give me the speech. How it’s natural to be nervous, and how every omega has doubts. Or better yet, about how my family would never force me to do anything I don’t want to do.
But Zane doesn’t do speeches. He just looks at me, eyes the color of deep water, and waits.
“Did you ever want to be something else?” I ask him. It’s a stupid question, but if I don’t speak, I’m going to start crying, and I am not in the mood for a pity party.
He shrugs. “I wanted to be an astronaut when I was five. And a pirate at seven.”
I bark a laugh, surprising us both.
“I’m serious.” He even lets himself grin around the words. “But everyone always told me I was better at guarding things than at stealing them. Or exploring them.”
“So you settled.”
“No. I did what I was good at.” His voice drops until it’s almost imperceptible. “That’s not settling.”
The silence stretches between us. I want to curl into the blanket and disappear.
“I don’t think I want a pack.” I nearly flinch hearing the admission out loud.
He nods. “What do you want?”
The question is a trap. If I could answer it, I wouldn’t be here, inhaling lavender and self-loathing.
“I want to not disappoint anyone,” I admit.
“Then don’t.”
I glare at him. “You’re supposed to tell me that it’s okay to do what I want. That my family will understand. That—”
He shakes his head. “You don’t want anyone’s permission. You want someone to be angry for you so you don’t have to be.”
I’m about to protest, but he’s right, and the words catch in my throat.
He stands, brushes imaginary dust from his knee, and holds out a hand. I hesitate but take it, letting him pull me to my feet.
“I’ll tell them you’re indisposed for breakfast,” he says. There’s a pause, and he meets my gaze dead on. “Unless you want to talk to them. Or run away.”
“Running away isn’t exactly in the cards,” I say, gesturing at the pack agreement. The one with empty names because I’m meant to be preparing to meet alphas and be assigned to a pack. But the idea of running away—that’s not half bad, actually. “Where would I even go?”
He considers. “Cornwall. No one follows anyone to Cornwall in the summer. Too many tourists.”
I snort again, the barest spark of humor returning. “What about my security detail?”
He shrugs, a trace of a smile on his lips. “I hear they’re easy to bribe.”
I look at the nest kit. Maybe I can’t change anything.
Maybe I can only delay the inevitable. But for one single second, I let myself imagine a world where I can throw the future pack agreement in the recycling and drive to the sea, windows down, hair in tangles, with Zane in the passenger seat if he wants.
There’s just one barrier to this reverie.
Father.
My father’s study is a museum of masculine confidence.
I used to love this room for its warmth, the feeling that the world was orderly and could be managed with enough strategic thinking and the right stationery.
Today, I sit on a leather chair across from his desk, bracing myself against the cold reality that the world I want is not in his filing cabinet.
He looks up from his laptop, glasses perched at the tip of his nose.
Even with graying hair and wrinkles seamed at the corners of his eyes, my father is not a soft man.
He’s built from the same blueprint as Zane: broad-shouldered, methodical, exuding a controlled authority that would’ve made him a warlord in another era.
“Helena,” he says, setting the glasses aside. “To what do I owe the pleasure? You haven’t even had breakfast.” His tone is a warning: do not waste my time with melodrama before coffee.
I fix my gaze on the cut-glass decanter in the corner. “I’d like to discuss my plans for the summer. Before Omega Selection Day.”
He leans back and folds his hands. “I assume you’ll be preparing. There are several etiquette events, and your mother has scheduled appointments for attire.”
“I’m not attending any of it.” The words come out easier than I thought they would. “I want to go to Cornwall for the whole summer.”
His eyebrows rise. “Cornwall? As in England? Why on earth—”
“Because I need to think,” I cut in, the edge in my voice surprising both of us. “About what I want. About who I am, outside of… all this.”
My father nearly glares at me. I’ve never in my life seen him look so angry with me, and I understand why.
“You’re a Starling. An omega from a line older than half the country.
We don’t have the luxury of second-guessing ourselves, least of all after forcing your way into finishing school in your late twenties. ”
His words strike deep because they’re true. I was far older than most of my peers, and that did hurt. Now…
I dig my nails into my palms. “Well, the luxury is exactly what I want for three months.”
He scoffs a dry little puff of air. “You’re not running away, Helena. Not with what’s at stake.” His hand moves to the decanter on his desk. He pours himself a measure of scotch before nine in the morning.
“I’m not running,” I insist. “I’m pausing. That’s all. You know what it’s like to be judged, to have everything decided for you. I just—” I break off, forcing the words out. “I need to make sure this is the future I want. Not one you and Mother want.”
He studies me with narrowed eyes. “You don’t get to decide whether or not you’re an omega.”
“I know.” My voice cracks. “But I can decide whether or not I’m miserable while living.”
A long silence follows, interrupted only by the clicking of an ancient grandfather clock in the corner. I dare not look at Zane in case Father wrongly assumes he’s had any part of this mindset change.
Father drains the glass and sets it down. “And if I forbid it?”
I square my shoulders. “I’ll go, anyway.” A bluff, maybe. Or not. Even I’m not sure. “I’m your daughter and a Starling, but I am an adult.”
He sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Your security detail would never allow it. Zane would have you on a plane back within the hour.”
“Then send him with me.” Desperation is growing dangerously close to escaping in my tone. “I’ll stay in a flat, somewhere safe. And I’ll check in every day. I just… need space.”
He considers, weighing options the way he would on a boardroom floor. “Zane would need to approve the location. No parties. No unauthorized visitors. You will answer every call. And he goes with you.”
I nod, unable to hide my relief, even if this means Zane has to go with me.
Father looks at me with something like pity. “It’s not easy, you know. This weight. You think I wanted this for you? That I ever wanted you to feel like you didn’t have choices?”
I look down at my hands, ashamed. “You never asked if I did.”
He’s quiet. Then, “Fine. Go. Take your summer.” To Zane, he says, “I want the address by tonight.”
Zane gives him a curt nod. “I know a seaside village. It’s small and quiet.”
“Perfect.” Father waves us both off and reaches for his phone. “You’re still expected at Selection Day. No more surprises, Helena.”
I leave before I can ruin the moment or risk my father changing his mind. “Well?” I ask Zane.
Zane shrugs. “Cornwall it is, then. The village is called ‘Seamuse.’ I think you’ll quite like it.” He chuckles some. “But I’m not carrying your nest kit.”
I grin despite myself. “That’s absolutely staying here.”
As I run up the stairs to start packing, I realize my hands are shaking—not with dread, but with the kind of anticipation that borders on terror.
The future is finally mine to choose.