The song stretches the confession into something almost beautiful, almost forgiving. But I don't want forgiveness. I wantvengeance. I want to watch them choke on their lies and beg for mercy I'll never grant.
I move into the final position.
One-legged pointe on the red shoe—because endings should always be written in blood—my other leg bent and lifted, foot pointed and pressed against my supporting knee. My arms extend overhead, wrists crossed, fingers reaching toward the ceiling as if in prayer.
But I stopped praying the night I watched my father's brains paint abstract patterns on the wall behind him.
I've been jaded, I have questions. All the good ones taken...
All the good ones taken. That's the story they tell broken Omegas, isn't it? That we're too damaged for the decent packs, too fucked up for healthy love, toocomplicatedfor anyone except the monsters who made us this way.
Maybe that's true.
Maybe the only pack worthy of a monster is one made of devils.
So for me, you must've been waiting...
The reverb makes the words sound prophetic, like fate speaking through Summer Walker's voice. Like the universe itself acknowledging that some meetings are written in blood and fire, that some connections are forged in violence rather than love.
The music ends.
Complete. Absolute. Deafening silence crashes over the theater like a tidal wave.
I hold the position.
One second. Two. Three.
My muscles tremble, that red shoe supporting my entire weight on a platform barely wider than a quarter. Pain radiates up my leg, but I embrace it. Let it ground me in this moment, in this rage, in thispurposethat's kept me alive when I should have died alongside my parents.
The silence stretches. In it, I can hear everything—the creak of the building settling, the whisper of wind through cracked walls, the distant sound of violence from other parts of the academy. Just another night at Hard Knot Academy, where nightmares breed and broken souls learn to becomepredators.
My heart hammers against my ribs.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
A countdown to something. To what, I'm not?—
Clap.
The sound cracks through the silence like a gunshot, and my eyes snap open.
The madness surges forward—that beautiful, terrible thing that whispers promises of blood and chaos in the darkest hours. I feel it in the way my lips curve, the way my pupils dilate, the way my scent shifts from distress to somethingdangerous.
I don't move from my position. Not yet.
But I track the sound.
Center aisle. Twenty rows back.
And thereheis.
Kai James Lawson.
The name alone should make me tremble, should make me run, should make me do anything except what I'm doing—which is staring at him with the kind of hunger usually reserved for prey spotting a predator and deciding to biteback.
He stands with that casual arrogance of someone who's never been told 'no' in his entire privileged existence. Born into power,raised in violence, shaped into the perfect heir to an empire built on blood and broken promises.
The spotlight doesn't quite reach him—he's smart enough to stay in the shadows—but I can see enough. Tall. Broad. The kind of build that comes from years of training your body to be a weapon. Dark hair probably perfectly styled before he came here. Strong jaw. Sharp cheekbones.
