Alpha Academy: Book One of The Omega Curse by Venona A.Y

Author:Venona, A.Y. [Venona, A.Y.]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Published: 2016-04-02T04:00:00+00:00

Chapter Thirteen

Delvin leads me toward the buffet table. His firm hold of my hand anchors me, keeping me steady as we brave a wave of prying gazes and a stream of buzzes, all flittering from the tables of the hungry alphas. He hands me a tray before he gets his own and starts loading it with today’s lunch—grilled chicken, baked potato, and an array of vegetable salads and colorful desserts. It must be Shieldkin’s day. A smell of herbs billows from the slightly pink chicken that occupies most of the space on the buffet table. Definitely Shieldkin’s. When our trays are both filled up, we walk side by side through the aisle to our seats; when we reach the far end of both tables, the ones closest to the door, I veer to the left and then hesitate when I remember that Delvin usually sits at the right table, across the aisle.

“I’ll see you later then?” I say.

I don’t belong at the instructors’ table, and Delvin certainly does not belong with our kind of bunch. Alphas have some inherent hierarchy that they follow almost instinctively, and this includes the seating arrangement. While the freshmen and sophomores take the table at the left, the one at the right is occupied by the juniors and the instructors, and even the juniors leave a few seats empty to put some distance between them and the instructors. It is an unwritten code not to sit close to your senior alphas without an invitation. But instead of verbally responding to me, he nods in the direction of my friends whose eyes are now fixed on us. I smirk at them before I resume my stride toward their midst. Their eyes all bug out when Delvin chooses to follow me instead.

I glance at the empty seat between Jordan and Rico. It is the spot they usually reserve for me. What shall I do? I ask myself silently. Rico must have sensed my inner conflict, as he gets up and moves to the next seat to give his chair to Delvin. I offer him my appreciation once we get seated. I am a little surprised when Delvin, instead of digging into his own food, sticks a fork into the drumstick on my plate, and with a knife in his other hand, starts cutting it into small pieces. He then does the same thing with the next piece.

“I see you doing this all the time,” he says, smiling when he finds me staring at him.

“And you used a fork and a knife, and didn’t just pull it apart with your hands.”

“It would be rude of me to touch your food with my grubby hands,” he answers, his eyes moist with mirth. And then he does something that catches me completely off guard. He picks up a couple of the pieces he’s just cut and delivers them into my mouth. I follow my instinct and chew it. His face lights up into a smile.

“My mom, she used to cut my food when I was little.

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