Page 3 of Want It All
The noise increased as more students filed into the dining hall; my stomach growled at the smell of cooking meat and roasting vegetables wafting from the kitchen.
I’d signed up for the vegetarian option with some trepidation, but I needn’t have worried.
A woman at the serving station gave me a healthy portion of delicious-looking zucchini pie with a huge pile of roast vegetables as a side, then pointed me towards the salads, most of which seemed to be meat-free.
Once we had our food, Marina smiled at me. ‘Would you like to sit with me? Or have you seen someone else you know?’
I wasn’t about to pass up the opportunity to make a friend, especially one who knew her way around and who was a fellow history dork.
Between mouthfuls of roasted chicken, Marina told me about living at the manor – she complained about her apartment, which told me she was definitely not a scholarship student – and gushed about the gardens, recommending them for walks but advising me to stay away at nighttime, unless I wanted to see students fucking in the bushes.
I mean, I wasn’t averse to the idea, but it wasn’t what I’d come here for.
No pretty face or complementary scent is worth your future, Rosie, Chloe had said . Get your degree and get out. No distractions.
‘You seem like a beta to me,’ Marina said, studying me.
I met her eyes, but didn’t answer; my designation was my secret to keep.
‘Be prepared. Some students come here for the degree; others come to find a pack. It’s simpler here: a lot of the groundwork is already done.
You know you’re getting someone smart, someone driven, someone who has the potential to succeed.
Some alphas here will be …’ She searched for the right word.
‘Tenacious . It’s good we don’t see too many omegas here,’ she went on.
‘They’d be bitten and bonded before census date. ’
I pushed a potato around my plate, my appetite suddenly gone. I’d read the student statistics before I’d applied: ten in every hundred students were betas, and one in every hundred an omega.
‘Oh, don’t worry,’ Marina said breezily, mistaking my silence for concern. ‘Just be clear on your boundaries. And probably keep your door locked at night.’
Well, that’s not ominous at all.
‘I read a little about the Banksia Prize,’ I said, trying to steer the conversation elsewhere. ‘But I’m still unclear on how they award it. It’s just for first years, right?’
As prizes went, it was one worth having.
Two years of personal mentoring with the expert of your choice, a reserved place in the Banksia PhD program, and a hefty scholarship to go with it, all the way to graduation.
Recipients were routinely head-hunted the moment they got their testamur, with residencies, exhibitions, book deals, fellowships, and jobs scattered at their feet like bouquets.
I wanted it so badly I could feel it in my bones .
Marina nodded. ‘There are other prizes for second and third years, and another set again for research students. The prizes are generally academic, based on the top marks. But the Banksia Prize is a little different. No one is really sure of the criteria.’ She shrugged.
‘But the Revels fund the scholarship and organise the mentoring, so they have the final say on who wins.’
My heart skipped a beat. ‘The Revels fund it? The secret society?’
Marina snorted. ‘The Revels are more of a club these days, though it’s still invitation-only, and I’ve heard rumours they still haze potential members.
But they’ve left behind anything that might get them sued, and they’re one of Banksia’s main sources of funding – other than student fees, of course – so SECU politely pretends they don’t exist. I’d join, if I could,’ she said, sounding slightly wistful.
‘What a thing to have on your CV. Or better still, pack up a Revels member. All the benefits, without the extra work.’ She lifted her fork to her mouth, then froze.
‘Oh,’ she murmured, low and quiet. ‘I was wondering when he’d show. ’
I followed her gaze, turning in my seat – and stopped breathing.
Designations could be kept private here, but there was no way he was anything but an alpha.
Six-foot-six and every limb curved with muscle, his black shirt clinging to rounded pecs, black jeans wrapping around thick thighs.
Tattoos peeked up past the collar of his shirt and wound down his arms, a mix of floral motifs, illustrations, and text.
A messenger bag – just like my own – was slung across his wide chest, pulling his shirt tight across his abs.
I swallowed, my eyes travelling up to fix on his face.
He had a square jaw, a straight nose, black brows, and stormy grey eyes above cheekbones so sharp I could cut a finger on them, all framed by waving hair so dark a brown it was almost black.
Alpha , my instincts purred, immediately taking notice. Alph –
They fell silent when they saw his wrists.
The government monitored us all. When alphas and omegas revealed their designations – usually between the ages of eighteen and twenty – they were forced to report their status and be added to a national database or face jail time.
We all completed monthly online surveys, monitoring changes in mood and habits, and collecting information about how our designations affected our daily lives.
Some of us occasionally sat through awkward visits from official agencies during what the government termed wellbeing sweeps .
Omegas were monitored more than most, with heats and any offspring tracked by the Omega Support Agency, but there was one group who was watched even more closely.
With our designations came our instincts, and with alpha instincts came the chance of what the medical profession termed instinct blackout – periods of time when humanity took a back seat and the alpha beneath the skin ran the show.
It was uncommon; when it did happen, instances were reported to the Alpha Protective Force, who intervened to monitor the at-risk alphas .
The popular consciousness had a different term: feral. The APF didn’t help matters, in my opinion, by making at-risk alphas wear wristband monitors – just like the ones this alpha was wearing.
I shivered, my skin breaking into goosebumps from an odd mix of a hot flush and a chill. From what I understood, instinct blackouts rarely occurred in alphas so young – he couldn’t have been much older than me – and I’d never imagined a feral alpha to be so handsome.
‘Who is he?’ I whispered to Marina, unable to tear my gaze away.
‘Byron Griffiths. He’s the new Dean’s son.’ Marina lowered her voice. ‘I heard that she negotiated his enrolment here as part of her contract.’
His eyes snapped towards us, as if he’d heard. His gaze lingered on Marina for a moment, before shifting to me.
Alpha , my instincts whimpered. I had the sudden urge to tip my chin to the side and bare my throat. I fought the compulsion to drop my gaze, trembling as his grey irises darkened.
His brow creased – as if in surprise – and he murmured one word. He didn’t say it loudly, but silence had fallen over the dining hall in the wake of his arrival, so his soft voice was as clear as a shout.
‘ Omega .’