Chapter 21 – Billie
Twenty-One
BILLIE
Light slices through the gap in the curtains like it's aiming directly for my retinas. I crack one eye open, immediately regretting consciousness.
First day of the rest of my miserable omega existence.
I roll over, pressing my face into the pillow that smells like vanilla. Pretty sure it's wafted over from Olivia's side of the room, considering she has a spray for everything.
Body spray. Linen spray. Air spray. Hair perfume.
I can't say for sure, but I think I caught her misting some kind of fragrance on the plant by her window the other day.
My body aches in places I didn't know could ache. The shoes from Saturday night left blisters on my heels that still throb. My shoulder, courtesy of Brittany's stair ambush, has graduated from spectacular purple to a sickly yellow-green that makes me look like I've been dead for three days.
Maybe I am dead. Maybe this whole thing is just some elaborate hell designed specifically for me.
Across the room, Olivia hums while she applies her morning face. The girl wakes up at five to start her beauty routine, ensuring she's runway-ready before the sun fully rises. The sound grates against my skull like nails on a chalkboard.
At least Caelyx's little mind fuck doesn't seem to have had any lasting negative effects.
I force myself upright, immediately regretting the decision when my head spins. The suppressants are doing their job, keeping my omega biology in check, but they make me feel like I'm constantly hungover. Nauseous, dizzy, vaguely disconnected from my own body.
Small price to pay for not going into heat and broadcasting my availability to every alpha on campus.
"You look like shit," Olivia observes without looking up from her mirror.
"Thanks. You're a real ray of sunshine."
"I'm just saying, if you're going to be my roommate, you could at least try to look presentable." She finally glances my way, wrinkling her perfect nose. "We have a reputation to uphold."
"We?" I swing my legs out of bed, feet hitting carpet that's too soft, too warm. "Since when is there a 'we'?"
"Since the party, obviously." She applies another coat of mascara. "Did you see how Everen looked at me? I'm pretty sure he's going to ask me on a proper date."
Right. The party where I almost collapsed a pocket dimension and killed everyone inside, including myself, apparently.
The party Olivia doesn't actually remember.
"Yeah," I say carefully, watching her face for any sign of recognition. "He seemed really into you."
"Into me?" She laughs, bright and genuine. "He was practically drooling. And when he kissed my hand… oh my gods, I thought I was going to die right there."
She remembers the hand kiss. The champagne. The conversation about the Shadow Courts. Everything up until the moment I announced I'd rejected Prince Corvinus and she dropped her glass.
Everything after that?
Gone.
Replaced with vague memories of drinking too much and me being a responsible friend who escorted her home.
Caelyx's handiwork. The bastard did exactly what he said he'd do.
Part of me is grateful. The last thing I need is Olivia knowing I tried to commit mass murder. But why? What's his angle? Why help me and then threaten me in the same breath?
"Are you even listening?" Olivia's voice cuts through my thoughts.
"Sorry. Still waking up."
She rolls her eyes. "I said, you should probably get ready. Classes start in an hour."
Right. Classes. Another day of learning how to be a proper omega while plotting regicide on the side. Just another fucking day at Valemyre University.
I stumble toward the bathroom, catching sight of myself in Olivia's vanity mirror.
Dark circles under my eyes despite sleeping for nearly ten hours.
Hair that looks like I stuck my finger in an electrical socket.
The collar around my neck catching the morning light, a constant reminder of what I am now.
What I have to pretend to be.
The shower helps. Hot water sluicing over my skin, washing away the sweat and fear and frustration of the past few days.
I let myself stand under the spray longer than necessary, counting the tiles on the wall.
Five rows of five. Twenty-five total. The familiar pattern grounds me, pulls me back from the edge of whatever breakdown I'm teetering on.
Get your shit together, Moreau. You've got a prince to kill.
When I emerge, wrapped in a towel that's probably made of a unicorn's ass hair, there's something on my bed that wasn't there before.
An envelope. Not black like Tallon's invitation, but cream-colored, sealed with wax that shimmers between silver and blue. The university crest pressed into it makes it official.
"What's that?" Olivia asks, finally looking away from her reflection.
"No idea." I pick it up carefully, half-expecting it to explode.
The seal breaks with a soft pop, and the parchment inside unfolds itself. Because of course it does. Can't have anything be simple in this place.
The text is in that flowing Fae script that makes my brain itch, but it transforms to English the moment I focus on it.
Miss Wilhelmina Moreau,
Due to administrative oversight, your course schedule has been adjusted effective immediately.
Please report to your new first period class: Advanced Combat Theory and Application, Room 189, Brittlespire Tower.
- Headmaster Alistair Valemyre
I read it three times, convinced I'm hallucinating.
Advanced Combat Theory?
That's… not an omega class.
"Let me see." Olivia snatches the paper from my hands before I can stop her. Her eyes go wide. "Advanced Combat Theory? But that's... that's for alphas. They don't put omegas in alpha classes."
"Apparently they do now."
She looks at me like I've grown a second head. "This has to be a mistake. You need to go to the registrar's office and—"
"I'm not going back to that bureaucratic nightmare." The words come out harsher than intended. "If they want to put me in combat classes, fine. At least it'll be more interesting than learning seventeen different ways to arrange throw pillows."
Olivia's mouth opens and closes like a fish. "You're insane. Do you know what this means? You'll be in a room full of alphas. Alone. Without any other omegas to—"
"To what? Protect me?" I laugh, and it sounds bitter even to my own ears. "I think I'll manage."
I don't mention the real concern gnawing at my gut. This could be a mistake, but the Fae don't make mistakes, not in their precious bureaucracy. Someone changed my schedule. Someone wants me in that class.
The question is who. And why.
I dress in what passes for functional clothing here—a deep blue skirt that at least allows me to move without tripping, paired with a black blouse that doesn't make me look like I'm auditioning for a Victorian funeral. The fabric is still too soft, too expensive, but it's the best I've got.
Olivia watches me with concern. "Are you sure about this?"
"Nope." I grab my bag, shoving the notice inside. "But when has that ever stopped me?"
The walk across campus is different this morning. Word of the shimmer party has spread like wildfire. I catch fragments of whispered conversations as I pass.
"I heard she actually rejected Prince Corvinus."
"—must be insane—"
"Isabella is going to destroy her."
Perfect. Just what I needed. More enemies.
Brittlespire Tower looms at the eastern edge of campus, adorned in narrow windows that look more like arrow slits than architectural features.
It's older than the other buildings, left over from the original fortress, back when this place actually served a purpose beyond teaching omegas how to curtsy.
The entrance hall is sparse compared to the rest of campus. No crystal chandeliers, no floating furniture, no ambient music. Just stone and iron and the faint smell of blood that never quite washes out of old battlefields.
I follow the sound of voices up a spiral staircase that's definitely not up to modern safety codes. The steps are worn smooth by centuries of feet, some stained with what I really hope is rust.
Room 147 is at the top, a circular space with a domed ceiling that shows the sky outside. Real sky, not enchanted bullshit. The walls are lined with weapons. Swords, axes, spears, things I don't have names for but would definitely love to get my hands on.
And the students.
All alphas.
Every single one of them.
Fae males in various states of arrogance, their beauty sharp and dangerous. A handful of shifters, easy to spot by the way they move, fluid and predatory. What might be a vampire in the corner, pale enough to be translucent. And scattered among them, a few creatures I can't classify.
Not a single omega in sight, just like Olivia warned.
Fuck. Maybe this was a bad idea.
Every head turns when I enter. Conversations die mid-sentence. The air gets thick with pheromones, all of them pulsing with the same unspoken command.
Submit.
My body wants to. I can feel it, the omega instincts trying to take over, trying to make me lower my eyes and bare my throat. But twenty years of hunter training is stronger than a few weeks of biology. I meet their stares with my own, daring any of them to comment.
Submit to THIS, fuckers.
"Well, well." A Fae near the front with silver hair and cruel beauty smirks. "Looks like someone made a wrong turn."
"Room 189?" I check the paper again, though I know what it says. "Advanced Combat Theory?"
"That's correct." The voice comes from the front of the room, and my blood turns to ice water.
Professor Locke Drakiss stands at the podium, those obsidian eyes fixed on me with a heat that makes my skin crawl. He's wearing what I'm starting to recognize as his standard outfit of black pants and a black shirt, everything tailored to emphasize his robust form.
"Miss Moreau," he says, and my name sounds like a curse in his mouth. "How delightful. Please, take a seat."