A different kind of wound.
The kind that never fully heals because it was inflicted by hands that were supposed to keep you safe.
Blaze squeezes my hand.
I didn't realize we were still holding on.
Didn't realize that at some point, his arm left my waist and his fingers found mine instead, interlacing in a grip that feels more intimate than a casual touch should.
"I guess our world really is ruthless."
CHAPTER 20
Volleyball And Violence
~SERAPHINE~
The sportswear is new.
Notnewnew—clearly academy-issued, with the same institutional quality as everything else in Ruthless—but new tome. New to my experience. New to the reality I'm apparently living in now, where packless Omegas become pack-claimed Omegas and suddenly have access to things that were denied to them for years.
Like proper athletic clothing.
Like participation in co-ed Physical Activity classes.
Like the right to exist in spaces that used to be off-limits.
I stare at myself in the locker room mirror, cataloguing the changes with the same obsessive attention I give to everything else.
The shorts are black.
Shortshorts—the kind that barely reach mid-thigh, that show off the lean muscle of my legs and the scars I usually keep hidden beneath longer fabric. There's a faded mark on my left thigh from a blade that went too deep during a combat sessiontwo years ago. A constellation of small burns near my right knee from an "accident" in the chemistry lab that was absolutely not an accident. The particular pattern of rope abrasions around both ankles that comes from years of aerial work, from binding myself to rings and silks and anything else that would hold my weight while I defied gravity.
The white tank top is fitted.
Toofitted, maybe—clinging to curves I usually downplay, emphasizing the narrowness of my waist and the definition of muscles that most people don't expect on an Omega. The fabric is thin enough that I can see the outline of my sports bra underneath, and if I move too quickly, the hem rides up to expose a sliver of stomach.
My hair is up.
Ponytail, high and tight, pink strands gathered at the crown of my skull and cascading down to brush my shoulder blades. A few shorter pieces have escaped to frame my face, refusing to be contained no matter how many times I smooth them back.
One-two-three-four.
My fingers flex at my sides.
One-two-three-four.
I look... different.
Not bad-different.
Just...exposed.
Vulnerable in a way I'm not used to being, with so much skin showing and my usual armor stripped away. No blades at my back. No uniform to hide behind. No layers of fabric and weaponry creating distance between me and the world.
Just... me.
In shorts and a tank top.
