Brittany's POV

The doors at the back of the hall crash open violently.

Avery leads the charge. Behind her. An army. Not warriors. Not soldiers. Not trained fighters.

Omegas. Servants. Cleaners. The elderly. The weak. The sick. The ones Rachel dismissed as worthless.

They're armed with brooms. Kitchen spatulas. Mops. Shovels. Rocks. Whatever they could grab. Whatever they could carry.

But the weapons don't matter. Not ...