Chapter 20
Volleyball And Violence
~SERAPHINE~
The sportswear is new.
Not new new—clearly academy-issued, with the same institutional quality as everything else in Ruthless—but new to me.
New to my experience. New to the reality I'm apparently living in now, where packless Omegas become pack-claimed Omegas and suddenly have access to things that were denied to them for years.
Like proper athletic clothing.
Like participation in co-ed Physical Activity classes.
Like the right to exist in spaces that used to be off-limits.
I stare at myself in the locker room mirror, cataloguing the changes with the same obsessive attention I give to everything else.
The shorts are black.
Short shorts—the kind that barely reach mid-thigh, that show off the lean muscle of my legs and the scars I usually keep hidden beneath longer fabric.
There's a faded mark on my left thigh from a blade that went too deep during a combat session two years ago.
A constellation of small burns near my right knee from an "accident" in the chemistry lab that was absolutely not an accident.
The particular pattern of rope abrasions around both ankles that comes from years of aerial work, from binding myself to rings and silks and anything else that would hold my weight while I defied gravity.
The white tank top is fitted.
Too fitted, maybe—clinging to curves I usually downplay, emphasizing the narrowness of my waist and the definition of muscles that most people don't expect on an Omega.
The fabric is thin enough that I can see the outline of my sports bra underneath, and if I move too quickly, the hem rides up to expose a sliver of stomach.
My hair is up.
Ponytail, high and tight, pink strands gathered at the crown of my skull and cascading down to brush my shoulder blades. A few shorter pieces have escaped to frame my face, refusing to be contained no matter how many times I smooth them back.
One-two-three-four.
My fingers flex at my sides.
One-two-three-four.
I look... different.
Not bad-different.
Just... exposed.
Vulnerable in a way I'm not used to being, with so much skin showing and my usual armor stripped away. No blades at my back. No uniform to hide behind. No layers of fabric and weaponry creating distance between me and the world.
Just... me.
In shorts and a tank top.
About to walk into a class full of people who've spent three years treating me like a pariah.
This should be fun.
The thought is sarcastic.
Obviously.
I take a breath—two counts in, four counts hold, eight counts out—and turn away from the mirror.
The locker room is nearly empty now, most of the other Omegas having already filtered out to the gymnasium. I can hear them in the hallway—voices raised in the particular pitch of gossip, the rapid-fire exchange of information and speculation that serves as social currency in places like this.
I catch fragments as I approach.
"—can you believe it—"
"—the crazy one, the one with the pink hair—"
"—literally got claimed overnight, like, who does that—"
"—heard she seduced them, probably drugged them or something—"
"—no way they actually wanted her, she's absolutely insane—"
The words wash over me like familiar rain.
I've been hearing variations of this for years. The whispers. The speculation. The casual cruelty of people who've decided I'm not quite human enough to deserve basic courtesy.
Crazy.
Insane.
Deranged.
The labels used to hurt.
Used to burrow under my skin and fester there, making me question everything I thought I knew about myself. Was I really that bad? That broken? That fundamentally wrong that no one could stand to be near me?
But somewhere along the way—somewhere between the sixteenth person who called me crazy and the twenty-third one who crossed the street to avoid me—I stopped caring.
Or maybe I just got tired of caring.
Either way, the whispers don't land like they used to.
They're just noise now.
Background static in a life full of louder, more urgent threats.
I step into the hallway.
The gossiping Omegas go quiet immediately—that particular silence that falls when the subject of conversation shows up unexpectedly. Their eyes land on me, tracking my movement with a mixture of curiosity and hostility that I've learned to recognize.
Look at her.
Look at the crazy bitch who somehow got what we all want.
Look at the freak who doesn't deserve any of this.
I smile.
Not a nice smile.
The kind of smile that shows teeth.
A few of them take half-steps backward, instinctively creating distance. The ringleader—a tall blonde with perfectly styled hair and an expression like she's smelling something unpleasant—holds her ground, chin lifted in challenge.
"Seraphine." She says my name like it's a diagnosis. "How... surprising to see you in PA. I thought packless Omegas weren't allowed in co-ed classes."
"I'm not packless."
The words come out flat.
Final.
Her expression flickers—surprise, jealousy, something darker underneath—before smoothing back into condescension.
"Right. The Lawson pack." She laughs, and the sound is sharp enough to cut. "I'm sure that's going to last. What did you do, threaten them? Or are they just into charity cases now?"
A giggle escapes.
High.
Bright.
Just unhinged enough to make her take that half-step backward despite herself.
"Maybe both," I say sweetly. "I'm very versatile."
I don't wait for her response.
Just brush past her—close enough that my shoulder bumps hers, hard enough to make a point—and continue down the hallway toward the gymnasium.
One-two-three-four.
My toe taps against the floor with each step.
One-two-three-four.
The rhythm helps.
Keeps me grounded.
Keeps the chaos contained while I navigate a situation I've never been in before—walking into a room full of Alphas and Omegas as someone who belongs, instead of someone who's merely tolerated.
The gymnasium is massive.
High ceilings, polished hardwood floors, the smell of industrial cleaner and old sweat and something sharper underneath—the particular scent of competition and violence that permeates everything in Ruthless Academy.
Natural light filters through high windows, casting long rectangles of sunshine across the space.
Volleyball nets are set up in neat rows.
Three courts, spaced evenly apart, with equipment scattered around the edges—balls, boundary markers, the general detritus of organized athletics.
Students are already gathering.
Alphas on one side of the gymnasium, clustered in groups that speak to existing pack dynamics and social hierarchies.
They're all wearing similar sportswear—shorts and t-shirts in dark colors, muscles on casual display, the particular confidence that comes from knowing you're at the top of the food chain.
Omegas on the other side, forming their own clusters.
Smaller.
Quieter.
More defensive.
I find a spot near the edge of the Omega section—close enough to be technically present, far enough to maintain some distance from the girls who were gossiping about me moments ago.
My back finds the wall, and I let myself lean against the cool surface while I wait for the class to officially begin.
The mini-version of Ro is warm against my collarbone.
I modified her this morning—compressed the sphere into something smaller, something that could be worn around my neck on a simple chain instead of floating beside me conspicuously. She still functions, still monitors my vitals, still provides commentary that's equal parts helpful and sarcastic.
But now she's portable.
Stealthy.
A comfort object hidden in plain sight.
"Status?" I murmur, barely moving my lips.
"All systems nominal," Ro responds, her voice tinny but clear through the tiny speaker embedded in the pendant. "Heart rate slightly elevated. Cortisol levels within acceptable parameters. No immediate threats detected."
No immediate threats.
That's debatable, given the looks I'm getting from basically everyone.
But I appreciate the attempt at reassurance.
The whispers start up again.
Louder now, because the gossiping Omegas have reached the gymnasium and rejoined their friends. I can hear them—fragments of conversation drifting across the space like poison.
"—did you hear? She actually got claimed—"
"—by the Lawson pack, like, the one with the scary leader—"
"—they're all so hot, it's literally unfair—"
"—how did someone like her end up with them—"
"—she probably spread her legs and they're just too polite to say no—"
"—imagine having to smell that crazy energy every day—"
"—I heard she kills people, like, actually kills them—"
"—no way they're keeping her long-term, she's a walking disaster—"
The envy is palpable.
Thick enough to taste, hanging in the air like humidity before a storm.
They hate me—have always hated me—but now there's something new in their hostility.
Something that looks like frustration. Like they can't understand how someone they've decided is beneath them managed to get something they want.
A pack.
Four Alphas.
The kind of protection that changes everything.
I tune them out.
It's a skill I've developed over years of practice—the ability to let noise wash over me without letting it in. To exist in the space between words, where the cruelty can't quite reach.
My eyes drift across the gymnasium.
Taking in details.
Cataloguing information.
The arrangement of the volleyball courts. The location of the exits. The clusters of students and the social dynamics they represent. The way certain Alphas stand slightly apart from others, marking themselves as pack leaders or lone wolves or something in between.
There.
My gaze catches on a familiar figure across the room.
Sage.
He's standing with a group of Alphas—no, not with them, exactly. More near them. Close enough for social acceptability but maintaining enough distance to suggest he's not part of their hierarchy.
His pink hair is unmistakable.