The Omega Who Wasn't Weak.

Nora's POV "Go on, Nora. Shift. Or are you going to cry again?" Cora Voss's voice floats down the forest path, sweet as syrup. I stop walking. The basket on my arm holds yarrow, wild mint and willow bark, and I press it against my hip like a shield. Three of them step out from behind the pines. Two boys and a girl, all smiling. Cora stands in the middle, her golden hair bright even in the gray afternoon light. "Hello, Cora," I say. "She remembers my name." Cora puts a hand over her heart. "I'm so touched." "I need to get home before dark." "Home," says the taller boy. His name is Tommy. He cracks his knuckles one by one. "You mean that little shack at the edge of nowhere?" "It's a cottage." "It's a shack for a girl who can't do the one thing every wolf does." The girl beside him giggles. I count the trees between us and the trail, the way I always do. Seven. Too many. "Let me pass," I say quietly. Cora tilts her head. "Why? Do you have somewhere important to be? Are the dying waiting for their tea?" "Something like that." "How sweet. The omega nurse." She steps closer, and her smile gets smaller and sharper. "You know what's funny? I shifted at fifteen. Tommy shifted at sixteen. Even Brooke did, and Brooke is scared of squirrels." "Hey," says the girl. "You're nineteen, Nora." Cora's voice drops. "Nineteen. What kind of wolf waits that long? Maybe there's nothing in there." "Maybe the Goddess forgot her," Tommy says. His words land right on the old bruise under my ribs. For a second I feel it, the shadow I carry inside me, something large and curled up in the dark. It does not move. It never does. "Maybe," I say. "Can I go now?" "No." "Cora." "Shift first." "You know I can't." "Then try." She waves a hand. "Come on. We'll wait. Squat down, scrunch up your face. Let's see it." The boys laugh. Heat crawls up my neck. I keep my eyes on the mud by her boots and say nothing, because nothing is the only answer that ends fast. "Boring," Cora sighs. She nods at Tommy. He shoves me. Hard. The world tips, and my back hits the ground with a wet slap. Cold mud soaks through my shirt, down to my skin, and the air leaves my lungs in one ugly puff. "Oh no," Cora says. "Did she fall?" "Looks like it," Tommy says. I lie there blinking at the branches. My elbow stings. Something warm runs down my wrist, and I do not look at it. "Is she going to cry?" Brooke asks. "No," I say to the sky. "Shame," says Cora. Then I hear the basket scrape. Her boot swings, and the whole thing flies across the path. Yarrow scatters in the mud. The mint spills under a fern. The willow bark lands in a puddle and floats there, pale and ridiculous. "Oops," Cora says. "That took me all afternoon." My voice comes out thin. "Then you'll have something to do tomorrow." Brooke laughs, a high little hiccup. Tommy kicks a clump of herbs just for fun. I push up onto my hands. Mud drips from my braid. Every part of me wants to say it, the sharp thing sitting behind my teeth, the one that would wipe that smile off her face. You think you're a queen, Cora? You're a girl standing in the woods with two boys because you're too scared to stand here alone. I hold it. I swallow it like a stone. Last time I answered back, it cost me a week of bruises and a lie to my mother about falling down the porch steps. So I crawl to the willow bark and fish it out of the water. I pick the yarrow out of the dirt, stem by stem, even the crushed ones. "Look at her," Tommy whispers. "She's actually picking them up." "She does that," Cora says. "She'd pick up garbage if she asked nicely." "Are you done?" I ask. I do not look up. "Oh, Nora." Cora crouches in front of me and tucks a muddy strand of hair behind my ear, almost kindly. It makes my skin crawl. "I'm never done." "Then I'll wait." Her fingers twitch. For half a breath, something shifts in her face, an angry c***k in all that sweetness. Then she grabs the end of my braid and gives it one hard tug. "Say sorry for wasting my time." "Sorry you're so bored." Tommy whistles low. Cora lets go like my hair burned her. "You know what? Keep your little weeds." She stands and wipes her hand on her jeans. "Go home. Cry to Mommy. Tell her the big bad wolves were mean." "I won't tell her anything." "Of course not. You never do. That's your whole problem." She turns to her friends. "Come on. I'm bored." They start to leave. I breathe out. My hands shake so hard that the mint leaves rattle in the basket. Then the ground hums. It starts in my knees, a low buzz, like a train passing very far away. A single leaf trembles on the fern beside me. "Cora?" Brooke says. "Do you feel that?" "Feel what?" And then the howl comes. It rolls over the whole valley, deep and endless, so low it seems to come from inside my own chest. Every bird in the forest bursts from the branches at once, hundreds of wings, a black storm over the pines. My ears ring. The basket slips from my fingers. Tommy drops to his knees. Then Brooke. Their faces turn the color of paper. "No," Cora whispers. For the first time all day, her voice is small. "That's not possible. He isn't due until tomorrow." Brooke covers her mouth. Her lips tremble, and she says what nobody wants to say. "The King is early."