Chapter 7

Cassian

They say alphas were built for control.

I was built for chaos.

It's written all over me—literally. Black-ink flames crawl across my chest, the word chaos carved across my knuckles like a warning label nobody reads until it's too late.

Last night's party still hums in my veins. Alcohol. Weed. The lingering heat of the three omegas that didn't mind sharing.

I check my phone. 9:00 am. 

Class started an hour ago.

Oh fucking well.

I lie shirtless and watch the light shift across the ceiling, one arm tucked behind my head. 

The thing about being an alpha? Everyone wants something from you.

Respect. Attention. A night they'll never forget.

I used to think that meant something. That if enough people wanted a piece of you, it meant you mattered.

Now it just feels like noise.

Pressure that builds until you can't feel a damn thing.

The truth is nobody really gives a shit who you are—just what you can give them. 

I drag a hand down my face and exhale slow. The room smells like perfume and stale smoke, the kind of scent that clings no matter how hard you scrub.

All I want right now is quiet.

Ink.

The buzz of a tattoo gun, the sound of something permanent cutting through everything temporary. 

That's the only time I feel balanced—when the chaos becomes art.

The silence stretches. I scroll through my messages. A few are from thirsty omegas, hoping for more than a good time. 

Guess I handed out my number while I was drunk last night. 

That was a mistake. 

Then I see the one from Jacek: You haven't been to a single class this week. Don't make it a pattern, Cass.

I don't respond. Don't want to disappoint my brother.

Well... stepbrother.

Long story short, my whorish mom had an affair with his dad. It blew up fast. My parents divorced, his mom bailed, and Jace and I were the ones left to sweep up the ashes.

He never blamed me for it.

We figured out early on—we both got stuck with shitty parents.

And somehow, that made us unbreakable.

I pull on a pair of sweats and head downstairs. The Vale Society House is already awake—the faint scent of neutrals in the air, laughter bleeding through the walls, the low thump of music pulsing somewhere below.

By the time I hit the common room, sunlight's spilling across the leather couch where Miles—one of my strongest fighters—is spread out, hood half over his head, phone in hand.

He's got skin like dark bronze and eyes that always look half-amused, half-done with everyone's bullshit.

"Morning," I say, voice rough with sleep.

"Closer to afternoon," he answers without looking up.

I smirk, already heading toward the back room where I keep my tattoo gear. "If you want that tat you won't shut up about, now's your chance. Can't promise I'll be free later."

I hear the couch creak as he sits up. "You serious?"

I don't turn around. "Does it look like I'm joking?"

He laughs—low, disbelieving—but he still follows. He knows better than to waste time when I'm actually in the mood to work.

The tattoo studio's tucked into the far corner—my sanctuary. Nobody's allowed in unless I say so, though sometimes Jace sneaks in to organize my tools, claiming it'll keep him up all night if he doesn't.

I don't call him on it, because it's true.

I've seen him stay up more than once over a mess he couldn't stop thinking about. The guy can't let go of anything until it's fixed.

Guess that's why we work together so well—I make messes, and he's got an obsessive need to clean them up.

In the suite. In the pack. In life.

Miles drops onto the stool across from me, tugging off his hoodie and tossing it aside.

I pull out the design I sketched for him: a set of interlocking blades wrapped around the Sovereign crest.

It's more than ink—it's loyalty written in blood and steel.

Our pack's different.

We don't have omegas.

Just me, Jacek, and a handful of neutrals who decided to turn survival into something that looks a hell of a lot like family. 

Like Miles, they're the ones who keep the gears turning—not built to dominate or submit, just wolves who do whatever needs doing.

It's not traditional, but it works for us.

Miles studies the sketch, lips curving. "That's clean, man. You nailed it."

"Of course I did," I say, smirking faintly as I set up the gun. "You think I half-ass my art?"

He chuckles. "Nah. You only half-ass everything else."

I flick on the switch. The needle wakes, a low, electric purr. 

"Everything else isn't worth the effort," I say, dipping the needle in ink.

Miles shakes his head, amused. "You ever gonna stop talkin' like some cryptic old man?"

"Not today."

I drag the stool closer and grip his arm firmly.

The first touch of the needle hits skin, and all the chaos in my head finally shuts the fuck up.

It's just the sound, the movement, the precision of black ink sinking into flesh. 

Miles doesn't flinch. He never does.

He's used to pain.

Or maybe he just knows if he ruins my design, I'll lose my shit.

The needle traces the first clean strokes. The smell of ink and disinfectant cuts through the faint mix of iron and skin.

After a while, Miles speaks up, muscles loose beneath my hand. "So, Cass... you skip class again today?"

I shrug. "We partied hard last night. I earned the day off."

He shakes his head, amusement on his face. "You know, professors talk about you like you're some kind of urban legend. 'Cassian Vale—brilliant when he shows up, impossible to find when he doesn't'."

A low sound leaves my chest—not quite a laugh. "They'll still pass me. Can't have the Sovereign name dragging down their perfect record."

Dad wouldn't be too happy about that, either. He's an alumnus here—expects me to follow his path.

Be the serious, corporate, workaholic alpha he thinks I should be.

But I'm not him. Never will be.

Miles winces when I shade a new line. "You ever think about doing something else? Instead of just... this?"

"This is something else." I switch needles, wiping away a small streak of blood. "Not my fault I'm better at art than obedience."

Miles snorts. "Jacek still shows up—and he doesn't even like people."

"Of course he does." I steady my grip. "He's built for structure."

I look at the crest—clean, sharp, exactly how I wanted. "I'm built to burn it down."

Miles hesitates. "He's been... different lately, though."

I glance up. "Different how?"

"You haven't noticed?" He shifts, careful not to move too much. "He's been hanging around some chick all week. Omega. Red hair. Dance scholarship. Mariah Finch, I think."

That name hits soft, but it sticks.

"People say she's quiet," he goes on. "Keeps to herself. Pretty, though. Kind of hard not to notice her."

Quiet. Pretty. And Jace is spending time with her.

That's new.

"And?" My tone stays even, but the air tightens anyway.

"She sits next to him in one of his classes. After, he walks her across campus like a guard dog."

That doesn't sound like my brother.

He doesn't get attached.

Doesn't even like people enough to sit beside them.

And why the hell hasn't he said anything to me about her?

The buzz dies in my hand. Silence presses in around us. 

"You sure it was him?" I ask.

Miles nods slightly. "That's what I thought when I heard it. But they swore it was him."

I wipe the last trace of ink from his shoulder, watching how the light hits the fresh lines. "Jace doesn't give a shit about anything that isn't made of keys or sheet music. What's so special about her?"

Miles huffs a quiet laugh. "What, you think she's got some kind of spell on him?"

"Maybe." I strip off my gloves, tossing them into the trash can. "It's the only thing that makes fuckin' sense."

Miles studies me like he's trying to decode something I didn't say. "You sound almost... concerned."

"Just curious," I murmur, grabbing a clean cloth and wiping the station until every trace of ink and blood is gone. "Jace doesn't change for anyone. If he's breaking his own pattern, I want to know why."

He hums under his breath, skeptical. "You think she's trouble?"

"Everyone is," I say quietly. "Some people just hide it better."

Miles lets out a low laugh, leaning back on the stool like he's testing how far he can push. "And what are you planning to do with her? Warn her off? Or see what's got your brother's attention?"

I grab some plastic wrap and smooth it over the fresh ink, pressing it down until it seals clean against his skin.

"Haven't decided yet."

"Right," he says, tone dry. "That's what worries me."

"You worry too much."

"Someone has to." He stretches, rolling his shoulders with a faint wince. "You and Jace—two sides of the same coin. He shuts down. You burn everything in your way."

I glance up, catching his reflection. "And yet, somehow, you're still in my chair."

Miles grins, unbothered. "Yeah, well. I like the thrill."

"Then you're in the right place." I nod toward the door. "You're done."

He stands and leans toward the mirror, checking the fresh ink. "Looks good," he says after a beat. "Guess you still got it."

I smirk. "I never lost it."

Miles grabs his hoodie off the chair. "Thanks, boss man. Once people see this, they'll be lining up at your door. Don't forget who sent 'em when it's time for my discount."

I roll my eyes. "I don't even charge you, asshole."

Every member of my pack wears my ink. I don't do it for money—it's about the craft.

Turning the mess in my head into something I can actually control.

Because most days, control's a fucking illusion.

My wolf doesn't think—he reacts.

Wants to hunt. Fight. Claim.

And being stuck on campus full of other packs?

It only makes it worse.

Every scent, every stare—it's a challenge.

The air's thick with dominance and ego, and my wolf wants to tear through every last one of them just to remind them who's on top.

Which means he wants to claim damn near every omega here.

Doesn't matter if they're mated, marked, or just passing by with that sweet, submissive scent that makes my pulse spike.

He wants to fuck them.

And I let him, most of the time—especially when I'm drunk enough to stop fighting it.

But claiming one? Making her mine?

Not interested.

That's why I need to figure out what's going on with Jacek.

Alphas and betas typically share omegas—it's instinct. Keeps the pack balanced.

Keeps us from turning on each other and lets us focus on keeping our neutrals safe instead of fighting over mates.

But Jacek's never even looked twice at any of the omegas I've brought back.

Not that he's a virgin or anything, at least I don't think he is. He had a girlfriend back in high school—until she fucked him over.

Since then? It's just been him and his piano. 

No fun. No girls. No distractions. Just routine and control.

So if he's suddenly interested in this Mariah chick, something's off.

Jacek doesn't do sudden. Every move he makes is calculated—predictable.

So what the hell is it about her that's got him going off script? 

Because if there's one thing I know about my brother, it's that he doesn't slip without a reason.

And if she's the reason, I need to see for myself what kind of omega makes a man forget his own rules.

Because if she's playing him—using him to get to my pack—then I'll handle it my way.

She'll regret ever setting foot on Blackridge.