Chapter 12
Chapter twelve
Iheard Rae's house before I saw it.
Voices spilled through the windows—deep male tones overlapping, Rae's exasperated reply cutting through, Alexandra's high-pitched shriek of delight. The kind of noise that only came from too many people crammed into one kitchen.
Ash opened the door before I could knock. "The twins are back."
"I gathered."
"They've been insufferably smug for the last hour. Refuse to say anything until the whole family's here." He rolled his eyes, but there was warmth underneath. "Rae's about to kill them both."
I followed him through the hallway. The kitchen was packed—more people than the space was designed for, all of them talking at once.
Kane stood by the counter, Alexandra perched on his hip, her small fingers tangled in his hair.
Kade leaned against the refrigerator with a mug of coffee, watching his twin with the particular fondness only brothers shared.
Silas sat at the table, silver hair loose around his shoulders, his expression unreadable.
Tomlinson occupied the chair beside him, still in his teaching clothes, a stack of papers forgotten in front of him.
Luca was at the stove, stirring something that smelled like heaven.
Rae stood in the center of it all, arms crossed, patience visibly fraying.
"Finally," she said when she spotted me. "Now will you two please tell us what you found?"
Kane grinned. "Patience, love."
"I've been patient for weeks. My patience has limits."
"Noted." Kade set down his coffee and reached for a worn leather bag on the floor. "Alright. Everyone's here. Let's do this."
The room settled. Alexandra was passed to Luca, who carried her toward the living room with promises of cartoons. The rest of us gathered around the table, the playful energy shifting into something more serious.
Kade pulled a thick folder from his bag and set it down. The edges were worn, the surface covered in stamps and seals I didn't recognize. Foreign. Old.
"We found the European repository," Kane said. "Hidden archive in Prague, buried under three centuries of bureaucracy. It took some convincing to get access."
"Convincing?" Tomlinson raised an eyebrow.
"Money changed hands," Kade said flatly. "Don't ask how much."
"The important thing is what we found." Kane tapped the folder. "Council records from before the restructuring. Documents that were supposed to have been destroyed decades ago."
"Most of it is useless," Kade continued. "Redacted. Damaged. Fire, water, deliberate destruction. Someone went through these archives thoroughly and removed anything valuable."
"But not thoroughly enough," Kane finished.
He opened the folder. Inside were pages—dozens of them, maybe more. Some pristine, most not. I saw burned edges, sections blacked out with heavy ink, documents that were more holes than text. The destruction had been systematic. Intentional.
"We spent hours going through everything," Kade said. "Looking for patterns. Names. Classifications. Anything that might explain what they were trying to hide."
"One word kept appearing." Kane pulled a single page from the stack and set it in the center of the table. "Seventeen times across different documents. Reports. Memos. What looks like research notes. And then, a few decades ago, it disappears completely."
I leaned forward. The page was damaged—half burned away, the rest faded and water-stained. But in the center, circled in red ink that had aged to rust, one word remained legible.
Omega.
"What does it mean?" Rae asked.
"That's the problem." Kade's voice was tight. "There's no definition. No context we can piece together. It appears in sentences that suggest classification—like a designation for a type of wolf. But every document that might have explained what that type is has been destroyed."
"Deliberately," Kane added. "This wasn't decay or negligence. Someone went through every archive they could find and systematically erased this word from the record."
Tomlinson reached for the page, his professor's instincts taking over. He studied it with narrowed eyes, turning it carefully to catch the light. "The formatting suggests scientific documentation. Research notes, possibly. See the margins here—there were citations that have been blacked out."
"Whatever Omega means," Kade said, "someone powerful wanted it forgotten."
The room was quiet. I looked around the table—at Rae, whose expression had gone still and focused.
At Ash, whose hand had found her lower back.
At Tomlinson, still examining the page with clinical interest. At Luca, who had returned from settling Alexandra and now stood in the doorway, arms crossed, face troubled.
And at Silas.
He hadn't moved since Kane set the page on the table. Hadn't spoken. He sat frozen, his eyes fixed on that single word, his face pale as bone.
"Silas?" Rae's voice softened. "You've gone quiet."
He didn't respond.
"Silas."
Slowly, like a man moving through water, he reached for the page. His hand trembled. He pulled it closer, stared at it for a long moment, and I watched something shift behind his eyes. Recognition. Memory.
"Where exactly did you find this?" His voice was barely above a whisper. “Does anyone else know you took it?"
"No. We were careful."
Silas closed his eyes. When he opened them again, he looked exhausted. The kind of tired that came from carrying secrets for too long.
"Silas." Rae moved to his side, her hand finding his shoulder. "What is it? Do you know what Omega means?"
"It's not about the meaning." He looked up at her. Then at me. "It's about what it represents. What it was."
"Which is?"
He didn't answer. The silence stretched, heavy and expectant.
I looked at the page again. At the word circled in faded ink, surrounded by nothing but ash and damage. Seven letters. Three syllables. Simple on the surface.
But it didn't feel simple.
"Omega," I said.
Just speaking it felt different. Heavier. Like the word had weight, had texture, had history that pressed against my tongue.
Silas flinched.
The reaction was small but unmistakable. His whole body tensed, his breath catching like I'd struck him.
"That word hasn't been spoken in this territory in thirty years."
No one moved. The kitchen, so chaotic minutes ago, had gone tomb-silent.
"Why?" The question came from Rae, but I felt it in my own chest. "Why hasn't it been spoken?"
Silas looked at me. Not at Rae, not at the twins, not at any of his other mates gathered around the table. At me. His gaze was heavy with something old and terrible.
"Because the last person who carried that classification was hunted down and killed." His voice was hollow. "Along with everyone who knew what she was."
The words hit the room like stones dropped into still water. I felt the ripples—the sharp intake of breath from Kane, the way Kade's hand tightened on his mug, the tension that snapped through Rae's shoulders.
"Carried," Tomlinson said slowly. "You said carried. Like a title. A designation."
"A classification," Silas confirmed. "For a type of wolf that I thought was extinct."
"What type?" I asked.
His eyes stayed on mine. I saw the war in them—the part that wanted to speak fighting against decades of silence, of protection, of fear.
"I can't," he said finally. "Not yet. Not until I'm certain."
"Certain of what?"
He didn't answer. But he didn't look away either.
And in that silence, in the weight of his gaze and the echo of that single word still ringing in my ears, I understood.
Whatever Omega meant—whatever that classification represented—he thought it might apply to me.