-Vaughn Blackmore:
I hit the ground hard enough to see stars.
"Again," Ryland Grayson says.
I push myself up on shaking arms, dirt sticking to my skin, blood sharp in my mouth. Around us, the Alphas watch as if this is entertainment. Like I'm entertainment.
He hasn't even broken a sweat.
"Getting tired, Blackmore?" he adds, voice smooth, bored—like I'm not worth the effort it takes to put me down.
I hate him.
I hate the way he stands there like he owns the world.
I hate the way everyone lets him.
I hate the way he looks at me—like I'm something that slipped through a crack and ended up where it doesn't belong.
"Omegas don't last here, that's why it's called the alpha training camp," he says, quieter this time, just for me. "You should've figured that out by now."
Something in my chest burns.
"Shut up," I snap, and lunge at him again.
It's pointless.
It's always pointless.
He takes me down like it's nothing—fast, controlled, effortless. I'm on my back before I can even breathe, his weight pinning me there, solid and unyielding.
"Stay down," he mutters, smirking while pinning me down with ease.
I glare up at him, lungs heaving.
God, I hate him.
And the worst part?
He enjoys it.