Page 33 of Unhinged Alphas

The latest fucking revelation takes up every inch of space in my mind as the car glides through the streets, the driver navigating the twists and turns with practiced ease. I barely notice the passing scenery that normally catches my eye when I visit the Capital. Nothing else matters right now.

All I can think about is that damn letter.

Omegas sold like cattle. And my father—my own flesh and blood—is not only complicit in these unforgivable crimes, he's at the heart of it all.

Bile rises in my throat, but I dig my fingertips into my knees, forcing myself to stay calm despite how hard my heart is pounding in my chest.

It's not anxiety.

It's pure, unadulterated rage.

But I can't afford to fall apart now. Not when there's still so much I need to know. So much I need todo.

The Refinement Center rises from the dense forest like a twisted parody of a grand estate. Its imposing stone facade, all sharp angles and Gothic spires, stands in stark contrast to the lush greenery surrounding it. At first glance, one might mistake it for an exclusive boarding school or perhaps a retreat for the wealthy elite. But a closer look reveals its true nature.

High walls of weathered granite encircle the grounds, topped with coils of razor wire that glint menacingly in the sunlight. Watchtowers punctuate the perimeter at regular intervals, their windows dark and inscrutable. Armed guards patrol the walls with military precision, their weapons held at the ready.

The manicured lawns and meticulously pruned hedges seem almost obscene against the backdrop of such obvious security measures. It's as if someone tried to dress up a maximum-security prison in the trappings of old money and failed spectacularly.

Despite its location deep in what appears to be wilderness, I know better. This is no remote outpost. We're still firmly within the protective bubble of the Capital's influence. These woods, seemingly wild and untamed, are as carefully controlled as everything else in this godforsaken place. Patrols sweep through regularly, their routes known by heart to many of the guards—men and women I likely had a hand in training myself.

As we draw closer, I can make out more details. The windows are barred, the glass reinforced and reflective. No prying eyes allowed, either in or out. The main entrance is a fortress unto itself, with multiple checkpoints and enough firepower to repel a small army.

It's a far cry from the polished propaganda images the Council loves to distribute. In those carefully staged photos, the Refinement Center is portrayed as a beacon of hope and progress. A place where troubled omegas are gently guided toward their "true purpose."

The reality before me tells a different story, one my thick head has finally fucking grasped. This isn't a school or a rehabilitation center. It's a prison, plain and simple. A place designed to break spirits andreshape minds to fit the Council's twisted vision of society.

And Ivy spent half her life in this place.

Locked away, stripped of her humanity, her very identity.

I feel like I'm going to fucking puke. Or break some necks.

I'm still practicing box breathing—a personal deescalation technique Plague has drilled into all of us countless times—to sedate the enraged beast within as the car pulls up to the front gate. I flash my credentials to the young, fit beta guard on duty. He snaps to attention, his eyes widening as he takes in the insignia on my uniform.

"C-Commander Hargrove," he stammers, fumbling with the controls to open the gate. "We weren't expecting... I mean, there was no notification of your visit, sir."

"That's because it wasn't planned," I say, my voice cold and clipped. "I'm here on personal business and wanted to drop by. Do I need to call my father and have him explain the chain of command to you?"

The guard pales, his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallows hard. "Yes, sir. I mean, no, sir. Please, go right ahead."

The gate swings open and the car glides through, coming to a stop in front of the main entrance. I step out, straightening my jacket as I take in the imposing facade.

You can do this,I tell myself, squaring my shoulders, an internal promise that I'm not going to snap and tear this place apart brick by brick now that I fully understand what my omega suffered here. I'll have self-control.

For Ivy.

I stride inside, my boots ringing against the polished marble floor. The receptionist looks up as I approach, her eyes widening in recognition.

"Commander Hargrove," she says, practically yelping, rising to her feet. "How may I assist you today?"

"I need to speak with Headmistress Emilia," I say, keeping my voice level and authoritative. "Immediately."

The receptionist blinks, a flicker of confusion passing over her pinched features. "I... I'm afraid the Headmistress is quite busy at the moment, sir. Perhaps if you could make an appointment..."

"I don't have time for appointments," I snap, leaning forward and planting my hands on the desk. "This is a matter of utmost urgency. Now, are yougoing to summon her, or do I need to start making calls?"

A couple of Nightingales in stark white frocks with matching bonnets look up sharply before scurrying off behind her.