Page 9 of Pack Frenzy
“Jessica Mancini,” a staffer reads. “Step forward one mark.”
The scents surge with pine-smoke, orange-and-cedar, ozone, leather-spice, that heavy amber heat like a hand on the back of my neck. I step forward with my chin up, shoulders back. My slip-ons squeak once, traitorously loud.
Clipboards tilt. Someone murmurs. No Alpha steps forward.
A stylus flicks on a tablet. A quiet, bureaucratic judgment: no interest.
The rejection lands like a slap. My stomach drops like I missed a step, and heat floods my face. Not embarrassment, something rawer, shame. The kind that whispers,of course, they don’t want you. Too tall, too sharp-edged, too much of everything except what matters here.
I stand there, frozen, while my brain spirals: Did I mess up the posture? Should I have looked smaller? Softer? Every Omega Institute class I skipped, every lesson I half-assed because I thought I’d never need them, they’re all stacking up now like evidence of my own stupidity.
My throat tightens. I won’t cry. Iwon’t. But the sting behind my eyes isn’t about wanting these Alphas. It’s about standingin a room full of women just like me and somehow still being wrong. Still not enough.
Even here, even as product, I’m defective.
“Back to line,” the staffer says, bored.
The words barely register through the white noise in my head.
Before I can move, Eli lifts his hand, a casual tilt of his fingers, and a compliance attendant waves me toward the side door. “With him.”
Great. Remedial manners with Beta Dad. I follow, every nerve shouting that this is worse, somehow, than being ignored.
The door sighs shut behind us, muting the hall to a low hum.
We’re in a narrow room with white walls and a strip of safety tape marking the floor. The air smells faintly of clean linen like an HVAC system that actually works.
A long, rectangular table sits in the center, scuffed plastic surface reflecting the harsh overhead light. Six gray plastic chairs are spaced unevenly around it, two pulled out like someone left in a hurry.
Across from us, a second door glows with a red indicator light—locked.
“Have a seat.”
Eli checks his tablet, mouth set in that neutral, too-controlled line that says he’s choosing his words before he speaks.
I pull out one of the chairs, and it squeaks against the floor. I sit on the hard, plastic chair as every muscle is vibrating.
“If you plan on surviving,” he says, voice low and even, “maybe don’t square up to a bunch of Alphas like you’re about to argue case law.”
Heat flares in my cheeks. “Didn’t realize we were grading posture.”
“We are,” he says. “We always are.” He finally looks at me, and it’s not unkind. Just clinical. “Head tilt. Hands relaxed. Mouth soft. Not meek exactly, but you don’t look like you wanna to stab someone.”
“Didn’t realize I was.”
He taps the tablet off and slips it into his pocket. “All that said—” He lowers his voice. “You didn’t ‘fail.’”
I blink. “What does that even mean?”
Eli exhales, decision settling over his face. “It means I’m not taking you back to your cell.”
My pulse spikes. “Then where?—”
The second door unlocks with a soft chime. He gestures toward it. “You want out of here, Jess? There’s a pack willing to consider a trial.”
The word hangs there between us, dangerous and bright.
“Do you want to accept?” he asks.
