The weight of the Quinjet’s descent thrummed beneath Adaline’s boots, the vibrations steady, controlled. Just like her. Just like she had to be.

Even as the scent of Alphas filled the cabin—commanding, electric, steeped in something primal—she kept her expression schooled, her posture relaxed. She’d trained too hard, fought too long, to let biology dictate her worth.

“Touchdown in five,” Natalia called from the cockpit, voice sharp and efficient.

Adaline adjusted her gloves, rolling her shoulders. “That means five minutes until Grant starts lecturing.”

Beside her, Willow let out a soft laugh, a spark of red flickering between her fingers. Across the bay, Grant shot her a look, all authority and exasperation.

“I don’t lecture.”

Adaline smirked. “You’re literally about to.”

A scoff from the corner. “She’s got a point, punk,” Griffin muttered, arms crossed over his chest. Unlike Grant, he wasn’t trying to hide his amusement. He’d known Adaline long enough to recognize when she was being a brat on purpose.

Steve sighed, running a hand over his face. “I was going to say, stick to the plan. No improvising.”

Adaline tilted her head, her red hair spilling over her shoulder. “Sounds boring.”

“Sounds like staying alive,” Grant countered.

Griffin chuckled, low and rough. “She’s like Nat, but worse.”

“I am right here, you know.” Adaline rolled her eyes before strapping her combat knife to her thigh. “And I’m also the one who got us the intel for this mission in the first place. Maybe a thank you, Captain?”

Grant sighed again, but there was a hint of a smile beneath it. “Fine. Thanks for the intel. Now let’s not die because of improvisation.”

Adaline grinned. “No promises.”

The rear hatch lowered, revealing the darkened city below. She took a deep breath, the cool night air mixing with the heady scent of the Alphas around her. It sent a shiver up her spine, but she ignored it. This wasn’t about that.

She wasn’t just an Omega.

She was a fighter. A Petrov. A Sentinel.

And she was about to prove it.