Page 47 of Knot What She Seems
“Damn, that’s cold.” Brock flinches.
“Whatever.” Changing the subject, I ask, “How long are you guys here for? Are you waiting for Sleeping Beauty to awaken?”
“We’ve actually been assigned a class for the time being. We’re taking over The Art of War from Jameson,” Jamie answers.
I whistle. “Surprised the bastard gave that class up. It was always his favorite to teach.”
“He got a call directly from the queen.” Brock shrugs. “Kind of hard to say no to her.”
“Your parents are really pushing this match, aren’t they?” I say, surprised.
“Apparently.” Brock checks his watch and releases a curse. Abruptly, he jumps to his feet, and Jamie moves to follow. “Sorry to cut this short. I have a meeting with the headmaster in a few minutes.”
I wave him away. “Don’t worry about it. I have stuff I need to do anyway.” Like finish going through the damn file.
“I’m assuming you’re attending the ball this week at Darling?” He waggles his eyebrows once more. “A lot of omegas ripe for the picking.”
Darling Academy throws a ball once a month in order for the alphas to mingle with the school’s precious omegas. Supposedly, it’s to help different groups find their scent match, but I believe it’s a front for high-profiled omegas to meet alphas with a similar status. Heaven only knows the chances of finding a scent match, especially at one of these balls, are slim to none.
Still, while the ball isn’t mandatory, itwouldbe an opportunity for us to do some much needed recon, especially if we split up and some of us stay behind to search Eros while it’s virtually empty.
We have a job to do, after all, and despite popular belief, it isn’t merely to teach young alphas how to fight.
With that thought at the forefront of my mind, I tug the file close to me and flip it open. The name “Theodore Castor” stares back at me in big block letters.
Then, I begin to read.
16
BRYLEE
Mandated.
My mother called and mandated that I go to the next ball, which is tomorrow. I fully intended to avoid it like the plague, but she went full dragon-mode, spitting fire, as she informed me that a dress and hair and makeup team will arrive promptly at four on Saturday to paint me into a picture-perfect omega for Brock Stirling and his alpha buddies.
As if that wasn’t enough, Sam texted me to ask why I’m always MIA and why I didn’t contact his kickboxing friend. I signed up and attended class as myself and not as Ted. And I brought Harper along like a fool. For being a girly girl whose nails are perfect, she loved it enough to ask to go again…so now what do I do? I can’t tell him I showed up, not when his friend is expecting an alpha and I’ve already registered and paid for a month as myself.
I texted Teddie and his helpful response was:What a tangled web we weave, when first we aim to deceive.
It would serve him right if I just mailed him a box of live crickets or something from the pet store. I’d add that to my to-do list, but it’s already infinitely long. And complicated. And riddled with all these damned issues.
Like this one—I ripped my foam suit the other night when I climbed through the window. My backpack caught on the windowsill and I yanked it—not thinking—and then there was a horrid tearing noise. My bag now has a gash in it…but worse, when I pulled my bodysuit from the bag to inspect it…I realized that my inner thigh does too. A long divot right across the middle, splitting it.
Thank fuck for duct tape.
But I have Hand-to-Hand Combat over at Eros this afternoon, and I’ve spent the past hour in paranoid fear, not only about doing the whole gender swap midday, but that somehow the tape is going to come undone while we’re wearing tight fighting gear…
“Brylee, focus. Nesting is a treasured omega activity.” Madam Ellora’s hand cups my shoulder, yanking me out of my internal pity-panic party and pulling me back into her Friday torture session otherwise known as Scenario Training.
All omegas, no matter the year, are gathered in a huge ballroom today, and a hundred tables have been set out, stacks of magazines, scissors, and glue sticks set at each one. A random beta on the street walking in here would think that this is either Ransom Note 101 or a preschool craft. Unfortunately, it’s neither.
I blink over at my prim and proper professor, attempting to look neutral, as if I don’t think my entire world is about to implode. I’m not sure what expression I manage to make, but based on her thin-lipped reaction, it’s not the calm collected look I’m aiming for.
“Dear, Alpha Brock and his team are a wonderful catch. And you don’t have to worry about including little luxuries in your requests.” She leans in conspiratorially, a tiny grin on her face. “They can afford it. So if that’s what’s holding you back, don’t.”
I swallow hard and nod, eager to make her leave, but also slightly disgusted that she thinks I’m that materialistic. When she moves on, I heave out a relieved sigh.
Yes, all omegas want a cozy nest, but what the heck does she think that entails? It’s pillows and mattresses and soft lighting, not stacks of gold bars and diamond-beaded curtains.
