30. Jane

I spend the night staring at the roof beams, waiting for dawn to creep into the room. I refused to return to our ruined nest, so we headed upstairs to the biggest bed in the house. The guys weren't thrilled to be in Luke's space, but along with smelling like freshly baked cookies, it had the advantage of being the furthest point from the front door. Law promised to bring a new lock when he returns in the morning, but for now he's sleeping in his legacy apartment, awaiting the arrival of his father and sister. Even with Travis and the twins curled up around me, the bed feels too cold and empty without him.

Put yourself to sleep, Jane. Tomorrow is going to be exhausting enough.

But sleep skitters away from me like a shy shadow, and I eventually go to sit on the window seat, staring up at the moon.

"Looking for a shooting star?" Drew asks as he drapes a blanket around my shoulders. "A killer comet? Maybe a murderous meteor?" He shuffles closer, peering up at the night sky. "I think you'd be safer back in bed with us."

Except that my heart is breaking to pieces, faster than I can heal it.

"Just wishing the sun wouldn't come up."

He hums, but instead of sitting on the window seat with me, he drops to his knees, pressing his head into my lap. "I'm glad you're going." He must feel me jolt, because he gives a soft laugh. "Not like that. I mean, I'm glad you're getting away. Aves and I never will."

My fingers are running through his silky hair, drawn to him like helpless magnets, but I pause at his tone. There's nothing of the flippant, charming twin in his words, and I cup his face. "You will," I tell him. "If not right away, once you graduate… "

He's already shaking his head, the slight scruff on his cheeks rasping against my cold palms. "Our dad was the worst in their eyes. The ringleader. They trusted him the most, and when he betrayed them, a lot of them took it personally. I just wish I knew why he did it. What was so damn important he had to risk everything to get the truth out there?"

Icy fingers tickle down my spine. "He told you that?"

Drew sighs, his breath warm on my cold skin. "He was a believer. A patriot to his back teeth, who was always going on about honor and integrity. But I'd never seen him so shaken as that last night when he sat us down and told us he was going on a mission. He said it was something he had to do, even though it was going to hurt us." He looks up at me, that decades-old pain gleaming in his hazel eyes. "Aves said he didn't even try to run when they came for him."

I swallow hard, forcing myself to look away, but the moon is hazy, a sickly yellow behind a ragged veil of cloud. Is it too much of a coincidence to believe his father was planning to leak the truth about the war?

"I think that's why Aves is so deep into the dark web." He looks back over at the bed. "I think he's trying to find that big truth, you know?"

"You both deserve answers," I murmur, even though I know I can't give him the few scraps I remember from Luke's file. Assuming that's the truth his father was trying to expose, admitting the evidence slipped through my fingers would just hurt him even more.

"Come back to bed." I hold out my hand and he looks up at me. For a moment he's not the storybook prince riding to my rescue, but the one left in the castle tower, trapped and alone. The image makes my blood burn with righteous anger. "You'll get out, Drew. I don't know how, but I promise we'll find a way."

His lips pull up in a half-smile, some of that mischief sparking back to life as he takes my hand. "One truth I know for sure is that promises aren't real until you seal them with a kiss."

Leaving is even more heartbreaking than I thought it would be.

I won't let the guys come out onto the porch, kissing each of them quickly over the remains of our breakfast and fleeing like a coward. I snatch my backpack up as Travis' chair scrapes over the floor, but he doesn't lunge after me as I run to the door. I close my eyes tight as I pound down the stairs, trying to preserve that last glimpse of them behind my eyelids.

"Oof!" A pair of big hands grab my arms, almost swinging me off my feet. "Slow down, runt. Save some of that energy for the game." I scowl at Parker, who's dressed in his Trapshot uniform and looking curiously up at the house. "You seriously prefer this dump over the den?"

"Yes," I snap, jerking my backpack tighter as I glare at the stadium in the distance. "I thought I made it clear I was done playing."

"Take it up with Coach," Parker shrugs, nudging my shoulder until I reluctantly start down the gravel path. My heart is still thrashing in my chest, and I have to swallow to keep the tears at bay. I don't know if Parker can tell, but he's more subdued as he adds, "Manson said you were out, but Coach pulled rank. Sent me to get you personally."

I huff, but now that we're in sight of the dome, I can see people milling about, many of them dressed in civilian clothes. Even from here, I can sense the anticipation buzzing in the air. "When does the game start?"

"How fast can you run?"

I scowl but take the hint and we break into a jog. A lot of the civilians are streaming into the stadium, and I remember what York said about the game being the highlight of Family Day. Just thinking about him makes anxiety gnaw at my belly. We spent half the night discussing his offer, but at the end of the day, I trust Law to keep me safe. Even if what he's offering is genuine, there's too much murky history between me and the colonel. Not that I've told him that, but when I leave with Law instead of meeting him at the hospital, he'll no doubt get the message.

The closer we get to the stadium, the harder I search for Law, but the faces we pass are a blur. There are plenty of important looking alphas in business suits, but there is also a smattering of women with soft hair and pretty makeup, their dresses flapping like silk banners under their fur jackets. The sun is shining, but there's a nip in the air, and when I glance up at the Citadel Mountains, I can see a dusting of snow on their peaks.

"Is your family here?" I ask Parker as we reach the players' entrance, and he swipes his card on the scanner.

He nods, looking younger and happier than I'm used to. "My dad had to work, but my mom and sister got here at the crack of dawn to get front-row seats. "

I frown at him, my nerves jangling harder as we hurry through the bowels of the stadium. "I thought legacies got reserved seating."

Parker snorts. "I'm a commune kid, runt. Only reason I'm here is because I grew up near Manson's family estate. His dad sponsored me, or I never would've gotten within a mile of this place." There's no mistaking the pride and affection in his voice, but as he pushes on the door into the locker room, he waggles his brows at me. "Why, you think I've got that legacy glow?"

"I think your ego does," I mutter, trying to imagine this big alpha in his Trapshot uniform growing up on a commune like mine. But then, would anyone from back home recognize me now?

Parker laughs and nudges my shoulder, but goes quiet when Manson appears. He's already in his uniform pants and undershirt, but he's still buckling himself into his tactical vest. When Manson gives his friend a stiff nod, Parker melts away, leaving us staring at each other. I'm wearing a mismatch of clothes from the guys – sweatpants from Drew, a t-shirt from Avery, and one of Travis' sweaters. Law's contribution – the white dress in my backpack – weighs heavily on my shoulder and I turn abruptly towards my locker. But Manson grabs my arm, pulling me into a quiet corner. "I told Coach you were done, but he said you were asked for specifically."

My stomach tightens. "By who?"

"I don't know." He looks frustrated, yanking hard on the buckles on his vest. "Maybe they just want to parade a tame freak in front of the families." An angry retort burns the back of my throat, but he shakes his head. "I know it's bullshit, but you're on someone's radar, and you need to be careful. Stick to the sidelines and I'll use the other runners as much as I can."

I open my mouth to tell him I'd be safest staying in the locker room when I pause. His head is down, all his concentration focused on threading something through the loop on the front of the vest. I suck in a tight breath. It's a crossbow bolt, the shaft broken, and the tip stained with a drop of dried blood.

My crossbow bolt, that I used to torment his father.

"Manson."

I don't understand. Why is he wearing it on his vest? Is it a weapon? A souvenir? A reminder of what happened in that storage room?

"Manson, I…"

"Go get changed." Something flickers in his dark eyes, the edge of his lip curling up as he turns away. "And don't forget your cup, Jack. "

I'm the last to enter the dugout, and Coach looks less than thrilled by my tardy appearance. The players are already on the field, facing off against their opponents, and I make a sharp sound of surprise when I see the general standing on the center line. He's in a Trapshot uniform, but his headgear is dangling from his hand as he glares at his son. "What's going on?"

Coach grunts. "If you turned up to practice, you'd know it's an exhibition match. Old Boys versus the current players."

I shuffle my feet, watching the general sneer something at his son. Manson is standing ramrod straight, his eyes hidden behind his headgear, but it's obvious he's uncomfortable. "And Manson has to play against his dad? How is that fair?"

"I'd say it's very fair," Coach replies. "In fact, it might even be time for a little payback."

I look at him in surprise, but Coach is rocking back on his heels, arms folded, and a smug smile on his face. Payback? Does that mean he knows about the general's abuse? I think of how battered and bruised Manson has been in the short time I've known him, and realize Coach has to know. You don't get injuries like that from slipping in the showers. Or on the Trapshot field, for that matter.

Although maybe today is the exception. Because as the game starts, the two teams come together in a clash so vicious, a pair of knives go airborne before they leave the center line. I'm relieved to see other runners take off to rearm them, because I can't tear my gaze away from Manson and his father. They're not just trying to gain advantage; they're locked in a deadly battle as their knives slash and stab. Manson is taller and faster, but his father is barrel-chested, all that power channeled into moves that are both brutal and calculated. Neither of them is giving an inch, and the crowd is going wild, screeching and howling at the violent display.

I shudder and look away from the field, my gaze roaming across the rows of spectators until I catch a flash of silver hair. That churning tension in my stomach becomes a warm, giddy bubble, because Law is directly opposite me, sitting in a private booth halfway up the stands. His eyes are boring into mine, and I drink him in, my fingers twitching to reach out and touch him. As horrible as it was to leave Bleak House this morning, at least I knew Law would be with me to pick up the pieces. I just wish this nightmare of a game was over, and I was somewhere safe in his arms, dreaming up ways to get the other guys to join us .

Some of that longing must show in my face, because he gives me a small smile I feel all the way to my toes. But then the stern-looking man next to him says something, drawing his attention away, and I look at the girl on his other side. This has to be his sister, Eloise. She's exactly what I expect: small and blonde, and breathtakingly beautiful in her sky-blue dress and ivory fur jacket. She looks like an ice princess, and even from a distance, I can tell she's an omega. Her chin is up, her back straight, but I'm guessing she's less than comfortable in the rowdy stadium by the way she's gripping Law's arm.

A hand thumps on my back, almost knocking me off my feet. "Go, Cutter! You're up!"

The girl glances sharply in my direction, her pale green eyes widening with interest, and I quickly look at Coach. "What?"

"Get out there!" he roars, shoving me in the back. In the short moments I looked away, chaos descended upon the field. Two players – one for each team – are limping towards their dugouts, the coppery scent of their blood thick in the air. My gaze snaps to Manson and I suck in a pained breath. The general has knocked the knife from his hand and Manson is trying to hold him off by taking the worst of the blows on his forearms. Instead of pushing the advantage towards his target zone, the general seems content to do as much damage to his son as possible.

The anger that's been boiling under my skin since I ran out of Bleak House bubbles to the surface. I have some vague awareness of ducking and darting past the other players, but the rest of my focus is on getting to Manson as quickly as possible. I don't call out to him, knowing that distracting him now could be deadly. Not that I believe the general intends to slaughter his son in front of a Family Day crowd, but I've seen how damage on the Trapshot field is often passed off as just alphas being alphas.

I'm running so fast, a chunk of grass tears loose as I slide in next to Manson. I already have his replacement knife out, but as it slaps into his gloved hand, my anger refuses to let me back away. Up close, Manson is a patchwork of knicks and deeper cuts, with a bruise blooming on his left cheek. I can't see much else with his headgear on, but I smell the malevolence rolling off the general, like rusted metal and sour food. A shudder runs through my body as I fight my instinct to heal Manson, instead, tangling my feet with the general's as he surges forward, clearly intending to strike before he's ready.

He grunts, his knifepoint catching in my vest as he stumbles sideways, barely keeping his balance. His mouth grill is a set of snarling, drooling fangs, and all the malice behind them is now directed my way. "Is this the little bitch Logan told me about? He said you had some pussy runner in your bed, but I didn't think even you would stoop to screwing a traitor."

I grimace more at the mention of Logan than the traitor comment, although both stir the blood beating in my ears. "You mean the little bitch I whipped on the strategy and tactics course? Why don't you ask Logan how he likes being shot in the face?"

The general stiffens, his eyes narrowing behind his visor. "He also said you're mouthy for a beta. Why is that? Hasn't a real alpha put you in your place yet?"

Before I can retaliate, Manson gives a furious growl and points towards the dugout. " Go , Cutter. I'll deal with this."

"Not yet." The general sidesteps his son, grabbing my arm in an iron grip. He's suddenly so close I can smell the stink of his sweat, the heat of his body radiating through his vest. Both are repulsive to me, and I try to jerk away, but he gives a jeering chuckle. "If you think cozying up to my son will keep you safe, you're more of a fool than your idiot of an uncle."

I'm not watching Manson, so I don't see his knife until it's slashing across his father's knuckles, shredding the leather glove and loosening his grip. Somehow, Manson manages to avoid slicing my arm as well, pulling me roughly behind him as he faces his father. "Keep your fucking hands off, or I'll make sure you leave this field a cripple."

"Oh, how chivalrous, son," the general mocks, his dark eyes vicious as he shakes the blood from his knuckles. "Try to remember those manners when you meet your intended later." He lifts his chin, gesturing towards Law's family box. "Lady Eloise Michaelson. It's all arranged. You'll bond her as soon as you graduate and take a post near her family estate." I jerk as the halftime whistle sounds and the general chuckles, slapping Manson's back. "She's a poor excuse for a breeder, but that should suit you perfectly, given the defectives you appear to favor."

I ignore the insult and look at Manson. He's stripped off his headgear and his eyes are dull in his pale face. But then he wraps his hand around the broken bolt looped to his vest and gives a mirthless laugh. "You wouldn't recognize a good omega if she was standing right in front of you, you old bigot."

The general growls, but I tug on Manson's arm, pulling him away before he lets anything else slip. I glance back to see the general give us a disgusted look before he lopes towards his dugout, slapping the backs of his friends on the way. I can feel Manson's muscles shift like rocks under my hand, but he doesn't speak until we reach Coach. He's moving restlessly on his feet, his jaw white. "Manson, if you need to sit this next half out…"

"I'm fine, Coach," he replies, brushing past him and thumping down the dugout stairs. "He's done his worst."

Coach doesn't look convinced, but when I move to follow, he holds me back. His pale eyes twinkle as he looks me over and shakes his head. "Pick your battles, Cutter. Going up against the general is dangerous for your health."

I straighten my back, gripping the bolt clip on my vest. Maybe it's false courage because I'm leaving campus today, but the general doesn't frighten me. And I refuse to let Manson face his tyrant of a father alone. "He's the one who should be worrying about his health."

And stop picking fights with omegas who can drain the life out of him with a kiss.

But I shake off the thought, determined to avoid the general as much as possible for the rest of the game. Instead, I replenish my weapons in the dugout, grabbing a knife from the reject box and tucking it inside my vest. No one will miss it in a hurry , I tell myself as I go in search of Manson. Plus, the way I'm making friends, it's probably a good idea to have a trick up my sleeve.

I can smell the testosterone before I reach the locker room, but as I push on the door, a heavy hand lands on my shoulder. It spins me around, Logan's hand slamming over my mouth as I start to struggle. I try to bite him, but he's wearing his Trapshot uniform, even though Coach told me he's benched him indefinitely. The leather of his glove tastes foul against my lips and I rear my head back, but he kicks my feet out and swings me over his shoulder. The breath slams out of me, and I groan, but in a dozen steps he's pushing through another door. He takes a set of stairs at a jog, striding down a hallway before entering the room where we started our strategy and tactics class. I glance at the door to the training course, wondering if he somehow overhead me badmouthing him to the general.

"What the hell, Logan?" I demand, kicking against his hold. "Put me down! Coach will be looking for me."

"Are you sure?" Carmen Van Ness purrs as she steps towards us, a long blonde wig dangling from her hand. "Because I'm pretty sure there's a rule against sneaky little omegas joining the Trapshot team."