Chapter 12 – Billie
Twelve
BILLIE
Icrack one eye open, immediately regretting consciousness as memories of yesterday flood back. Right. Valemyre University. Surrounded by Fae and their pets. Living with Princess Pink herself.
Speaking of which...
I turn my head to find Olivia's bed empty, the covers pulled so tight you could bounce a fucking coin off them.
The anal retentiveness of it makes my eye twitch.
Who the hell makes their bed like they're preparing for military inspection at—I squint at the ornate clock on her nightstand—six in the morning?
Then I remember the door slam from last night.
She'd come in around midnight, and I swear the entire building shook with the force of her entrance.
The way she'd stomped around, muttering under her breath about "incompetent administrators" and "unacceptable circumstances" told me everything I needed to know.
Her transfer request got denied. Unfortunate for the both of us.
I stretch, joints popping in ways that would make Madame Loriyne faint.
The bed really is ridiculously comfortable, like sleeping on a cloud.
Part of me wants to burrow back under the covers and pretend this whole omega nightmare isn't happening.
But that's not going to get me any closer to Prince Corvinus's throat.
Time to face my first day of supernatural finishing school.
I drag myself out of bed, bare feet hitting carpet that's somehow both plush and temperature-regulated. Because of course it is. Can't have the fragile little omegas getting cold feet.
The bathroom is another exercise in excess with its gold fixtures and marble surfaces.
I splash cold water on my face, staring at my reflection in the mirror.
Same dark hair, same blue eyes, same face that's apparently "pretty enough" according to yesterday's whispers.
But something looks different. Off. Am I already becoming soft in this place?
Probably better not to dwell on it.
I brush my teeth with toothpaste that tastes like candy, because regular mint is apparently too pedestrian for Valemyre, and contemplate my wardrobe options.
Even though I brought the least absurd offerings from my closet at the Academy, it's still a far cry from any wardrobe I would willingly choose.
Flowing skirts, delicate blouses, and dresses.
So many fucking dresses.
No pants. Apparently, that's tantamount to a crime here.
I settle on what passes for business casual here, with a deep purple skirt that at least reaches my knees and a silver blouse that doesn't make me look like I'm auditioning for the role of a Victorian ghost. The fabric is soft as sin.
I don't even want to know what kind of sparkly magical worm's ass this shit was spun out of.
My schedule sits on the desk where I dropped it yesterday. The first class is Omega Biology and Wellness.
Because nothing says "good morning" like discussing your reproductive system with a room full of strangers.
I grab the textbooks that materialized in my room yesterday—heavy tomes bound in what looks like leather, because everything here has to be extra—and head for the door.
The hallway is already bustling with activity.
Omegas float past in various states of elaborate dress, from full ballgowns to what I think is supposed to be casual wear.
The stairs are crowded, and I'm halfway down when it happens.
A foot shoots out from nowhere, catching my ankle.
The world tilts, textbooks flying as I pitch forward.
My hunter training kicks in. Tuck, roll, minimize damage, but the skirt tangles around my legs and I hit the stairs hard.
Pain shoots through my shoulder as I tumble down three steps before managing to catch myself on the banister.
"Oh my goodness!" A voice drips false concern like honey laced with arsenic. "I'm so sorry! These stairs are just so treacherous, aren't they?"
I look up to find a brunette in baby blue ruffles standing over me, her smile so fake it could be sold as a knockoff in a back-alley market. Two other omegas flank her, both trying and failing to hide their giggles behind perfectly manicured hands.
"Yeah," I say, gathering my scattered books and dignity. "Especially when someone's foot is in the way."
Her eyes widen in mock offense. "Are you suggesting I did that on purpose? I was simply trying to help steady you. And here I thought hunters were supposed to be graceful."
The word 'hunters' comes out like she's saying 'cockroach.' I bite back the dozen responses that spring to mind, most involving her face and the nearest hard surface, and force myself to stand. Play the game, Anastasia said. Be underestimated.
"My mistake," I say, injecting just enough uncertainty into my voice. "I'm still getting used to all this."
She sniffs, apparently satisfied with my capitulation. "Well, do try to be more careful. We can't have you injuring yourself and bleeding all over these lovely floors."
They sweep past me in a cloud of perfume that gives me a sugar rush, leaving me to limp the rest of the way down the stairs. My shoulder throbs, and I'm pretty sure I've got a spectacular bruise forming on my hip, but nothing's broken. I've survived an army of ghouls. These bitches are nothing.
The classroom building is another architectural fever dream of soaring ceilings and windows that show views that definitely don't match the building's actual location on campus.
Maybe it's glamour magic. Maybe it's non-Euclidean geometry.
I don't really want to know either way. I follow the flow of omegas, trying to look like I know where I'm going while internally cursing the lack of any logical numbering system.
Room 247 turns out to be on what might be the second floor, or possibly the fifth, depending on which staircase you take. Spatial consistency is apparently another thing the Fae consider beneath them.
The classroom itself looks like someone decided a lecture hall needed to be "omega-fied.
" Plush seats arranged in a semicircle, each with its own little side table for delicate note-taking.
Soft lighting that makes everyone look even more glamorous.
And at the front, a podium that looks more like an altar to the gods than a lecturer's pulpit.
I slip into an empty seat near the back, trying to ignore the whispers that follow me.
"Look at what she's wearing."
"So plain."
"I bet she doesn't even own a single dress worth more than a thousand silver if that's what she's wearing her first day."
"How embarrassing."
"Do you think she even knows how to properly curtsy?"
I pull out my textbook, focusing on the cover instead of the urge to show them exactly what these plain clothes can do when wrapped around someone's throat.
The title, "Omega Biology, Health, and Destiny", makes me want to gag.
The cover features a stylized omega symbol surrounded by flowers and sparkles.
More omegas file in, each one more elaborately dressed than the last. It's like watching a fashion show. They arrange themselves in clear social hierarchies, the most elaborately dressed claiming the center seats while those with simpler attire and collars settle around the edges.
Then she enters.
The room's energy shifts immediately, whispers dying as every head turns toward the door.
She moves like water, each step graceful in a way that makes everyone else look like toddlers learning to walk.
Long black hair falls to her waist in a sheet of midnight silk, not a strand out of place.
Her dress is deceptively simple. It's deep emerald green, perfectly tailored to her slender frame, but it probably costs more than anything in this room.
It's her collar that draws my attention, though.
Unlike the elaborate monstrosities most of the omegas sport, hers is almost minimalist. Delicate silver links that catch the light, centered with a single red stone that seems to pulse with its own inner fire.
It's beautiful in a way that makes all the other collars look like costume jewelry.
She doesn't look at anyone as she glides to a seat in the front row. Doesn't acknowledge the way the other omegas practically combust with the desire for her attention. She simply sits, pulls out a leather-bound notebook, and waits.
Instantly, I know this must be the queen bee Anastasia warned me about. Isabella. The one who's already won whatever sick game they're all playing. The others gaze at her with a mixture of worship and envy that's almost painful to watch.
She doesn't even glance in my direction. I might as well not exist.
I prefer it that way.
The door opens again, and the teacher enters. She's Fae, of course. Who better to teach omegas about our bodies than a Fae?
Unlike the softness of the omegas, her beauty is sharp, like a blade honed to killing perfection.
She wears a fitted suit in charcoal gray, her silver hair pulled back in a style that's sophisticated rather than ornamental.
She looks professional and competent, everything omegas aren't supposed to be.
"Good morning, ladies," she says, her voice carrying easily through the room without being raised. "I see we have a new addition to our class."
Every eye swivels to me. I resist the urge to sink lower in my seat.
"Miss Moreau, I presume?" The teacher's golden eyes find mine. "Welcome to Omega Biology and Wellness. I'm Professor Wyngrave."
"Thank you," I manage, hating how small my voice sounds.
"I trust you'll all show Miss Moreau the hospitality befitting the fine ladies I know you to be." The words are pleasant, but there's steel underneath. A warning. A reminder that she's watching.
The fact that she needs to say it at all tells me everything I need to know about what's coming.