Wyatt POV
The smell of bacon could heal a soul, I decide. Or at least patch one together long enough to face another morning of chaos in the packhouse. I am two bites into a stack of pancakes thick enough to smother regret when the low hum of gossip starts filtering through the crowded dining hall.
Breakfast with warriors is always noisy, but nothing cuts through the din quite like the tone of two Omegas whispering like they have stumbled upon the apocalypse. And it is at times like these that I see myself as a professional eavesdropper and part-time nosy bastard.
“I swear I heard them last night,” one Omega says, voice dipped in scandal. “Reese and Simon. Yelling so loud I thought they’d shift mid-argument.”
“About what? The other Omega gasps.
I casually butter another pancake and pr
