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15. Cliques

Cliques

Sinclair

I've never seen so much food in my life.

The dining hall has two long, grand tables covered in serving platters of biscuits, eggs, sausage, baked beans, fresh fruit, and roasted tomatoes. The butter is needlessly sculpted into each family's animal mascot.

I pile my plate high even though my jaw is sore and I'm sure it will ache to chew. It was forty-five minutes ago, but my cheek is still hot to the touch from the slap.

Get up.

Ecker's shallow command stung more than Titus's strike. I'd never felt more alone than I did in that moment, looking up from my pathetic huddle on the floor to see Ecker actually stopping Bishop from helping me.

Even in the basement cell of the Doll House, I didn't feel as alone. While my burn was healing, I saw someone every day or two when they brought food. It was a short handoff, maybe a few empty words exchanged.

But there was something in the air, a knowledge of communal suffering that kept me from this bone-deep loneliness.

Because isolation is different from being truly alone. I was isolated in that dingy cell, but in the hall, with my cheek screaming and my hands flat on the cold marble, I was completely on my own.

The Elder's speech about fighting and succeeding alongside your pack only smarted more. The guys may be a pack and have all the camaraderie and brotherhood that comes with it, but I'm not part of it.

I'm not part of the pack. I'm property of the pack.

"You going to eat your toast?" Ecker nods to the bread perched on the edge of my plate next to a mound of scrambled eggs and baked beans.

"Yes." I snatch it up and take a pointed bite. I don't bother pointing out that it's barely been five minutes since we sat down and there's a tray of buttered toast two plates down.

"If you give an alpha a slice of toast . . . ," the omega to my left says with a light chuckle. I didn't pay her any mind when we first sat down, too wrapped up in my own head. As she brushes her silky, black hair off her shoulder, I notice her ceremonial skin carvings right away.

Unlike mine, hers are small flowers etched along her collarbone. The white, off-the-shoulder blouse she's wearing shows them off like they're a work of art rather than a brand of ownership. Above one collarbone, there's a healed bite mark that is darker than the rest of her warm light-brown complexion.

"I'm Paisley, the Beryll omega." She pops a strawberry into her mouth then offers her hand. Her skin is soft and warm, but her grip is surprisingly strong.

"Sinclair." I can't stomach identifying myself as the Cerulean omega, so I leave it at my name. Titus's heavy gaze watches me distrustfully from across the table.

I challenge him with a look, lifting my brows and tonguing my cheek. If you're so worried about what I might say, maybe you shouldn't be such an enormous asshole.

He sniffs dismissively and folds over his plate, both forearms on the table as he shovels food angrily into his mouth.

Paisley catches the interaction. She again surprises me with her bluntness, asking, "I take it you didn't have much say over your placement?"

I laugh dryly. "Did any of us?"

She glances at a bulky, blond alpha across the table and fights a smile. Turning back to me, she says, "Some more than others." She nods toward the blond who looks back adoringly. "Griff and I have been bonded since we were sixteen. When he was chosen for the Trials, another omega wasn't an option."

"If you think alphas are the jealous designation, just wait 'til you've bonded—you'll be the one ready to rip heads off," he says playfully.

I can't help but bark a laugh at the absurdity of the statement. "It's a nice fairy tale you two live in. I can promise you the only head I'm liable to rip off is one of theirs." I'm still chuckling cynically as I take a sip of coffee.

Titus's fist lands on the wood table. He growls in reprimand and warning. "Omega . . ."

His face—all hard and scowling and so goddamn handsome—makes me sick. I push my plate away and stand up. My lip curls. "I seem to have lost my appetite." His dark eyes narrow with loathing.

I climb over the bench and Paisley quickly offers, "Feel free to stop by our wing—I'm going to be hanging out all day while the boys get ready for the games."

I force my face to soften. I tell her I'll try, even though I have no intention to.

There's an awkward halt in surrounding conversation as Titus pushes to his feet opposite me. My heart pounds as all eyes fall on us anticipatorily for the second time today.

"I did what I had to," he rasps in a gravelly, quiet tone.

"Bring your bitch to heel, Cerulean!" someone down the table shouts, and laughter follows.

Not one of my alphas moves a muscle in my defense. I'd be disappointed if I expected anything different.

I swallow down my seething resentment and force a brittle, emotionless smile. "Of course, Alpha." My words drip with fake sweetness.

I steal two pieces of freshly buttered toast from Ecker's plate. He protests, "Hey—"

I don't let him finish, giving Titus a menacing smirk. "We all do."

I don't want to be there when the guys return from breakfast. So, instead of returning to our wing, I leave the dining hall and take to wandering the Estate.

I try to find my way outside and get lost in the process. This place is a goddamn maze. I mean, how many parlors does one building actually need?

Every room is furnished but unlived in. A ghostly quality haunts the space. Like this place isn't meant for the living.

The only room I stumble upon that doesn't immediately give me the chills is a billiards room under renovation.

Two pool tables are covered with drop cloths and the expensive rug is rolled away from the walls so painter's paper can be laid down. Paint cans are stacked along the baseboards and a roller rests in a tray. The current gray walls are in the process of being painted over with a dusky rust color. There's something comforting in the messiness of an unfinished job.

At some point, I manage to make it outside. The sunlight is warm and bright. I feel like it's mocking me, teasing me with a golden mirage.

The back of the Estate seems like endless acres of winding gardens and manicured lawns. Soon, with mindless ambling, I begin to believe the sun's lies.

I take off my shoes and sit under a tree. My feet stick out from the shade and the sunshine warms my toes. The refreshing smell of dewy grass lingers, but luckily the ground under me isn't damp. I rest my head on the oak trunk and look up at the kaleidoscope of fractal sunlight breaking through the leaves. A charming chorus of birdsongs brightens the air, and the sun's deceitful promise of peace feels within reach.

"Mind if I join?" My head jerks up to see Paisley silhouetted above me.

"Uh, sure." I want to be skeptical of her friendliness, but as I search her face, I can't find any duplicity. Her mate's bite mark catches my eye again, and as she sits down, I ask, "Are you bonded with your entire pack or just . . . Sorry, what was your mate's name again?"

"Griffin." She crosses her legs under her. "And no . . . not yet, at least." She gives me a sly smile. "But, uh . . . the ceremony changed things."

"How so?"

"Well, for starters, they had permission to touch me." I hold back another laugh. I can't keep laughing at everything the only noble to show me kindness says.

Instead, I say, "Alphas who understand consent. You really are living a fairy tale." She gives me a sympathetic look, and I dread her incoming pity. Her eyes fall on my bruised cheek. I checked it out in one of the hallway mirrors. It's not horrendous, but it's definitely noticeable.

She must see my hesitance because she doesn't push but quips, "Though I kinda wish Griffin didn't allow them—I didn't know the carving would be so damn painful. In retrospect, it would have been nice for one of them to be hurting too." She chuckles.

Her words remind me of Bishop's that night in the bathroom: nothing like I'm hurting . . .

But I don't think she means it that way. "I'm not sure I'm following."

"You didn't grow up one of us, right?"

"No, I didn't." I want to ask what else she knows about me, what the others know, but I don't want to bring more attention to myself. Maybe later, if her friendliness proves genuine, I will ask.

I'm not naive to the fact her niceness may have ulterior motives.

"So, you know how everything between noble-blooded omegas and alphas is heightened—tenfold—what a normal alpha or omega feels?"

"I'm beginning to figure that out." I feel myself blush, sparks pricking my skin as memories of their hands on me, cocks in me, tongues laving me are brought to the surface.

When I speak again, my throat is embarrassingly dry. "I manifested during the ceremony, though, so I don't have anything to compare it to."

"Really?" she asks, shocked. If she wants to know more, she doesn't ask. There's a lingering spark of curiosity in her eyes as she explains, "For most designated people, ruts and heats are like being super horny: one-track mind and hyperarousal. It's more than what undesignated people experience, but it's still . . ." She searches for the word. "Human." I nod. None of that is news to me.

"But between nobles, it's something that feels past the boundaries of the human body. It's this visceral, bone-deep need to rut—like you might actually die if you don't. When you're in heat, it's not just ‘a one-track mind.' It's every damn cell desperate for only one thing." My stomach swoops as I realize how accurate her description is.

Like when one of their cocks kisses my entrance, that feeling of not being able to breathe until they're fully seated inside me. Stretched to the point of pain but still arching my back for more.

It's not human. It's animalistic, carnal, visceral.

"You know what I'm talking about." She wiggles her eyebrows and smiles coyly. I realize I'm biting my thumbnail and rip my hand away, heat burning my cheeks.

"Yeah." I laugh uncomfortably. Unlike her, the memories may make me blush, but my eyes aren't doe-like and lovesick.

"Right, so to most alphas, mated omegas aren't arousing—they won't trigger a rut in an alpha that's not their mate, and in some cases, it might even cause an alpha discomfort to interact with a bonded omega."

"Right." Again, this I know. It's basic sixth grade sex ed. "But with nobles, everything is tenfold . . ." I repeat her words, getting an idea where this may be going.

"Exactly, so instead of a small shock or muscle cramp, when a noble alpha touches a bonded noble omega, it causes full-body, crippling pain. I've heard it explained like being set on fire or dumped in a vat of acid."

This time, I can't help but laugh. "That sounds a bit dramatic."

Paisley sweeps her hair to one side and begins braiding it idly. "Does it? You know how intense heats can be—it's that same intensity but in favor of pain instead of pleasure."

My brows rise, and I admit, "I guess that does make sense. I wonder if there's a drug out there that mimics that effect without having to bond—you know, like Lust Dust is for bond lust?"

"You really don't get along with your alphas, do you?" she teases, wrapping an elastic around the end of the now-finished braid.

"That's an understatement." I laugh.

"Paisley, hi!" We look up and an omega I recognize from the dining hall waves as she strolls over to us. Her high blonde ponytail swishes dramatically as she walks with an annoying pep in her step. The alpha who shouted about bringing me to heel has his arm wrapped around her shoulders and an arrogant as fuck smirk on his face.

They pause a few yards away from us and the omega wrinkles her nose. "You really should be careful who you associate with, Paize." My jaw drops and Paisley cocks her head at her gall. "And I say that as a friend. I'm just looking out for you." Her smile is grotesque.

Paisley crosses her arms. "We haven't been friends since the third grade, Merigold."

"Oh, Paize." Merigold laughs like a witch and waves her hand. "You've always been such a jokester."

"What my omega is too polite to say is . . ." The alpha's eyes are devious as he looks right at me and says, "If you sleep with dogs, you get fleas."

"Oh, fuck off." I roll my eyes, seeing these idiots for what they are: snivelly nosed, little bitches.

He drops his arm from around his omega and snarls, "Don't bark at me, bitch."

Paisley flinches, but I just relax against the trunk, unimpressed. "A for effort, but B for reusing boring dog analogies."

His eyes narrow into angry slits. "You're an embarrassment to the Echelon."

"I'd rather be an embarrassment than an uncreative asshole."

"Ugh, let's go, Yves." Merigold tugs his arm with a huff. "I'm getting a headache just looking at her."

"Now that's a good insult. Take notes, Yves," I call after them.

Once running away was ruled out as an option for escape, I decided my next best bet would be to make sure the Ceruleans lose the Trials. In theory, if they're sent home, I'm sent home. But now, seeing these are the idiots they will be competing against, it seems like it might be a harder task than expected.

They disappear around a corner and Paisley stands up and flattens her skirt. "Anyway, have you seen the garden?"

The flower garden is full of blue and purple blooms. A six-foot-tall hedge creates walls on all four sides. There's a single arched opening to come and go like a doorway to this open-air room.

Each corner boasts a marble pedestal in the likeness of Grecian columns. On top is a giant version of each family's animal mask. In the center of the square is the fifth, the Azurites' golden stag shining in the sun. Every column is surrounded by a different flower.

I follow Paisley to one corner where the ground is covered with small bluish periwinkle flowers.

"Forget-me-nots," I say, realizing they match the carvings on her collarbones.

"Yep, though I always thought it was a little on the nose." She nods to the elephant-shaped mask on display.

Curious, I look around for a flower that matches the one on my chest. I find it in the far-right corner. The mask on this pedestal looks like it would cover the bottom half of one's face rather than the eyes. It makes it a little harder to tell which animal the sharp teeth and scrunched nose is supposed to be.

"Is that a bear?" I guess.

"Mm-hmm, the Cerulean bear—oh, don't touch that!" she calls as I reach out for one of the towers of pale blue flowers. "Delphinium—or larkspur—is toxic. Just touching it can give you a nasty rash." She looks at me and tilts her head in assessment. "It seems fitting. I know I just met you, but it feels right. Beautiful but deadly."

A smile pulls at the corner of my mouth. We look at each other conspiratorially. "You know, I was just thinking the same thing."

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