-Vaughn Blackmore:
He doesn't move at first.
Neither do I.
The locker room feels different now—not empty anymore, even though nothing else has changed. The silence is still there, but it's no longer mine. It belongs to him in a way I can't quite explain, like he stepped into it and made it heavier just by existing in it.
Ryland's gaze doesn't shift away. It stays on me, steady and direct, the kind of attention that doesn't wander or hesitate. It's not the same as the others. The other Alphas look at me like they're waiting for something to go wrong. Like they're hoping for it.
His look doesn't feel like hope.
It feels like a measurement.
Like he's already decided I'm something, and now he's just confirming the details.
My shoulders stay squared, posture controlled, even though I can still feel the remnants of training in my muscles. The slight ache in my arms, the tightness in my back—it all sits under my skin like background noise. I don't adjust my stance. I don't step back. I don't give him anything that looks like hesitation.
That's the rule here.
Never show the moment you're off balance.
Ryland finally moves—but only slightly.
He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, slow, deliberate, like he's got all the time in the world. His eyes flick briefly to the locker behind me, then back to my face, as if the entire room is just something he's already mapped out and dismissed.
He takes a slow step forward.
Then another.
Not rushed. Not aggressive. Just… certain. Like distance doesn't mean anything unless he decides it does.
The space between us shrinks again, and I hate how aware I am of it. Not fear. Not exactly. Just pressure. The kind that makes every small detail louder than it should be—the faint sound of his boots against the floor, the subtle shift of his weight, the way his presence seems to settle into everything around him without asking permission.
He stops a few feet away.
Close enough that I can see him properly now.
Not just shape or presence, but detail. The controlled stillness in his posture. The lack of hesitation in anything he does. Even standing still, he looks like he's already moving toward something else.
His eyes drop briefly—just for a second—to my cap.
Then back to my face.
"That thing is still on your head," he says calmly.
I don't move. "Yes."
A pause.
Not surprised. Not annoyed. Just… noting it.
His gaze lingers like he's deciding whether it matters or not.
Then he speaks again.
"You're the omega."
The words land flat.
Not loud. Not insulting in tone.
Just stated as a fact. Like classification. Like something he's confirming out loud because it saves him time to acknowledge it directly instead of pretending otherwise.
Something tightens in my chest, but I don't let it show. I keep my expression neutral, my stance steady.
"Yes," I reply.
Ryland tilts his head slightly, as if that answer completes a thought he was already having.
For a moment, he says nothing.
Then, almost casually, "It shows."
That's all.
No explanation.
No elaboration.
Just that.
Like it's obvious. Like it was never in question to him in the first place.
I exhale slowly through my nose, keeping my voice even. "Was that supposed to mean something?"
"It means what it is," he replies.
Simple.
Detached.
Like he doesn't see the need to soften it or disguise it or even care how it lands.
His eyes move over me again—not rushed, not invasive in the obvious way the others do it. It's slower. More controlled. But somehow heavier because of it. Like he's taking in details the same way he probably took in the layout of the camp when he first arrived.
Assessing. Sorting. Dismissing.
"You've been here for a while," he continues.
Not a question.
A statement.
I don't answer.
He doesn't wait for one anyway.
"You've adapted," he adds after a moment, voice still calm.
There's the faintest pause after that. Just long enough to feel intentional.
Then he continues.
"Or you think you have."
The way he says it isn't mocking in a loud way. It isn't a direct insult. It's quieter than that. More precise. Like he's correcting something small in a report.
Something inaccurate.
Something he noticed immediately.
My jaw tightens slightly, but I keep it controlled. "I don't need your opinion on that."
That gets a reaction—not much, but enough.
A slight shift in his expression. Not surprise. More like mild interest. Like I've said something that doesn't fit the expectation he had.
"That's not what this is," he says.
I don't respond.
He steps back slightly, just enough to break the closeness he created, but not enough to make it feel like distance. Not really.
His gaze stays on me even as he does it.
"You're going to learn something here," he says, tone still even, almost conversational.
I wait.
He continues.
"Most of the time, people mistake effort for capability."
A pause.
His eyes flick briefly over my shoulder, then return to me.
"You won't be the first one to do that."
There it is again.
Not anger.
Not an insult.
Something colder.
Like he's already seen the outcome and just hasn't bothered correcting it yet because it hasn't become relevant.
Behind him, faint noise starts creeping back in from outside the locker room—footsteps, voices, the camp returning to itself—but it doesn't reach this space fully. Not yet. It still feels sealed off, like the air hasn't decided to move on from this moment.
Ryland turns slightly, as if preparing to leave.
But he pauses.
Just long enough to look at me one last time.
And when he speaks again, it's quieter than before.
"You're going to stand out here for all the wrong reasons, Blackmore."
A beat.
Then, without changing his tone at all—
"And you won't even notice when it starts happening, because this is no place for an omega."
He turns and walks out.
This time, there's no slam.
No sound that demands attention.
Just the door opening, then closing again behind him.
And suddenly the locker room feels too large.
Too quiet.
Like whatever he brought in with him didn't leave properly.
A few seconds pass after the door closes.
No footsteps. No voices. Just the dull return of normal noise leaking back in from the hallway like nothing happened at all.
I stand there longer than I need to.
Not because I'm shaken.
Not because I don't understand what just happened.
But because I do.
People like him don't speak randomly. Nothing he said was random. Every word had weight behind it, even the ones that sounded casual. Especially the ones that sounded casual.
That's what makes it worse.
I finally exhale, slow and controlled, forcing my body to loosen back into something normal again. My hand moves back to the locker without thinking, finishing what I was doing before he walked in, as I can just resume the moment and pretend it didn't shift something in the air.
It did.
And I hate that it did.
I shut the locker a little harder than necessary, the metal clicking into place with a clean, sharp sound that feels better than silence.
Only then do I turn slightly away, adjusting my cap without looking at anything in particular.
Under my breath, barely audible even to myself, I mutter,
"Asshole."
Not angry.
Not even surprised.
Just… accurate.