The Omega and The Arrogant Alpha (by Kylie) novel Chapter 301

The request comes in quietly, without urgency markers or escalation tags, just a name, a time, and a single line that reads private meeting requested, routed through channels that no longer require my approval but still carry my name out of habit.

I stare at it longer than I should, fingers resting lightly on the tablet while my wolf stirs beneath my skin, not alarmed but attentive, like she recognizes the shape of this kind of quiet and doesn’t trust it.

I don’t answer right away.

Instead, I fall back into routine because routine still works when thinking ahead doesn’t, and I shower slowly, keeping the water warm but not punishing, letting it hit my shoulders and run down my back while I focus on the sound of it against tile and the way my breath evens out when I stop trying to predict outcomes.

I dress carefully, choosing clothes that don’t project authority or retreat, just something neutral enough to exist in, and when I brush my teeth I watch my reflection without judgment, noting the way my face looks steadier than my body still feels, like the crash hasn’t fully finished unpacking itself yet.

By the time I approve the meeting, my stomach is tight.

The room I choose is small and tucked away from the main administrative wing, a space that doesn’t carry history or hierarchy in its walls, because whatever this is, it doesn’t feel like it belongs anywhere public. The table is plain, the chairs uncomfortable enough to discourage lingering, and the window looks out onto nothing important, which feels intentional even if I didn’t consciously decide it.

She arrives early, which immediately tells me more than her request ever could.

She’s sitting when I walk in, hands folded tightly in her lap, posture rigid with the kind of tension that comes from waiting too long without knowing whether you’re about to be dismissed or believed, and she stands quickly when she sees me, eyes flicking up and then down again like she’s bracing.

“You don’t have to stand,” I say, keeping my voice even.

She hesitates, then sits again, shoulders still tight, fingers twisting together as if she doesn’t quite know what to do with them when they aren’t being useful.

I take the chair across from her instead of the one at the head of the table, because positioning matters even when you pretend it doesn’t, and I rest my hands loosely on the surface so she can see them, empty and still.

“I was seventeen when it started,” she says, eyes fixed on the table instead of me. “Not a child, not really, but young enough that I didn’t know I was allowed to question it. They said it was procedure. They said it was oversight. They said it was for my safety.”

My chest tightens, slow and deliberate, because I already know where this is going, even if the details haven’t landed yet.

“They limited where I could go,” she continues. “Who I could see. What roles I could train toward. They said I needed supervision because I was at risk of destabilizing pack cohesion.”

I inhale quietly through my nose and keep my face neutral, even as something sharp settles behind my ribs.

“Did they document it,” I ask.