The Omega and The Arrogant Alpha (by Kylie) novel Chapter 254

Sally brings me the list in the late afternoon, when the light has started to slant and the day feels almost finished.

It is the hour when decisions feel heavier because the body is tired enough to tell the truth. She does not hand it over like a report. She sets it on the table between us and leaves her fingers there for a moment longer than necessary, like she is making sure it will not blow away.

“These are not complainants,” she says.

Her voice is careful. Not gentle. Deliberate.

I look down at the single sheet of paper. Names written in careful ink. Some with short notes beside them. Some with nothing but a line, like even committing to a description felt like too much.

“Then who are they,” I ask.

Sally exhales through her nose, slow and controlled. “They are the ones who never spoke. Not during the worst of it. Not after reform. Not now.”

I do not touch the list yet. I let it sit there between us, an object that feels heavier than it should. “Why bring this to me.”

“Because they asked,” she says. “Not for justice. Not for punishment. Just to be heard. Quietly.”

That word lands hard.

Quietly is how they survived.

I finally pick up the page. The names mean nothing to me. That is the point. No reputations attached. No rank. No history I can lean on to soften what comes next.

“They do not want councils,” Sally adds. “No hearings. No witnesses. No records that can be traced back to them.”

I nod slowly. “They are not warriors.”

“No,” she agrees. “Cooks. Runners. Caretakers. Support wolves. The ones who kept things moving while everything else burned.”

I feel something tighten in my chest, sharp and sudden. “When.”

I wait. Silence does more work than encouragement ever could. It gives her room to decide whether she is safe enough to continue.

“They decided what I cooked,” she continues. “When I slept. Who I could speak to. They called it order.” Her mouth twists, something bitter slipping through. “I called it breathing carefully.”

She pauses then, like she expects correction. Like she expects me to tell her what it really was. I do not.

She does not cry. Her voice does not shake. It is practiced control, the kind built over years of knowing emotion is noticed, measured, sometimes punished. Her composure feels earned the hard way.

I do not interrupt.

When she leaves, she thanks me like I did something extraordinary. She bows her head slightly, like gratitude is a debt she still thinks she owes. I do not correct her.

I did not do anything extraordinary.