The Sovereigns' Omega

Chapter 5

Jacek

Cassian partied all night—of course he did.

It was the first day of a new semester, and he has a reputation to uphold.

I made an appearance once or twice, just long enough for people to remember I exist. But for the most part, I stayed in my room.

And thought about her.

The little omega who doesn't even know she belongs to us.

The thought loops in the background, steady as breathing, impossible to mute.

I start my morning routine—same as always, same order.

Shower.

Brush teeth.

Fold the towel exactly in half.

Wipe down the counter until it gleams.

It's nothing special, but it helps. A reset. Something I can control before the day starts trying to control me.

When I dress, I reach for a gray T-shirt and sweatpants. Cotton. Soft. Predictable. Jeans are too stiff—too loud against my skin. They make me want to crawl out of myself, so I don't bother with them anymore.

The main room smells like alcohol and s*x.

Cassian's sprawled naked on the couch, a girl draped over him like discarded silk. Her perfume hangs thick in the air—too sweet, cloying—and my stomach twists. No jealousy. Just... sensory overload.

I stop in the doorway. "Really, Cass?"

The suite is a mess. Paper cups scattered across the floor, sticky rings on the coffee table, someone's shoe on the kitchen counter. The kind of chaos that makes my skin itch.

Cassian's eyes crack open. He yawns way too loudly, stretching like a cat who knows he owns the place. Then he glances down at the girl on his chest.

"Get out," he mutters.

She blinks, disoriented, then scrambles for her clothes. Her perfume clogs the air again as she mumbles something about messaging him later.

He doesn't answer. Just lies there, eyes half-lidded, until the door clicks shut behind her.

Silence. Finally.

I exhale slowly, step into the room, and start collecting cups into a single stack.

Not for him—for me.

Cassian groans, throwing an arm over his face. "Just leave it for the housekeeper."

"Negative. She won't be here for another hour," I reply. "And I don't want to think about this being here for another sixty minutes."

He chuckles, low and lazy. "You're hopeless, you know that?"

"I prefer consistent."

Cassian doesn't respond, just watches me through slitted eyes while I move around the room. He's used to this—the rhythm, the order, the way I can't think straight until everything's in its place.

After a while, he sighs. "You didn't really participate last night."

I don't look up. "Correct."

"Why?"

I rinse out an empty glass, watching the water swirl down the drain. "Too many people. Too much noise."

Cassian huffs a laugh. "That's the point of a party, Jace."

"Exactly."

He makes a sound halfway between amusement and exasperation. "You could at least pretend to have fun once in a while."

"I did pretend," I say, setting the cup upside-down to dry. "For nine minutes."

He grins. "Nine whole minutes, huh? I'm impressed."

I shrug. "It was sufficient."

Cassian shakes his head and stands, stretching until his joints pop. "I'd like for people to see that my beta isn't a ghost."

"I was visible."

I pour coffee grounds into the machine, add water, and flip it on.

Coffee is a necessity.

"I know, brother. I get it. Our parties are loud and overcrowded." He pauses, voice softening. "Still... you could let yourself breathe a little. Just once in a while."

"I breathe just fine here," I murmur.

"I know you do," he says. "But the world doesn't shrink just because it's uncomfortable. You can't lead from a locked door."

I glance up at him. Cassian's expression isn't mocking—it's steady, grounded. The kind of look that says he sees all my edges and doesn't mind the shape of them.

"I don't need to lead," I respond. "I just need to keep things from falling apart."

His lips twitch. "You always do. But maybe keeping things together also means showing up, Jace. Letting people see who's standing next to me."

The words settle somewhere deep. Uncomfortable—but not wrong.

"I'll consider it," I say finally.

It's the least I can when he never pushes too hard.

He's an asshole to a lot of people—loud, reckless, all teeth and charm—but never to me.

Never when it matters.

When Cassian disappears into his room for his morning workout, I pour myself a cup of coffee and let the quiet settle.

For a moment, it's almost perfect—just the hum of the air vent, the tick of the clock, the smell of caffeine and order.

Then my wolf stirs.

It starts out small—a shift beneath my skin, like a current turning the wrong way. My hand tightens around the mug before I even realize it. The instinct hits hard. Sharp. Alive.

Mate.

The word isn't spoken, but it echoes through every part of me, scraping against the edges of my mind until I grind my teeth to keep it contained.

Fuck.

Not now.

Not when everything's finally still.

But my wolf doesn't care about stillness or structure. He wants her—the little omega from dance theory, the one with the pleasant scent that's been haunting my head since yesterday.

"Something wrong, Jace?"

I jump, nearly spilling what's left of my coffee.

Usually, I catch everything—the creak of a floorboard, the whisper of movement, the way the air shifts when someone enters a room.

But because of her, because of the unwanted noise circling in my head, I didn't even hear him come back in.

Cassian leans against the counter, a towel slung around his neck, his skin flushed and damp from training. He's still catching his breath, chest rising slow and steady as he studies me with that too-calm look that means he's already noticed more than I want him to.

He grabs a bottle of water from the fridge, cracks the cap, and takes a long drink before speaking. "You look... off."

"I'm fine."

He snorts, leaning one hip against the counter. "You always say that before you stop being fine."

"I'm fine," I repeat, sharper this time.

His brows lift, but he doesn't push. He knows when to back off. Always has.

Still, I can feel his eyes on me, tracking every small tell I wish I could hide—the way my fingers tighten around the mug, the way my breathing stays a beat too quick.

My wolf shifts again, impatient, pacing in my skull. I press my thumb against the rim of the mug, grounding myself in the smooth ceramic. Counting helps.

One, two, three—

Cassian finally exhales and turns toward his room. "Alright, Jace. Just don't overthink yourself into a headache."

I don't respond.

Because I already am.

By the time Cassian slips out again, the coffee's gone cold.

I dump the rest down the sink, wash the mug, and line it up perfectly with the others on the drying rack. Centered. Even. Just how it should be.

It helps—until it doesn't.

Because even with the room quiet again, she's still there in my mind. That scent, soft and clean and wrongfully familiar, curling through my thoughts like smoke.

I check the time. Forty minutes until class.

Plenty of time to get there early, claim the back corner, and make sure no one sits too close.

I grab my bag, slip on my noise-canceling headphones, and head out.

The walk across campus is noisy. Too many voices, too many scents, too much movement that doesn't follow any pattern I can predict. People steal glances at me, but when I let a fraction of my aura slip, they look away fast.

Cassian's aura is always loud—he never bothers to hold it back—but mine stays caged unless I need it.

And I only need it when they stare. When they see me as something other than the next Marlowe heir, the beta of the Sovereigns.

By the time I reach the lecture hall, the steady hum of structure calms me—the rows of chairs, the symmetry of screens, the neat whiteboard lines.

Psychology. One of the few classes that make sense to me.

For a moment, I can breathe again.

Until I scent her.

Mariah.

She's in the back, bent over her iPad, a strand of auburn hair falling against her cheek. Her scent cuts through everything—clean, quiet, impossible to ignore.

My wolf stops pacing. Every part of me does.

She looks up, eyes widening when they meet mine, like she feels it too.

I look away before I forget how to.

But when I scan the room, every other seat suddenly feels wrong—too close, too far, too exposed.

Figures. She picked the best spot.

And I know I shouldn't, but the next best one is right beside her.

So I take it anyway.

And my wolf exhales like he's been waiting for this all along.