Chapter 8 – Billie
Eight
BILLIE
Two fucking weeks of this mind-numbing bullshit, and I'm starting to understand why they call it "assimilation training."
They're literally trying to assimilate my brain cells into mush.
"The key to a proper nest," Madame Loriyne drones on, arranging silk pillows in what she probably thinks is an artistic pattern, "is creating an environment that speaks to your inner omega's deepest instincts. It must be both protective and inviting, a sanctuary that—"
I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from groaning out loud. We've been at this for three hours. Three. Fucking. Hours. Of watching her fluff pillows and arrange blankets like she's preparing for some kind of supernatural slumber party.
The "classroom", and I use that term loosely, is another exercise in Fae excess.
Circular room with walls that shift between transparent and opaque depending on the angle of the sun.
The floor is covered in carpet that feels like clouds made solid, soft enough to sink into but firm enough to walk on.
Perfect for nest-building practice, apparently.
My ass has gone numb from sitting cross-legged on a cushion that's probably made of some endangered creature's fur.
The collar around my neck is a constant reminder that I'm not here by choice.
Every time my mind wanders to thoughts of strangling Madame Loriyne with one of her precious silk scarves, it pulses gently.
Not enough to hurt, just enough to say "we're watching. "
Fucking magical leash.
"Miss Moreau, are you even paying attention?" Madame Loriyne's voice cuts through my murder fantasies like a knife through butter.
"Absolutely," I lie, straightening my spine. "Protective yet inviting. Got it."
Her violet eyes narrow. She knows I'm full of shit, but proving it would require her to admit her teaching methods are about as engaging as watching paint dry. In slow motion. While blindfolded.
"Then perhaps you'd like to demonstrate what you've learned?" She gestures to the pile of nesting materials beside me, silks and velvets and other soft things.
I'm saved from having to pretend I give a shit about pillow placement by a commotion in the hallway. Shouting. The sound of a struggle. And then—
"Get your fucking hands off me, you pointy-eared bitches!"
My head snaps toward the door so fast I probably give myself whiplash. That's a human voice. Female. And pissed.
The door bursts open, and two guards stumble in, wrestling with a blonde woman who's putting up one hell of a fight.
She's maybe five-foot-four, but she's making those six-foot-plus Fae work for it.
Her hair is a tangled mess, like she's been running her hands through it, or someone's been trying to grab her by it.
But what catches my attention are the tattoos covering her arms. Intricate designs that look almost like runes, dark against pale skin.
Tattoos. On an omega.
That's... not something you see every day.
"Let. Me. Go!" She punctuates each word with an attempt to either kick or bite her captors. When that doesn't work, she hawks back and spits directly in one guard's face.
Holy shit. I think I have a girl crush.
The guard recoils, disgust written across his perfect features as he wipes the spit away. "Vile creature," he mutters.
"Vile?" The blonde laughs, high and sharp. "That's rich coming from someone who probably jerks off to tree bark."
I have to clamp my hand over my mouth to keep from laughing. Madame Loriyne, on the other hand, looks like someone just shit on her favorite rug.
"What," she says, each word dripping with icy disdain, "is the meaning of this interruption?"
The guard who got spit on, still wiping his face with a silk handkerchief, clears his throat. "Our apologies, Madame. Miss Volkova was admitted to the hospital wing last week with a severe illness. She seems to have made a... remarkable recovery."
"Remarkable my ass," the blonde—Volkova—snorts. "I told you fuckers I was fine. But no, you had to keep me locked up for 'observation.'"
"And the moment we released her," the other guard continues, shooting Volkov a look that could freeze hell, "she attempted to escape. Again."
Madame Loriyne sighs, the sound conveying centuries of disappointment. "Of course. Hello again, Anastasia."
Anastasia grins, all teeth and zero warmth. "Miss me, Lori? I know how empty your life must be without me around to fuck up your perfect little omega factory."
"Language," Madame Loriyne says automatically, then seems to notice me for the first time since the interruption. Her lips purse further, which I didn't think was physically possible. "And now you've disrupted Miss Moreau's education."
Anastasia's eyes land on me, and her grin shifts into something more genuine. "Who's the goth chick?"
Goth chick? I look down at my outfit of black pants and a deep purple tunic with silver threading.
Compared to the pastels and whites the other omegas apparently prefer, I guess I do look like I'm headed to a funeral.
My funeral, specifically, if I have to sit through another lecture on the spiritual significance of thread counts in an omega's nest. Apparently, everything is sacred to the Fae.
"This," Madame Loriyne says, her tone suggesting she'd rather be introducing a particularly virulent strain of plague than endure her presence circumstances, "is Miss Wilhelmina Moreau. Our newest student."
"Billie," I correct automatically. "Just Billie."
"Wilhelmina has shown a remarkable degree of progress over the past two weeks," Madame Loriyne continues as if I hadn't spoken, "despite her... improper origins. She would do well to interact as little as possible with you, Anastasia."
And just like that, I know exactly how I'm spending every spare moment I can steal in this place. If Madame Loriyne doesn't want us talking, that means Anastasia is exactly the kind of person I need to know.
"Improper origins?" Anastasia's eyebrows climb toward her hairline. "Do tell."
"That's quite enough," Madame Loriyne snaps.
She turns to the guards, who are still hovering like they expect Anastasia to make another break for it.
Which, judging by the way she's eyeing the door, she probably is thinking about.
"I'll need to fill out the paperwork for her readmittance.
Again." The last word comes out like she's chewing glass.
"You two." She points at Anastasia and me. "Behave. I'll return shortly."
She sweeps out of the room, robes billowing dramatically behind her. The guards follow, though one shoots a warning look over his shoulder.
Silence lingers between us for about five seconds before Anastasia breaks it.
"So," she says, sauntering over to Madame Loriyne's carefully constructed nest, "goth chick's got a story. Spill."
"You first," I counter, watching as she starts pulling apart the nest with vindictive glee. "Are you an omega too?"
She snorts, tossing a silk pillow across the room with enough force to knock over a vase that's probably worth a fortune. It shatters. "No, the Fae just can't get enough of my magic pussy, so they keep hauling me back here."
The laugh escapes before I can stop it. It's a real laugh. When was the last time that happened? Probably before my Unmasking, when my biggest concern was whether I'd get the blood binding resonance like my mother or—
Nope. Not going down that road. Not when I finally have something interesting happening in this velvet-lined prison.
"Seriously though," I press, moving closer to help her destroy Madame Loriyne's precious nest. "If you're not an omega, why are you here?"
Anastasia pauses in her destruction, fixing me with eyes that are way too knowing for someone who looks like she should be fronting a punk band. "You really don't know?"
"Know what?"
"This place isn't just for omegas, goth chick. It's for any human the Fae consider... special. And by special, I mean useful." She kicks at a pile of cashmere throws. "Omegas are just the most common type of special."
"And you're special how?"
She grins, but it doesn't reach her eyes. "That's a third date kind of question. You haven't even bought me dinner yet."
Fair enough. I've got my own secrets, I can respect hers.
"This is shit," Anastasia declares, surveying the ruined nest with satisfaction. "Even I know a craptastic nest when I see one. That bitch has no business teaching this stuff."
"I wouldn't really know," I admit. "I'm not a nesting expert myself."
"So what's your deal? Lori mentioned improper origins. That's her fancy way of saying you're not from one of the approved bloodlines."
I'm definitely not from one of those.
I consider how much to tell her. The smart thing would probably be to keep my mouth shut, play the confused newly-discovered omega who doesn't know any better. But if I'm going to survive long enough to get revenge, I need allies and Anastasia might be my only shot.
"I'm a hunter," I say, watching her face carefully for a reaction.
Her eyes widen, then narrow, then widen again. It's like watching someone go through all five stages of grief in fast-forward. "No fucking way."
"Yes fucking way."
"A hunter. An actual, honest-to-gods hunter. And you're an omega." She starts laughing, high and slightly hysterical. "Oh, that's beautiful. That's so fucking beautiful I could cry. How pissed was your family?"
"Pissed enough to pump me full of heat-inducing drugs and dump me in the woods for the Fae to find."
Her laughter cuts off like someone flipped a switch. "They what?"
"You heard me."
"Man, that's cold." She runs a hand through her tangled hair. "And I thought my family was fucked up. They just sold me to the highest bidder."
"Sold you?"
She waves a hand dismissively. "Long story. Involves a debt, some really bad decisions on my father's part, and me being the only valuable thing he had left to bargain with. But at least he didn't try to kill me first."