Page 11 of Pack Frenzy
Suit-and-storm’s expression doesn’t change, but something sharpens in his thunderclap-gray eyes. “You’re returned here,” he says, each word deliberate, “and hope the next Alphas that show interest will cherish you as you were meant to be.”
The unspoken truth hangs in the air:And if they don’t show interest, you’ll end up in a roster placement, where some Alpha who needs an Omega but doesn’t want YOU specifically.
My stomach twists. That’s not a threat. It’s just reality.
“Wh-what’s to keep me from going into heat when I’m living with Alphas?” Not going to say how that all three are handsome enough to make me drool.
“You were given an inhibitor shot…a suppressant when you were brought in as protocol. With it, the average Omega’s heat is delayed eight to ten weeks. So you don’t have to worry about your biology making decisions for you until then.”
I give a short laugh that sounds nothing like one. “Is that supposed to be comforting? What about side effects—what if my heat hits and I lose my mind or something?” I shake my head. “Really, Nexus should’ve asked before shooting me up with whatever that was.”
“Do you want out of here, Jess?” Eli asks, eyes on mine, not the Alphas. His words are steady, but there’s something in his expression…almost like he’s asking for himself, not the facility.
The decision should be simple, but it isn’t because wanting something has never been safe for me. Wanting got me lectured by my father, dismissed by my mother, and pitied by Sabrina. Wanting led me to that party, to the bus, to this cell.
And now wanting might lead me into the hands of two Alphas who could break me just by deciding I’m not worth keeping and send me back here.
But the alternative is not taking a chance and going back to my cell. Waiting. Becoming a number on a roster, shipped to whoever puts in an order.
Wanting has teeth. But so does regret.
Field-jacket hooks a thumb under the chair opposite me and draws it back with a scrape. He sits wrong for a boardroom, right for a fighter: loose, ready, like he could move in a heartbeat if he needed to.
“We’re not here to break you,” he says, and his words have a rough-edged honesty that makes me want to believe him. “We’re here to see if you fit.” His gaze is steady, not soft. “With us.”
The worduspresses against something tender I pretend isn’t there. Not a pack looking for an Omega—any Omega. Butthey’relooking for someone specific. Someone who fits their pack.
What if I don’t?
Suit-and-storm reaches into his jacket and pulls out something small, setting it on the table between us with a soft click.
A visitor badge. White stripe. One word stamped in black: TRIAL
It looks stupid and flimsy and more dangerous than anything I’ve faced.
“Ninety days,” Suit-and-storm says, in a measured tone. “You stay with us. No roster. No processing. You see how it works, if you’re compatible. At the end, if either side wants out, you walk. No marks on your record.”
“And if I say yes and it doesn’t work? What happens then?”
Field-jacket leans forward, elbows on knees, and the leather of his jacket creaks. “Then you come back here and try again with someone else. But you’ll have had ninety days outside these walls. Three months to remember you’re more than a cell number.”
“Ninety days to prove you can be more than stubborn,” Suit-and-storm adds, but there’s the hint of something that’s amusement or respect in his tone.
Eli hasn’t moved. He’s watching me like he already knows what I’m going to choose and is just waiting for me to catch up.
I look at the badge. At the two Alphas who smell like everything my Omega hindbrain wants and my rational mind fears. At Eli, who brought me shoes and is giving me a way out.
My hand moves before my brain gives permission. I pick up the badge. It’s warm from Suit-and-storm’s pocket, the plastic cheap and temporary.
Just like me, in this moment.
“I’m not promising to be less stubborn,” I say, and my voice doesn’t shake as much as I thought it would.
“Good,” Field-jacket says with a nod. “We don’t want easy. We wantyou.”
The words hit me like a punch to the solar plexus. When was the last time someone wanted me—not the version I was supposed to be, not the daughter who followed rules orthe Omega who tilted her head on command, but the messy, difficult,stubbornversion no one else could handle?
Suit-and-storm extends his hand. “Rowan Hale,” he says. “And this is Cassian Douglas.”
