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~ 1 ~ Lynn ~ The graduation cap hit the back of my head before I even heard the laughter. I didn't turn around. After three years at Ravencrest High School, I'd learned that turning around only gave them the satisfaction of seeing your face. "Sorry!" a voice sang behind me — too sweet, too deliberate. Vanessa Quinn. I'd know that honeyed poison anywhere. I kept walking, hugging my books tighter against my chest, chin level, eyes forward. That was the only armor I had in a place like this — the appearance of not caring, even when everything inside me was caving. Ravencrest wasn't a school. It was a kingdom, and everyone here knew exactly where they stood in it. The children of old money sat at the top — untouchable, golden, and cruel in the effortless way that only the truly privileged could manage. Then there were the new rich, desperate to prove they belonged. And then there was me. Lynnette Hawthorne. Scholarship student. The principal's pity project. The girl whose grandmother sold fish at the local market. I had spent three years being invisible when it suited them and a target when it didn't. Today was supposed to be the last day of all that. The graduation hall buzzed with the kind of joy I couldn't access — cameras flashing, confetti spinning down like colored snow, parents in expensive perfume pressing their children into hugs. Everyone was crying and laughing at the same time, the way people do when something is ending and they're sad and relieved all at once. I was just relieved. I pressed myself toward the edge of the crowd, looking for a quiet wall to hold up until my name was called. That was my entire plan for today. Survive the ceremony. Collect my certificate. Disappear forever. Then I felt it — that particular prickling at the back of my neck that I had learned to recognize over three years. I looked up without meaning to. Ryker Vaughn was standing across the hall. He wasn't doing anything dramatic. He was just standing there in his graduation gown, one hand in his pocket, laughing at something Zane Carter, his best friend had said. But he was the kind of person whose presence rearranged the air in a room. Tall, effortlessly put together, with that sharp jaw and those dark brown eyes that always looked like they were calculating something. For exactly two seconds, his gaze drifted across the room and landed on me. My breath caught. Then he looked away. Straight through me, like I was part of the wall. Like I was nothing. I exhaled slowly. That was Ryker Vaughn in a nutshell — the boy who had spent three years making my life miserable, and still somehow made my stupid heart trip every single time he accidentally looked in my direction. I hated him. I hated myself more for the way my pulse behaved around him. Get it together, Lynn. "And now," the principal's voice cut through the noise, sharp and proud, "let's hear from our student body president — Lynnette Hawthorne." Polite applause. A few soft boos woven in just to remind me where I stood. I made my way toward the stage, keeping my breathing even. I had written this speech three times. I knew every word. I just had to get through it without falling apart in front of people who would absolutely screenshot it. I was on the second step when my foot caught something solid. I pitched forward, arms flying, and hit the stage floor hard on my palms. The laughter was instant — sharp and collective, the kind that has been waiting for exactly this moment. "Oops." Vanessa's voice floated down from behind me, soft as silk. "Didn't see your foot there." My palms stung. My cheeks burned hotter. I pushed myself up slowly, refusing to rush, refusing to give them the pleasure of watching me scramble. When I finally stood and turned to face the crowd, my eyes found Ryker without my permission. He was leaning back in his chair, arm draped lazily around Vanessa's empty seat, watching me with that cold half-smile. He didn't laugh. He didn't shout anything. He just watched, like I was mildly entertaining. Like I was a small, predictable thing that had done exactly what he expected. Somehow that was worse than the laughter. "Come on, Lynn — you've got this!" Adam. My best friend's voice cut through the noise from the front row, warm and steady, an anchor in the middle of a storm. He was grinning at me, his eyes full of the kind of quiet encouragement that had gotten me through three years of this place. I straightened. Picked up the microphone. "My name is Lynnette Hawthorne," I began, my voice shakier than I wanted but loud enough to carry. "And we have all come a very long way to get here." I didn't look at Ryker again. I gave the speech. Every word, every pause, exactly as I'd rehearsed. When I stepped back from the podium, my hands were still trembling, but I had done it. Three years of surviving Ravencrest, and I had done it. I was almost off the stage when a hard shove caught my shoulder. "Make way, President," Zane muttered, laughing as he pushed past me like I was a door. I steadied myself against the podium, jaw tight. Then Ryker stepped up beside him, reaching past me for the microphone like I wasn't standing right there. His arm brushed mine — brief, warm, and completely indifferent. "Who's ready to party?" he shouted into the mic. The hall erupted. Vanessa appeared at his side instantly, sliding her hands around his neck and pulling him into a kiss that the crowd screamed over. I turned away before I could see more of it, pressing through the bodies toward the exit. Adam found me near the doors, his face bright. "Hey — there's an afterparty tonight. Lakeshore Club. Come with me." "Absolutely not." "Lynn." "Adam, that place will be wall-to-wall people who just watched me eat the stage floor." He laughed softly. "And you'll walk in tonight looking so good they'll all forget about it. Come on." His voice dropped, quieter now, more honest. "I don't want to go alone. You're my person in this school. You've always been." That was the part that got me. It always was with Adam. I sighed. "Fine. One hour." His grin widened. "That's my girl." "Don't say it like that." He was already walking backward toward a group of friends, laughing. "Don't be late!" I watched him disappear into the crowd and stood there for a moment in the thinning hall, certificate in hand, the noise fading around me. Three years of this place, and tonight was the last impression I would ever make on any of them. If I was going out, I was going out like I meant it. ~ 2 ~ 2 ~ Lynn ~ My bestfriend, Brielle Knox had a gift for arriving exactly when she was needed most. I was standing in front of the cracked mirror in my bedroom, holding a faded pink dress against my body for the third time as if it would somehow look different, when the front door burst open and she walked in like the answer to a prayer I hadn't finished praying. "Put that down," she said, not even breaking stride, dropping her bag onto my bed with the confidence of someone who lived here. "I'm not letting you walk into that party looking like you're going to a church picnic." "Hello to you too, Brielle." "Hello." She was already unzipping her bag. "Now put it down." I dropped the dress onto the bed and watched her rummage through what appeared to be half her wardrobe stuffed into one tote. Brielle wasn't rich either — not even close — but she had a talent for looking expensive that I had never been able to reverse-engineer, no matter how many times I studied her. "I wasn't even sure I was going," I said. "You're going." She didn't look up. "Adam called me." "Of course he did." She pulled out a gold dress and held it up. The fabric shimmered even in the dim light of my bedroom, catching what little the cracked bulb overhead had to offer. It was short. Very short. The kind of short that made a statement before you even opened your mouth. I stared at it. "Absolutely not." "Absolutely yes." She pushed it into my hands. "Try it on before you finish that sentence." I looked at Grandma, who was sitting in the corner chair watching us with that soft, patient smile she wore when she already knew how things were going to end. "It's a little short," Grandma offered gently. Brielle winked at her. "That's the point, Ma." Grandma pressed her lips together, trying not to smile. She failed. I took the dress to the bathroom. Ten minutes later I stood in front of the mirror and barely recognized myself. The gold caught my skin tone in a way that the faded pinks and tired blues of my wardrobe never had. It skimmed my figure, hit mid-thigh, and made my legs look longer than I knew they were. Brielle had also produced, from some bottomless corner of her bag, a pair of barely-worn nude heels in exactly my size. I came out slowly. Brielle looked up from where she was perched on my bed painting her nails and went completely still for exactly one second. Then she screamed. "Lynn!" She launched herself off the bed. "I knew it. I knew it. You've been hiding this whole time!" "I'm not hiding anything, I just—" "Hold still." She was already reaching for my hair, gathering it up with practised hands, twisting it into something effortless at the nape of my neck. She slid a small gold clip in and stepped back to look at her work. "Ryker Vaughn is going to swallow his tongue." "Brielle—" "I'm just stating facts." "He doesn't even see me as a person." She met my eyes in the mirror, and for just a moment, the teasing fell away. Her voice came out quieter, more certain. "Then tonight he will." I looked at my reflection for a long moment. The girl looking back at me didn't look like the scholarship student. Didn't look like the girl who had eaten the stage floor a few hours ago while Ravencrest laughed. She looked like someone who had decided something. Maybe that was enough to walk through the door on. Grandma appeared in the doorway, her eyes moving over me slowly. She was quiet for a moment in the way she got sometimes — the way that meant she was seeing someone else in me, someone I never got to know. "You look just like your mother," she said softly. My throat tightened. I crossed the room and hugged her before she could see my face do anything embarrassing. She smelled like the sea and fish and everything that was home, and I held on a beat longer than I meant to. "I'll be back before midnight," I whispered. She kissed my cheek. "Be safe, my girl. And hold your head up in there — you hear me? All the way up." … The cab ride was quiet except for the radio and the sound of my own pulse. I had spent my last money on the fare because there was no version of this dress and this night that involved a bus. The driver kept glancing at me in the rearview mirror and I kept my eyes on the window, watching the streets change — gradually, noticeably — from the narrow roads of our neighborhood to the wide, lamp-lit avenues of the part of town where my classmates actually lived. When the Lakeshore Club came into view, I felt the gap between our worlds like a physical thing. The building glowed gold under string lights, luxury cars lined the curved driveway, and music pulsed through the walls like a second heartbeat. Beautifully dressed people moved in and out of the tall glass entrance like they had been born knowing how to exist in places like this. I paid the driver, stepped out, and stood on the pavement for a moment. ‘You could go home,’ said the voice in my head that sounded like three years of being laughed at. ‘Hold your head up,’ said Grandma's voice, quieter but steadier. I chose Grandma. I walked in. The heat hit me first — warm air thick with expensive perfume, alcohol, and the particular energy of a crowd that had been waiting all year to let loose. Gold light poured from chandeliers overhead, music shook the floor beneath my heels, and everywhere I looked there were my classmates, unrecognizable in their best clothes, finally free and celebrating like they knew it. I moved through the crowd looking for Adam, keeping my expression neutral, my chin level the way Grandma had told me. I didn't find Adam. I found Ryker Vaughn instead. He was standing near the bar, a glass held loosely in one hand, black shirt fitted in a way that should have been illegal. His hair was slightly dishevelled — not messy, just effortlessly undone — and he was half-laughing at something Zane had said, head tilted back, completely at ease in the way that only people who have never had to earn their place anywhere manage to be. Then he looked up. Our eyes met across the crowd and something shifted — the noise, the music, the hundred bodies between us — all of it seemed to drop back a register. His gaze moved over me slowly, just once, in a way that was completely different from the way he had looked through me at graduation. Or rather, the way he hadn't looked at me at all. He looked now. I felt it everywhere. Then Zane followed his line of sight, found me, and bit his lower lip in an exaggerated way that made my skin crawl. "Damn! Hot!," he said, loud enough to carry. Laughter rippled around them. And just like that the moment was over, punctured and mocking like everything always was at Ravencrest. Vanessa appeared at Ryker's side a half-second later — radar precise, as always. Her eyes found me, swept over the gold dress, and something flickered behind her perfect face. Not quite insecurity. More like the particular irritation of someone who had decided a thing was beneath her and was now being forced to reconsider. She slid both hands around Ryker's neck and kissed him slowly, deliberately, with the full awareness of an audience. I turned away before I had to watch more of it. I wove through the crowd until I found a quieter corner behind a cluster of chatting students, pressed my back against the wall, and pulled out my phone. The screen was cracked across one corner and it overheated if you used it too long, but it was mine. I typed quickly: Where are you? I watched the screen, waiting. The reply came faster than I expected, but it wasn't what I wanted to read. I'm so sorry, Lynn. Dad just got into town. We're talking about me studying abroad — Switzerland. I'll call you later, I promise. I read it twice. Then I read it a third time, like the words might rearrange themselves into something less final. He wasn't coming. I was alone in a room full of people who had spent three years making me feel like I didn't belong here — in a dress that wasn't mine, on borrowed confidence, at a party I never wanted to attend in the first place. And Adam was talking about Switzerland. Switzerland. I was still processing what that meant — for tonight, for after tonight, for the strange future shape of a life without my only friend in it — when Zane Carter climbed onto a table in the centre of the hall and the music dropped. "Doors are closing!" he roared, arms wide, bottle raised. "It's game time!" The crowd surged and screamed toward the centre. I craned my neck toward the entrance and my stomach dropped — two large men had positioned themselves at the doors, arms crossed, expressions flat. I looked back at my phone. Adam's message was still there. I'll call you later, I promise. "We're starting with Truth or Dare!" Zane announced, and the room detonated. I pressed further into my corner and closed my eyes for exactly three seconds. I should have never come. ~ 3 ~ 3 ~ Lynn ~ The Truth or Dare circle formed the way disasters do — quickly, and with everyone's full enthusiasm. Zane ran it like a ringmaster who had been waiting all year for his moment. He stood on the table at the centre of the hall, bottle in one hand, microphone in the other, conducting the crowd with the particular energy of someone who had never once faced a consequence in his life. I stayed in my corner. That was my entire strategy — stay small, stay quiet, stay invisible until the doors opened again and I could slip out into the night and pretend this had never happened. I was good at invisible. I had been practising it for three years. I kept my eyes on my phone, scrolling through nothing, the cracked screen warm under my thumb. Around me the game churned through its early rounds — harmless confessions, embarrassing dares, the usual theatre of people performing for each other. Someone admitted to a crush on the class nerd. Someone else was dared to chug a full cup in under five seconds. The crowd screamed for all of it. I watched from the edge and felt nothing except the quiet, persistent ache of Adam's message still sitting in my chest. Switzerland. I turned the word over in my mind for the hundredth time. It wasn't just a country. It was a distance that didn't close easily. It was the specific kind of leaving that changed the shape of things permanently, and Adam was the only person in this school who had ever made me feel like I had a right to take up space. Without him, what exactly had these three years been for? I was deep enough in my own head that I almost missed it when the energy in the room shifted. It started as a change in pitch — the crowd's noise sharpening from general excitement into something more focused, more electric. I looked up from my phone. Ryker Vaughn had leaned forward in his chair. "Truth," he said, his voice carrying easily across the hall without any effort at all. That was the thing about Ryker — he never had to try. The room just arranged itself around him. Zane's grin stretched slow and wide. "What do you actually feel for Vanessa?" The crowd held its breath collectively. Vanessa was already smiling — a carefully composed smile, the kind that was ready to be seen. She sat perfectly straight, her blonde curls catching the light, performing the role of girlfriend with the ease of long practice. She already knew what he was going to say. She was just waiting to receive it gracefully. Ryker tilted his head slightly. "She's got good energy," he said, pausing just long enough to let the room lean in. "And I like her body." The reaction was immediate and savage — gasps, shouts, someone knocking over a drink. Zane threw his head back laughing. A group near the front started chanting something I couldn't make out over the noise. Vanessa's smile didn't fall. It cracked — just at the edges, just for a second, the composed surface giving way to something that looked very much like hurt before she smoothed it back over. She laughed along with the crowd because she had no other choice, and I felt something twist in my chest watching it. I knew exactly what it felt like to keep your face together when something landed wrong. I looked back down at my phone. I shouldn't have felt relieved. I knew that. Whatever Ryker Vaughn did or didn't feel for Vanessa Quinn had absolutely nothing to do with me, and the small loosening in my chest at his answer was pathetic and I was fully aware of it. But there it was anyway. The game kept moving. More rounds, more noise, more bodies in motion. I stayed in my corner and watched the clock on my phone. Another twenty minutes and surely the doors would open. I could get a cab home, wash off this borrowed gold dress, and fold this entire night away somewhere I didn't have to look at it. My phone buzzed. Adam again. It's official. I leave in three days. I'm sorry I can't tell you in person, Lynn. I'll miss you more than you know. Three days. I read the message twice, then put the phone face down on my knee because I didn't trust my expression. My throat had gone tight in the particular way it did when I was not going to cry but my body hadn't quite accepted that decision yet. Three days and then he was gone, and I was standing alone in this room full of people who had never once looked at me the way Adam always did — like I was someone worth knowing. I needed air. I stood up carefully, smoothing the gold dress, and started moving toward the wall that ran along the side of the hall, angling for the far exit. If I moved slowly enough, close enough to the edges, I could get out without cutting through the circle and drawing anyone's— The crack of a slap split the room. I froze. The music didn't stop but the crowd did, turning as one organism toward the source of the sound. I turned too. Vanessa was on her feet, her chest heaving, her palm still suspended in the air. The red bloom on Ryker's cheek was visible even from where I stood. The composed smile was completely gone now. In its place was something raw and trembling that I almost didn't recognise on her — genuine hurt, stripped of its performance. "You're disgusting," she said, her voice shaking with the effort of holding itself together. Ryker said nothing. He just sat very still, the way he had gone still at graduation when Vanessa tripped me — that particular quality of stillness that wasn't shock or shame but something else entirely, something harder to read. Then he turned his head. And looked directly at me. My heart stopped. Not a glance. Not the casual sweep he had given me at the entrance. He looked at me the way you look at something you have been aware of for a long time but have been pretending otherwise — deliberate, unhurried, and with a weight behind it that made the air between us feel suddenly different. I didn't move. I couldn't. Zane's voice cut through the noise before I could make sense of any of it. "Alright, alright — settle down, settle down." He spread his arms wide, already grinning in the direction of my corner. "Let's not ruin the fun." He found me in the crowd like he already knew exactly where I was standing. "Lynnette Hawthorne." He said my name the way you say something you've been saving — slow, deliberate, letting each syllable land. The heads that hadn't already turned now did. I felt the attention like a physical thing, like heat, like the specific horrible exposure of being singled out in a room of people who had always found you funny for the wrong reasons. "I wasn't playing," I said. My voice came out steadier than I felt. Zane shrugged, unbothered. "Everyone in this room is playing. Those are the rules." "I didn't agree to any rules." "Didn't have to." His smile widened. He looked across the circle at Ryker, then back at me, drawing the moment out for maximum effect. "Ryker's been dared." The crowd stirred. "And you," Zane continued, his voice lifting over the noise with the ease of someone delivering the punchline he had been building toward all night, "are the dare." Laughter rippled outward from the circle like a stone dropped in water, reaching every corner of the room. Someone whistled. Someone else shouted Ryker's name. My fingers tightened around my phone until the cracked edge bit into my palm. "What does that mean?" I said, though something cold and certain in my stomach already knew. Zane looked straight at me, still grinning. "Ryker Vaughn," he announced to the room, "has been dared to sleep with you." The sound that came from the crowd was something between a gasp and a roar. It swelled and peaked and kept going, feeding on itself the way crowd energy does when it smells blood. I stood completely still in the middle of it. My first instinct was to laugh — the short, defensive kind that meant this isn't real and none of you can touch me. My second instinct was to look at the door, at the large men still standing there, arms crossed, immovable. My third instinct was to look at Ryker. He was already looking at me. He hadn't moved from his chair. Hadn't laughed with the crowd, hadn't played to the room the way Zane was doing. He was just watching me with that same unreadable steadiness, his cheek still faintly marked from Vanessa's palm, and something in his expression was harder to dismiss than I wanted it to be. Like he was waiting to see what I would do. Like, out of everyone in this screaming room, I was the only one whose answer actually mattered to him. Don't, said every sensible part of me. But Ryker Vaughn was already rising from his chair. ~ 4 ~ 4 ~ Lynn ~ He moved through the crowd — unhurried, inevitable, every person between us stepping aside without being asked. I watched him come and did not move, I didn’t know what to fucking do. That was the thing I couldn't explain afterward, in the long quiet hours when I replayed it — I had options. The doors were large but not impassable. I was small and quick and I had spent three years navigating spaces where I wasn't wanted. I could have pushed through. Instead I stood there with my cracked phone in my hand and watched Ryker Vaughn walk toward me like I had been waiting for this specific moment since the first day I stepped into Ravencrest and didn't know his name yet. He stopped in front of me — closer than he had ever voluntarily stood before. Close enough that I could smell him, he had a chocolate musk perfume on. I wanted to pull him closer and eat him. He was close enough that I had to tip my chin up slightly to hold his gaze, which I did, because I had spent three years of looking at the floor, it is my last day, I might as well hold this gaze and admire his brown eyes. For a moment he just looked at me. Then, without breaking eye contact, he reached for the hem of his shirt and pulled it over his head. The crowd behind him erupted. I forgot how to breathe. I had seen his photograph in the school magazine. I had seen him at swim practice through the window of the library where I studied alone. None of it had prepared me for this — the lean, defined reality of him, the tattooed geography of his chest mapped out in bold black ink. Wings spread from his collarbones, each feather rendered with the kind of precision that took hours to achieve, curling toward the edges of his shoulders. Between them, centred over his heart, a dagger wound with a snake — clean lines, dark shadows, the image of something beautiful and dangerous existing together. I became aware that my mouth was open. I closed it. "Well," he said quietly. Just that one word, and the corner of his mouth moved — not quite a smirk, something more private than that. Like I had confirmed something for him. I straightened. "This is not a game I agreed to play." "You're in the room," he said. "That's agreement enough tonight." "That's… that’s… not how consent works." I couldn’t help myself from stuttering. He leaned down slowly, and I held my ground even as every nerve in my body screamed at me to step back, until his mouth was level with my ear and I could feel the warmth of his breath against my skin. "Here's how this works," he murmured, his voice pitched low enough that only I could hear it beneath the noise of the crowd. "You say yes, or you pay the price. Those are the only two options on the table tonight." "What price?" I said. My voice was impressively steady. I was proud of it. He pulled back just enough to look at me. "Five thousand dollars" I laughed before I could stop myself — a short, involuntary sound. "You know I don't have that." "I know." His eyes held mine. "I also know you're the only person in this room who actually showed up tonight dressed like you want to be fucked." He paused. "That gold dress wasn't for them." My breath caught, how could he be so vulgar? How could he not have just an atom of filter. Jesus Christ! It was such a small thing. Such a quiet, specific observation buried inside what was supposed to be a humiliation. He had no business noticing what the dress was for. He had no business saying it out loud like that, low and even, like a fact rather than a weapon. I hated him for it. "I… I… I just wore what I have," I stuttered. He studied me for a moment. Behind him, the crowd was getting restless — someone shouted his name, someone else made a sound that was supposed to be encouraging. He didn't look away from me. “I want to go” I managed to say, though I didn’t mean it He laughed wryly. "The men at the door will let you go actually." He said it simply, without hesitation, and it surprised me enough that I believed him. "But you won't go." The arrogance of it should have been enough. It should have snapped whatever spell the low voice and the tattoos and the quiet observation about the dress had briefly cast. It should have sent me straight toward those doors with my head high and my middle finger raised. I looked at him standing there — shirt gone, completely unbothered by the noise of a hundred people watching him, eyes fixed on mine like the crowd didn't exist — and I thought about three years. Three years of being the punchline, the charity case, the girl who ate the stage floor. Three years of watching him from a careful distance and hating myself for the watching. I thought about Adam's message sitting on my phone. I'll miss you more than you know. Everyone was leaving or had already left or had never really been there to begin with. And Ryker Vaughn was standing in front of me asking me a question that no one in three years had bothered to ask. Before I could finish the thought, his hand came up and brushed a strand of hair back from my face. His fingers grazed my cheekbone — barely, just the lightest drag of warmth across my skin — and I felt it in my spine. I had never let myself be this close to him. Not once in three years. "Last chance," he said quietly. Then in the snap of a finger, his mouth found mine, kissing me softly. It was nothing like I had imagined in the careless privacy of my own head — and I had imagined it, more times than I would ever admit to anyone, including myself. I had imagined something clumsy or cold or deliberately cruel. Something that would finally cure me of the wanting. It wasn't any of those things. It was warm and certain and devastatingly unhurried for the first two seconds — like he had all the time in the world and had decided to spend it here. Then his hand sliding to the nape of my neck, fingers pressing gently into my hair, and the kiss deepened into something that wiped every coherent thought I had clean off the surface of my mind. I kissed him back with three years of carefully suppressed longing that I had been so disciplined about and was apparently not disciplined about at all when it came down to it. When he finally pulled back, the crowd was a blur of noise I couldn't parse. His eyes searched mine — dark, intent, still with that quality of arriving at a conclusion. "So," he said, his voice rough at the edges now in a way it hadn't been before. "Yes?" I knew what I was doing. I was fully aware that this was Ryker Vaughn and I was Lynn Hawthorne and tomorrow the world would look exactly as it always had. I was not confused about any of that. I nodded anyway. "Condoms, please!" Zane's voice shattered the moment like a brick through glass, and the hall collapsed into laughter and chaos. Ryker didn't react to any of it. He just looked at me for one more second, then reached down and took my hand. His grip was warm and steady and certain — the hand of someone who had made a decision and wasn't questioning it. He didn't look back as he walked. I followed him through the thinning crowd, through the corridor that smelled of alcohol and bass and other people's perfume, toward the door at the far end of the hall. My heart was so loud I could feel it in my fingertips. The bathroom door opened. He held it. I stepped inside. The mirror above the sink showed me a girl in a gold dress with her hair slightly undone and her eyes too bright — a girl who had walked into this party invisible and was somehow here, in this moment, with this boy. I barely recognised her. The door clicked shut behind us. Ryker's eyes met mine in the mirror. The noise of the party fell away to almost nothing, just the distant thud of bass through the walls and the sound of both of us breathing. He moved slowly, deliberately — none of the performance of the crowd left in him now, just something quieter and more direct. His hands settled at my waist, drawing me back against him, and his mouth found the side of my neck with a patience that made my knees uncertain. "Still want to run?" he murmured against my skin. "No," I said. And I meant it. ~ 5 ~ 5 ~ Lynn ~ His hand snaked around my waist, yanking me against the hard length of his body; the other swept my hair aside, baring my neck. His mouth found the pulse hammering there, devouring me with soothing kisses, while I gripped the edge of the sink to stay upright. “Turn around,” he muttered against my skin. I obeyed, breath hitching as he spun me to face the mirror. The glass was cool under my palms when he pressed me forward, bending me over the sink. He lifted my gold dress up with the motion; and for a moment I thought of what Brielle is going to do if she found out I did this. She must never know! His hands found my panties with the speed of light, making me certain he must have done this a million times with Vanessa, the thought distracted me for a second. His fingers hooked the into lace of my panties and tearing it down my thighs in one impatient tug. I watched him in the reflection wondering if I was dreaming or this is actually reality and I am making a costly mistake. He unbuckled his belt and it dawned on me that I was actually about to have sex with Ryker Vaughn in a club restroom. I felt heat flooding between my legs, I was dripping from moisture of desire for Ryker. This is my dream. He freed his d*ck and I almost gasped at how thick and heavy it was in his hand, and the first brush of him against my p*ssy drew a broken moan from my throat. “Eyes on me, kitten,” he ordered, voice low and lethal when my eyes fluttered shut. I forced them open, meeting his stare in the mirror. His thrust drove slowly at first, letting me feel every inch stretch me open, until I was trembling. Then he snapped his hips forward, burying himself to the hilt in one brutal thrust that tore a cry from my lips. My back arched; his hand splayed across my stomach, holding me pinned as he pulled out and slammed back in, setting a punishing rhythm that had the mirror rattling against the wall. Every thrust drove deeper, harder, until pleasure coiled so tight I thought I’d shatter. Minutes later a guttural sound ripping from his chest as forehead pressed between my shoulder blades. For a moment, the only sounds were our ragged breathing and the distant thump of bass through the walls. Then he straightened, hands gentle now as he turned me to face him. His thumb brushed my swollen lower lip, eyes searching mine. Then he took a deep breath, adjusted my dress and pulled away, adjusting his trousers. The world came back in pieces. The distant thud of bass through the walls. The hum of the bathroom light overhead. The sound of my own breathing, still unsteady, trying to find its normal rhythm and not quite getting there. I looked at myself in the mirror. The gold dress was back in place. My hair had come loose from Brielle's clip, which now sat on the edge of the sink, and a few strands fell across my face. My lips were swollen and my eyes were too bright and I looked — I looked like someone something had happened to. Not badly. Just significantly. The kind of look that doesn't wash off immediately. I reached for the clip. Behind me, Ryker was quiet in the particular way he was quiet. I watched him in the mirror without turning around, he started almost like he was going to say something. His jaw moved slightly. His brows drew together a fraction. Then the door burst open. Zane practically fell into the room, catching himself on the door frame with the gracelessness of someone who had been leaning against it for an indeterminate amount of time. He straightened, looked between us, and produced a slow, wide grin that made my skin crawl. He held up a small foil packet (condoms) between two fingers. "Little problem," he said. The unguarded thing in Ryker's expression vanished instantly. His eyes dropped to the condom in Zane's hand and went flat. "You forgot something," Zane added, tilting his head at me with a smirk that was doing its best to be charming and landing somewhere closer to repulsive. He pitched his voice low, a mocking echo: "Eyes on me, Kitten." The laughter that came from the hallway told me there were more people listening than just Zane. Ryker was silent for exactly two seconds. Then he moved. His hand closed around my arm and he pushed me back against the wall — not gently, the tile cold and hard through the thin fabric of the dress, the impact sharp enough to pull a sound from my throat. "Ryker…" "Are you clean?" he said. His voice was flat. Clipped. The voice he used in class when he was bored, or in the hallway when he was dismissing someone. I had heard it aimed at other people for three years. Receiving it felt exactly as bad as I would have predicted. I looked at him and saw nothing of the person who had brushed hair from my face twenty minutes ago, nothing of the quiet certainty in his eyes when he took my hand. His gaze was distant and cooling and I was apparently already somewhere in his rearview mirror. The humiliation moved through me like cold water. "I should be asking you that," I said. It came out steadier than I felt. I was grateful for that. He made a sound that wasn't quite a laugh — dismissive, barely there — and released my arm. He turned toward Zane and said nothing else. Just slung an arm around Zane's shoulders and walked out into the hallway like I was a room he had finished being in. Zane glanced back at me over his shoulder, still grinning. The door swung shut behind them. I stood against the wall for a long moment and breathed. So. There it was. The part I had known was coming and had chosen to walk into anyway, with my eyes open and Grandma's voice in my ear and a borrowed gold dress and three years of wanting someone who had never once seen me as a person. I had no right to be surprised. I had no right to feel anything except what I felt, which was the specific, deserved sting of a thing you walked into knowingly. I picked up Brielle's clip from the edge of the sink. I fixed my hair. I waited until I was certain Ryker and Zane were back in the main hall before I opened the door and left the club, ensuring no one saw me leave. I was ashamed of myself. … Two months out of Ravencrest and sex with Ryker Vaughn and my life looked exactly like it had before I ever set foot in that school — early mornings, fish baskets, Grandma humming beside me in the salt air. No college. Not without money. Not yet. Maybe not ever. I had stopped letting myself finish that thought. But my body was not cooperating with the business of moving on. It started as a wave — low and rolling, building before I could identify it — and then my stomach turned over completely and I bent forward and was sick on the ground before I could do anything about it. "Lynn!" Brielle's voice, sharp with alarm. She had come to help with the morning baskets, as she sometimes did, and was at my side before I had finished wiping my mouth. I straightened slowly, one hand braced on my knee. My throat burned. The morning light felt too bright. I heard Grandma go still behind me. I didn't turn around immediately. I wasn't ready for her face yet. "I'm fine," I said, to both of them, to neither of them. "It's just — the smell this morning is strong, I think…" "Lynnette." Grandma's voice. I turned around. She was standing with a basket half-packed in her hands, and she was looking at me with an expression I had never seen on her face before — a complicated collapse of emotions moving across her features in quick succession. Fear first, then grief, then something that looked very much like a door closing. Her eyes went to my stomach. Just for a second and I felt the bottom fall out of everything. "Come inside," she said quietly. The basket went down. Her voice was controlled in the way that voices are controlled when the alternative is falling apart in public. "Right now, Lynnette. Come inside." Brielle looked between us, her brow furrowed. "Grandma, what's wrong? She just felt sick, it's probably…" "Brielle." Grandma's voice was gentle but final. "Give us a moment." Brielle went quiet. I followed Grandma into the house on legs that didn't feel entirely like mine. The door closed behind us. She stood in the small kitchen with her back to me for a moment, her hands flat on the counter, her shoulders doing the thing they did when she was gathering herself. Then she turned around. Her eyes were wet. She pressed her lips together, and when she spoke her voice broke cleanly down the middle. "How could you, Lynnette?" she whispered. "How could you do this?" I opened my mouth. Nothing came out. Because I already knew what she was asking. I had known for two weeks — known with the quiet, cold certainty of someone who has been ignoring a truth because naming it makes it real. The nausea that hit in waves. The exhaustion that sat differently from regular tired. The way certain smells had been turning my stomach since — since… Oh God. I pressed my hand flat against my stomach without meaning to. Grandma saw the gesture. Her face crumpled. "I'm going to get a test," she said, already moving toward her bag. Her voice was very quiet now. Very steady in the way that costs something. "And then we are going to figure out what comes next." I stood in the kitchen of our small home, in the morning light, with the smell of fish and salt coming through the window and Brielle's muffled voice outside asking if everything was okay. I'm pregnant. The words formed in my mind slowly, the way you say something out loud for the first time even when you're only saying it to yourself — testing the shape of it, the weight. I'm pregnant. And the father is Ryker Vaughn.

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Prologue Broken promises ache as badly as hunger. Humiliation stings like getting lemon juice in a paper cut. This goes beyond that. This betrayal goes beyond the lies and expectations of what we are and what we've been raised to believe. It goes against everything that makes us what we are. No matter our rank. I watch from the terrace of the apartment I got for my mate and me when he returned from his alpha training last year. I had been so excited to see him after we spent our senior year apart. I gave up going to my dream school to stay here with him. Santiago Romano held me in his arms, sold me pretty lies, and loved me the way he had promised before leaving. A part of me knew that I would be discarded after the full moon fell on my sixteenth birthday, and I didn't shift. I spent days avoiding him, trying to deny that someone from a Beta bloodline as strong as mine would be reduced to nothing but a lowly omega. Everything had been perfect before that. We had met the day we both started at Artume Academy—two years after one of the cruellest rogue attacks in werewolf history. There were six hundred and eighty-seven casualties that night. I barely survived. I shouldn't have, but I did. I've never wished to have died there more than I wish it now. My goddess-given mate has chosen his Luna. It's being televised for the world to see that I wasn't anywhere near enough to stand beside him. His parents hand-picked his Luna to carry his name, his legacy, and his heirs. Poppy Turner is wearing my dream dress with a huge smile plastered on her face. Her arm is looped through my mate's, and the two of them look like the perfect match as they walk into the moon goddess temple for their official mating ceremony. I turn the TV off and look down at my phone to see the message he sent me just before arriving at the temple. Three little words that don't mean shit to me anymore. This is for the pack, he said. You'll be better protected. You can now study to be a surgeon without the responsibilities of a Luna. I'll never leave you. You're the one I love—my true mate. Lies. The sick part is that there's a part of me that would accept this. I'd be his mistress, watching him build that life that should be ours with her. There's a darker side that looks back to the night of the attack. The night I saved her from the rogues, while my family was fighting. While they were dying. I should have left her there to be torn apart. I want to leave here. Run away and never look back. I have the means for it. All I'd have to do is call my grandmother to tell her I've had enough. She'd come for me in an instant. I know she would. But it wouldn't solve anything, and I'd be leaving everything I've worked so hard to obtain behind. There are three months left until the end of the semester. I'd lose all my credits, and my GPA would drop if I left now. It's all I have left. This career is the only thing that is going to keep me going for a while because this wound, like the loss of my family, it's going to take some time to heal. I spend the rest of my night reviewing my notes for my upcoming exam. It's almost eight when my phone rings. I reach for it to see my Grandmother's name and a picture of the two of us at my graduation last year. "Hey, GG," I answer. "Don't hey, GG, me young lady," she says in her thick Swedish accent. "What is the meaning of this, Sophia?" "I don't know," I answer honestly. "Did he reject you properly?" she demands. "No, he doesn't want to. He said that she'd be his Luna only in name." "I want you to come live with me, Sophia. You need not be where you are not welcome. Why haven't you called to let me know what's happening? I would have sent for you immediately," her tone is urgent. "Because you were on business for the King. I didn't want to bother you with something so trivial," I shut my laptop and close my notebook. "Trivial? My love, this is not something to be taken lightly. You are in pain. It will get worse once you reject him. It'll feel like a part of your soul is being torn away." "Please, don't make me feel worse than I already do," I sigh. "I can't just gather my things to leave. I have school and work. I'm not just his discarded mate. I'm more than just a floormat. This is why I didn't call you: I knew you'd want to come here immediately, and I don't want to lose myself over this. Leaving is a last resort." "Leaving?" I look up to see Santiago standing in the doorway of my home office, still dressed in his ceremonial suit. "GG, I have to go." I look away. "I love you." "Sophia-" I hang up before she can say anything else. "What do you mean you're leaving as a last resort?" he storms into the room and pulls my chair away from the desk to make me look up at him. I don't meet his gaze. "I told you that she means nothing to me. You're my mate. You're not going anywhere." I don't answer him. I push him away when her scent hits me. It's all over him. "I don't want you here right now. You're tainting my space with her scent. I can barely stand to look at you," I say calmly. "You're being so fucking dramatic, right now. I didn't have a choice, Soph. I'm not doing this to hurt you. I came home to you. You're my mate. You're the one I'm in love with. This is for our pack. You're turning your back on me to hurt me. You're acting as if I were the one at fault here," he growls. I cry out when he grabs my arm and spins me around to face him. "You're not leaving me. There is not a single fucking place in this world you can go where I won't find you. "You run, and you're only going to be making things worse for me," he grips both my arms with too much force. "You're hurting me," I try to pull away. He shoves me hard. Stumble back, hitting my head on the doorknob. The sting blinds me for a moment, but I don't have enough time to process it. "Look what you made me do," he says, dropping to the floor beside me. His hand presses on the spot I just banged against the doorknob. "Soph, I didn't mean to. I panicked." "Get away from me," I manage to cry out. His hand tightens around my throat. "You're not leaving me," he pulls me into him. His eyes are bright red, and his canines are out. "Say it. Say you're going to stay, Sophia." He leans into me, and for a second, my heart races when his teeth graze the curve where my neck and shoulder meet. The place he's told me wants to mark me. But he pulls away to cup my face to make sure I'm looking back at him. I've been in love with this boy since the first time I set eyes on him when I was fourteen years old. I thought I knew him. All of him. But the person in front of me is not the man I thought he was becoming. I don't recognise him at all. All I can do is stare back at him, fear and disbelief in my eyes. "Say it!" he shouts at the top of his lungs, making me jump. "I'm going to stay," I choke out. The lie tastes rancid on my tongue. "You can't leave," his wolf retreats, and I stare at his baby blue eyes as they fill with tears. "You can't leave me. I need you. I need you, Sophia. And you need me. Only I can protect you. You're mine." 1 Everyone is staring at me when I walk into my office after my classes are done. I can feel their gazes on my skin as I hurry over to the elevator. When I get to the maternity floor, I rush into the locker room to get ready for my shift. "Soph?" I look back at my best friend, Poppy's half sister. She's the last person I want to see right now, but there's not much I can do about it since we have the same shift. "Hey, Lieza," I greet her. The pitiful expression on her face hurts. "Don't." "This is awkward," she says, scratching the back of her ear nervously. "But the alpha sent roses." "What?" I ask, confused. I locked myself in the home office and slept on my giant bean bag last night. When I woke up, he was gone. He slept in the apartment. The bed had been undone, and his suit was on the floor, where he took it off, expecting me to clean it up. I would have left it there if I didn't hate having a messy room. I threw it away on my way out of the building. I finish putting my things away and follow her out. On the reception desk are five massive bouquets of roses and sunflowers. The nurses are all cooing over them. "Here, they came with this," Lieza says, holding up a hot-pink envelope. He wrote my name on it by hand. "These are so beautiful," Layla, one of the ultrasound techs, smiles at me. "You guys can have them," I say, going over to my computer. "I don't care for flowers." "They were a gift from your mate," Kennedy reminds me. "I don't have a mate," I say. Putting it out there hits me hard like getting mauled by a rogue after having watched it tear my brother to pieces seconds before. They don't say anything, but they understand, and the flowers disappear. I go about my day as usual, then head home after my shift. His car is here when I arrive. I don't park; I head back out right away. I need some time away from him—time to piece together my thoughts. Artume General Hospital is located near the main strip, where tourists frequently gather. The restaurants and stores are all open late. I have dinner at my favorite Korean BBQ spot and keep to myself, not wanting to draw any attention. As I have my dinner, I can't help but think about the night I found out I wasn't worthy of having a wolf. It was a night a lot like this one. My grandmother was sitting behind me in our backyard as the sun came up. It marked the night of the full moon in my birth month, and nothing happened. I didn't feel any different, and I didn't hear the sound of my wolf's spirit. "It could be late because of the trauma from the attack," she said, crouching down in front of me. I couldn't bring myself to look up at her. "Go back to school on Monday, and we'll meet again next month. I'll book an appointment for you later today. Go to bed." There's never been an omega in my bloodline. Ever. It was why the Helvigs were accepted into the city ranking system. My father had made a name for himself before he met my mother, who is from here. My grandmother encouraged him to relocate so he would have better opportunities. My body was shaking. All I could think was, what am I going to say to Santiago? How will his family react to me being what I am? They don't have to say it for me to know what was happening. I knew what was happening. I have been deemed an unworthy vessel. My phone pinged as if my thoughts summoned him. His name and our picture pop up on the screen with the voice memo. "I'm looking forward to seeing you on Monday. I love you." There is a tiny chance that my wolf is late because of the surgeries I had after the attack. I was twelve. That was almost seven years ago. I couldn't bring myself to open the following message, let alone reply. I dry my hair and curl up under the blankets. Sleep didn't come, but after a few hours, my grandmother came in to tell me that I have an appointment to get checked out. I got dressed, and we headed over to the clinic. I'm sure she's paid the doctor and the staff to keep all of this quiet. "Hey, Sophie," Dr. Valkrie greeted me the way she used to when I first met her. We all thought I was going to die then, and being an omega in my family has felt just like that. "Hey," I greeted her quietly. "Okay," she took a deep breath and smiled. She glanced over at my Grandmother, and it's all it took for her to leave the two of us alone. "There are a lot of reasons why your wolf is a little late. Have you been stressed lately? Anything you want to tell me before I start probing?" "A little," I nodded. "I found my mate, or rather, he found me." "Congratulations," she smiled. "Why would this be stressful for you? This is a good thing." "He's the next alpha of the city," I whisper. She tensed up, and I knew exactly what she was thinking. I had been thinking about it all night. Alpha and Luna Romano are not going to like that. Luna Romano is Alpha Romano's chosen mate. No one really knows what happened to their true mates or if they ever had one at all. Dr. Valkrie leans forward to hug me. She sniffs me and then sits back. "You've mated with him," she states knowingly. I nod. "We can start there, but I have to be honest with you. If being with your mate doesn't bring her out, the possibility that you are an omega is high. It can be due to all the damage that was done in the attack-" "That's not what I want to hear," I cried. "I know. I know, Soph. The only way that this can move forward is probably if he marks you, but even then, the chances of the wolf you turn into being a higher rank are low. You have to drop combat training. "You have to tell him because if you lie, it's going to look very bad on you. I'm going to take some blood samples to ensure everything is okay. But I don't want you to get your hopes up. Okay?" I couldn't answer her. I swallow the knot in my throat and let her take the blood sample. I spent the rest of my weekend alone in my room. "Come down," my grandmother ordered on Sunday afternoon. She has her luggage ready, which means she'll be going back to Blackstone—lycan domain. "Thank you for coming, Grandma," I said. She let out a heavy sigh and tilted my head up. "You survived one of the most gruesome attacks in our history, little one. You gave up a part of you to ensure that justice was served to avenge your family. Don't let anyone take that from you. Do you understand?" "Yes," I choked out, but I didn't believe it. "Come," she opened the door that led into the garage. I walk in with her. Inside is a cobalt blue Volkswagen Beetle convertible. "You mother had this arranged from the moment she found out she was having a girl. "Helvig women are rare. Unfortunately, it has always been the men who have taken the glory in our bloodline. So, we were very excited when you were born. Finally, a little girl we can all dote on. Take care of it. Yes?" "Thank you," I nodded and wrapped my arms around her. Grandma has always had an icy aura about her. I was under the impression that she hated my mother and me. Perhaps it's not hate, but the lingering coldness of having to serve under the Lycan King. Grandma Zaraphine is about four or five inches shorter than I am. Her hair is black, highlighted by the grays and whites growing out. She doesn't look old, but her eyes give away her age. She's always been very elegant and refined. I wanted to be just like her. It was why I gave up on the medical program and joined the combat team at the start of my training. I started to cry again, and for the first time, she tightened her hold on me. I don't know how long we stayed this way, but when she finally pulled away, she wiped away my tears. She stared at me for a bit before letting me go. "Things will change for you, Little one. Drastically. If you need me to pick you up, call me. Do not hesitate. Do you understand? You are still a Helvig, and I will not allow you to be disrespected in any way. If I am unable to come personally, I will send someone on my behalf. Okay?" "Okay," I nodded. "I must be going. Try to keep this to yourself for as long as you can." "I can't," I inform her. "Why not?" "Santiago is my mate," I confessed. She inhaled deeply and pulled me into her again. "You call me immediately if you need me, Sophia. Do you understand?" "Yes," "I must go. I promised my general I'd be back before sundown. My heart stays here with you, Granddaughter. As always." "Be safe," I nod. I unlocked the car and climbed inside. It smelled brand new. Like that night, I sit here not knowing what to do. I can feel my phone buzzing in my pocket, but I don't have the energy to reach for it. I shut my eyes, needing a moment of peace. Anything to get my head out of the thoughts attacking the very essence of my soul. I am unworthy. There was no wolf spirit for me and no mate. 2 The smell of freshly made food greets me when I arrive at my apartment. I walk in to find Luna Romano in my kitchen and Santiago setting up the table. I look between the two of them, knowing that they're going to ambush me over what happened last night. I didn't think that my mate was a little bitch boy that needed his mommy to fix his life for him, but then again, he ended up marrying the woman she picked for him. "Sophia," she beams with way too much enthusiasm for my liking. "It's a little late for you to be out and about on your own, isn't it?" I stare at her, not knowing how to answer that. How dare she come into my home and say anything against me? She has no right, not even as the Luna of the City. I hold my tongue this once because, despite the shit show she's turned my life into, I once respected this woman almost the same way I respected my own mother. I kick my shoes off, and I head to my room. "Dinner will be ready in a bit," Santiago blocks me. "I already had dinner, thank you," I say, rolling my eyes and trying to get past him. He grips my arm in the same spot he had last night, pressing his fingers into the bruises I already have. I try to pull my arm out of his grip, but he only tightens it. I look up at him, wishing I had the strength to hurt him back with my entire existence. "Get cleaned up for dinner, Baby. My mom made us dinner. Take this off," he says sternly, motioning my scrubs. The two of us stare at one another for a long time before he releases me. I glance back at his mother to see her smiling proudly at his actions. She doesn't meet my gaze, and I don't argue. I rush into my bathroom as my heart beats faster than it ever has. I reach for my phone immediately and turn on the water. "I've been so worried about you," my Grandmother answers right away. "GG, Luna Romano is here," I try my best not to cry. "I don't feel safe." "All right," she says calmly. "Just do as you're told, I'm on my way." "Hurry," I try to calm myself. "Sophie," I almost jump out of my skin when Santiago bangs on the door. "I can at least have a moment to shower, can't I?" I call back and stuff my phone between the towels beside me. The door swings open, and I back away as he storms towards me. He's pissed. His eyes are dark, and the veins on his forehead are visible. "What did you just say to me?" he demands. "I just got off work. I want to take a shower. You don't need to be here for that," I hold his gaze. I know that he'll get suspicious if I become complacent. I've never been one to keep my thoughts to myself. His expression softens, and he reaches for a strand of my hair. "Shit, I'm sorry," he says, placing his hands on my waist and lifting me to sit on the sink. This isn't the first time he's done this, but it is the first time I feel repulsed by it. It's killing me, but I'm repulsed by the man I thought was everything to me. He reaches for the hem of my scrubs and pulls the top over my head. I'm trapped, and he doesn't see that this is wrong or that I don't want him touching me. I stay still, not knowing what to do. "I'm sorry," he leans into me. He buries his hand in my hair to pull my head back enough, so I'm looking up at him. "I keep fucking this up," He brushes his lips to mine, weaponizing our bond against me. My body reacts to his because of it. Tears slip from my eyes as he kisses me. He catches one on his tongue and lifts me enough to reach between us to get my scrubs off. "Please," I cry, not wanting to do this. "I don't-" "It's okay," he wraps my legs around his waist and covers my mouth to keep me from making a sound. "Stop," I mumble into his hand, trying to push him off me. His lips crash against mine, and he reaches between us. My omega traits are alive and well. He takes my reaction to our bond as an opening. Panic starts to set in because no matter what I do or say, he's not going to stop. It's in this moment that I realize too late that maybe I was never a person to him. Just an object no better than the shiny car his parents got him for his birthday this year. "It's only you, Soph," he mumbles into my mouth. "You're the only one I want." My mind blanks when he enters me. My body screams in protest, but he doesn't stop, and he's taking my struggling as fuel to get rougher. He presses his hand over my mouth again to keep him silent. "You're mine, Sophia," he repeats over and over until he's finished. I sit here for a while once he's done processing what just happened. When he knocks again, it's gently this time as if everything that's happened is now behind us. I didn't answer, but I ended up taking a quick shower mindlessly. He's not going to leave me alone. This woman is only going to make this a whole lot harder. She's standing in front of the dining table, her hands folded neatly over her belly. The smile on her face is one I'm all too familiar with. Before now, I used to take solace in it. Luna Romano has been like a mother to me since my mother passed. She would tell anyone who would listen that I, Sophia Helvig, was her only son's fated mate. Things changed when Santiago told them that I was an omega. They sent him away, and I was no longer invited to Sunday dinners in the main house. I was no longer a part of their family. If I'm such a disgrace on her family's bloodline, then why the hell does she want me here? I could just leave when the semester is over. I wouldn't make a fuss, and I wouldn't ask for a single thing in return. No one in their right mind would allow this humiliation, even if I am simply a lowly omega. "Why don't you come take a seat, Sophia?" She takes a step to her right and pulls out the chair to Santiago's left. She looks down at the chair and then at me. The action is almost threatening. "I think we need to have a serious talk." 3 Santiago is sitting there without meeting my gaze. I cautiously go around the table to sit where Luna Romano wants me to sit. I stay still as she reaches over me for the bread knife. I sit back as she cuts the freshly made loaf of bread in front of me. She places a slice on my plate and then another on his. I watch her hands as she moves to put other things on our plates, never setting the knife down. She walks around the table and sets it down beside her plate. "I understand that you are having some trouble with the new arrangement," she says as she takes a fork off the table. "I don't have to remind you that you are Santiago's mate." "No, you don't, and I don't think it's any of your business," I answer honestly—the two of us jump when Santiago slams his hand on the table. "Don't talk to my mother like that, Sophia," he growls. "It's alright, son," she says and continues to eat as if nothing were out of place. "Sophia, you shouldn't be making this harder than it has to be. You are Santiago's mate, and that comes with certain responsibilities." "No, it doesn't. You legally found a replacement for these so-called responsibilities-" "Of course, I did," she stops me. "Do you think you, an omega. A wolfless girl who is practically mortal could ever hold a candle to what a beta-ranked female can?" "I can do everything the beta-ranked female you chose and better. I have proven that over and over. In training and my studies. She wouldn't be able to hold the highest credentials in medicine, the way I can run circles around her studies in pack economics. The comparison isn't fair if you're basing this on genetics." "Is that what this is?" she laughs humorlessly. "You're jealous of Poppy?" "Poppy has nothing I need to be jealous about," I sneer. "Except you do. She is the new Luna of the City, whether you like it or not," she says flatly. "Do you know how many Lunas die a year because other alphas or rogues target them. You know, the very same rogues who took your family from us. You will never be in any danger with Luna Romano taking the lead." I stare at her, letting what she just said sink in. She just called Poppy Luna Romano. My hand twitches over the fork beside my plate. It would be so easy for me to get over this table with it to show her exactly what this little omega can do. I may be the lowest rank of my kind, but I was raised like one of them. My grandmother would rather kill me than let me walk around unable to protect myself. As one of the Lycan King's most trusted Major Generals, my training started long before theirs did. I was raised to be a soldier, and it was only by fate that I am now a healer. "Mom," Santiago says gently. "I think you should leave." "Excuse me?" she laughs, looking over at him. "I think you should go so that I can talk to Sophia alone," he adds. "You brought me here," she reminds him. "I know, and she knows how serious this is now. Get out," he growls. The two of them face off for a moment before she nods and stands up to leave. Neither of us moves as she gathers her belongings. She kisses the side of his head. He knows exactly what I would do to his mother, even though she outranks me. I'd spend the rest of my life in a prison cell here, and I wouldn't regret it. "I suggest you understand your position and soon, Sophia," she says, pausing at the end of the table. "We want to move forward doing things pleasantly. You can be a part of this family the easy way, or you can be a part of this family the hard way. The choice is up to you, but leaving is not an option." "Go," Santiago growls at her again. I sit here waiting for the weight of her words to break the silence between us. He expects me to stay here while he parades his chosen around for all to see simply because I'm an omega. Tears fill my eyes as the realization hits me like a slap across the face. They're all going to make my life a living hell, and he expects me to take it. "You swore you'd never let anything hurt me when I told you I didn't shift," I whisper. "I would never let anything hurt you, Sophia. You know that I would do anything for you." "Except this, right? You'd never stand up to your mother for us even if it killed me," I stand up. "She made us dinner, Sophia. The least you can do is try it," he says calmly. I suck in the mucus in my nose from crying and hack it up into my mouth before spitting it on the food she made for us. He stares at me in disbelief. I've never done anything so ill-mannered before. My grandmother would have never let me hear the end of it, but I think this is an exception she might be willing to overlook. "That's what I think about your mother's food, Santiago." I kiss him on the opposite side of his head. "It's going to take some time for us to get used to this. Sophie," he continues. "I'd reject you now if I thought you'd accept it. But I'm looking forward to doing everything in my power to make you do it. By the time this is over, you're going to hate me with every ounce of your soul the way I do you now." He reacts this time. His hand lashes out and grabs my wrist. He spins me around, pulling me into him hard. My chest smacks against his, hard enough to knock the air out of my lungs. "You hate me?" he laughs and pushes against me until my back hits the wall. My body is trembling, and I can't bring myself to look up at him because if he looks into my eyes, he'll know I'm lying. I want to hate him. I should. But our world is on fire. The flames are closing in around us, with nowhere to run. He did this. He did this to us, and instead of letting me go so that he may do his so-called duty, he wants me to stick around to watch him destroy everything we could have built together. "Reject me. Please," I beg him. "I don't want this. I don't want you like this." "Not a chance, Sophia. You said you'd help me make sure the City prospers," he says, burying his face in the crook of my neck. "This is it, Baby. As soon as we have an heir, it's over. It'll be just you and me. You'll bear my mark, and we can put it all behind us." 4 It's been a long time since I've been plagued with nightmares of the attack. I lay here beside my so-called mate, reliving the moment in silence. It's the final quarter. There are forty seconds on the board and six yards to a touchdown. My arms are tightly around the iron bars as I watch my oldest brother, Gavin, toss the ball to our brother Oliver. The two of them position themselves as the next play begins. All I can hear is the roar of my blood racing as I watch the final moments of the game. My brothers have been working so hard to get here, and winning this game will make them champions of this year's Packlands Championship league. "Let's go, Helvig!" someone shouts, and the crowd starts chanting our last name. The timer restarts, and the team delays the throw. The other teams are unaware of what's happening. Their eyes are locked on Oliver. Ten seconds. Oliver pushes off the ground, and the other team moves with him. Gavin rushes forward, pushing off the ground with all his might. The crowd erupts with joy as he jumps over the other quarterback, clearing the last yards. The stadium goes crazy. I scream, gripping the metal divider, and jump down along with a whole lot of other people. They did it. I cross the field and jump into my brother's arms. Oliver swings me around laughing, and then tosses me up, only for Gavin to catch me. The team and the others in the pack surround us. The older wolves howl while we, the juveniles, can only scream with joy. I have never been more proud of my brothers. I've watched them day in and day out train until they could barely stand to get here. I know it's one of the happiest days in their lives, and I get to be a part of it. "Where's Dad?" Oliver asks. I stare back at him, not knowing how to answer without ruining the win. I think he sees it in my eyes because he nods. "It's cool." "I'm here," I take his hand, and his smile returns. I jump on him again. "You did it!" "We did it," Gavin comes over with some of the other older boys and his mate. Joclyn. Joclyn is the prettiest girl I've ever seen in my life, and she complements my brother perfectly. The ideal beta couple is coming into power. I hear all the whispers about them, how they're going to make the pack stronger. The best thing that could have happened to the Artume Pack was the alpha bringing in my father when he was seventeen years old. No one has anything bad to say about any of us. "Hey," I point at Dad. We all turn to see him running to us. "He came!" I beam, patting Oliver's arm. "He's here." Ollie has always tried his best to please our dad. To walk in Gavin's footsteps to show him that he's worthy of being an official Beta. I know our father is as proud as the rest of our family, but he works a lot. Being the Pack's acting Beta is a full-time job, and sometimes he misses things. Gavin tries to explain, but it's hard to listen when there's a vacant spot in every event or ceremony. "Something's wrong." Gavin takes my hand and pushes me towards Joclyn. She immediately pulls me to her. Dad waves his hands. "Run," Oliver shouts at us. "Sophie," Joclyn pulls me, and I lose my grip on my brother's arm. A loud howl echoes in the darkness in the treeline. Joclyn's hold on my hand tightens as a massive wolves come out of the darkness like demonic shadows—one after the other in every direction. "Gavin!" I cry out, but he's nowhere in sight. "Sophie, stay with me," Joclyn shouts. I follow. The two of us run towards the crowd. She's smart, she's ducking under the crowd with me in tow, not trying to go through them. I scream when someone hits the floor beside me. It's Ms. Harper, my Algebra one teacher. Her eyes are looking back at me, but there's nothing in them. I scramble away from her to get closer to Joclyn. The two of us managed to get under the bleachers with a couple of other girls from my class. "Stay behind me," Joclyn growls. Two big wolves appear up ahead. We turn around to find two more at the other end. "The tunnel," I cry out. "Go," Joclyn shoves me, and she shifts. I take the hands of two of the other girls, and we make a run for it as some of the other pack wolves back Joclyn out. I push the girls to the left, keeping us tight against the wall. Two rogues run past us. I glance back at the others, knowing that they have no idea what to do. Not any more than I do. Think. Think, Soph. What would Ollie do? I poke my head out to see that people are dying everywhere. I see an opening to the parking lot. "Okay," I look over at the girl behind me. She's in my PE class. "Okay, do you remember when we did all four exercises?" "Yes," she nods, along with some of the other girls. "Don't stop until you get out of the gate. Head towards the main building," I order. "What about you?" she cries. "I'm right behind you," I promise. She steps forward. "The gate and then the main building. Hide anywhere." The four of them take off running the way we practiced. I look back and see no one. I don't want to leave Joclyn behind, but there's really nothing I can do. I turn around and run after them. I repeat it in my head over and over. The gate. The main building. The gate. The main building. The gate. The main building. My body screams when my hands reach the gate. I try to catch my breath, and as I prepare to break for the parking lot, I hear a howl, and my body freezes. I turn around to see my father's wolf trying to fight off the wolves, but I lock on to the dark brown wolf behind him. Gavin. My blood runs cold. Another howl echoes in the distance. I see the pretty sand colored wolf sprint across the field and clash against the group of rogues my father is trying to fend off. I step back, unable to believe what I'm seeing. My eyes scan the crowd, trying to find Oliver. I don't see him anywhere. He wouldn't want me to get in the way. If I run out there, I can risk getting hurt or distracting them more. I turn around only to come face-to-face with two wolves. Everything happens so fast. The pain blurs a lot of what's happening. I scream as I'm dragged towards the treeline. I kick and claw, calling out for help. I hear it then, Oliver's howl. The teeth embedded in my shoulder are pulled away, and I cry out as my brother's black wolf runs past me. "Oliver!" I cry out. But it's no use. I can't move. Everything feels hot, and all I can do is watch as those monsters rip my sixteen-year-old, newly shifted brother apart. I can't breathe. All I can taste is the metal in my mouth. I turn slowly, searching the chaos for my Dad. "Daddy!" I call out. I repeat it over and over as I pull myself towards the light of the parking lot. I reach the border and pull myself closer to the light. Two growls come from behind me. I look back to see the two rogues stalking towards me. The bigger one barks, and I cry out. It pounces forward, biting at my leg. With what little strength I have, I kick him. He whines, and the other one pounces on me. Its paw lands on the wound on my shoulder, and all I can do is scream. There's a howl, and the wolves pause. The look in the direction it came from. One of them runs off, but the other one keeps its eyes on me. The howl turns into a roar just as he's about to bite me again. He freezes mid-attack and turns his attention to the darkness behind him. More wolves rush out of the darkness. One in particular stands out. A massive silverback jumps out of the darkness of the clearing. His silver fur was almost luminescent in the full moon's light. He tears those other wolves apart without mercy. The one hovering over me lowers his body and turns around to escape. I scream and reach for it. The wolf is startled, and it bites me. I cry out again and again, refusing to let go. I can feel it tearing at my stomach, but if I'm dying, he's coming with me. Silver comes in my direction, and the wolf latched onto me let's go. I keep my arms around its leg the same way I had when my brothers won tonight. I feel the hit of the young King taking the wolf off me. I fall onto my back. Water or maybe blood fills my lungs, and I can't breathe at all. I try to gasp for air, but relief never comes. All I can see are the stadium lights that illuminate the football field I've grown to love. I lay here thinking that was probably the worst thing that could have ever happened to me. The man at my back, who swore his love and devotion, sleeps peacefully, not caring that he's tearing me apart. 5 I sit up when my alarm goes off and turn it off before it can wake him. I shower, trying my best to get his scent off my skin. To erase what he did to me until he was satisfied. My skin is raw by the time I'm ready for my first class today. I make a quick breakfast for us. I take my coffee and try to escape before he wakes up. I almost jump out of my skin when I turn around to see him standing behind me. He's never hidden his presence from me before. His smile is one I'm very familiar with. I have woken up to it every morning since his return. It was a testament to the happy life I thought we were building. It comes off sinister now that I've seen the beast he'd been hiding from me after all these years. I look at him, and I only see a stranger now. A stranger in my mate's skin. "You were going to leave without saying goodbye?" he asks, stepping closer. "I didn't want to wake you, and I'm already running late," I lie, taking my cup off the counter. He steps with me and takes the cup. "Okay," he says, putting it back on the counter. "I made a reservation for us at-" "Do you really think going out in public would sit well with the pack days after your wedding?" I ask, stopping him. He tenses up. He's never been one for rejection, and up until now, I've never had a reason to say no. I'm questioning everything, and all I feel is emptiness. "I'm trying to make it up to you," he sighs. "I didn't want this either, Sophia." "I understand, which is why I'm telling you now that going out in public wouldn't be right. It would reflect poorly on the two of us. It'll be disrespectful to your wife," I see him visibly tense up as I take my cup from the counter again. "I'll see you tonight. Here, where no one can see." "I'm sorry," he blocks my path again. "Tell me how to make this right again." I stare at him to see if he looks genuine. He seems to think this is a tiny little obstacle in our path, but he doesn't understand the rules of choosing a mate. He's not going to get anything he wants without marking Poppy. What we had was over the moment he allowed his parents to dictate what would happen as he moved forward as the alpha of Artume City. Hell will freeze over before I ever forgive him. Not just for the wedding or not being able to stand up for us, but because of his actions. I don't want him anywhere near me, and he doesn't seem to care. He doesn't see that he's hurting me and making things worse. "I just need some space," I step back. "You didn't even warn me, Santiago. I knew your parents stopped caring for me the moment you told them I was an omega. I didn't think you would ever buy into it. You accepting this only proves to me that you think the same thing they do." "I don't. Sophie, you mean everything to me. You are the love of my life. From the moment I laid eyes on you," he grabs my wrist. "You have to know that." "I did," I pull my arm out of his grip. "But I find it very hard to believe it's the truth anymore." He stares at me, and I can see the war he's in with his wolf. His expression blanks, and I look away to go for the door. "Do you still love me, Soph?" he asks as I step out of the apartment. I take a deep breath and leave without saying a word because that's a stupid question. I hurry into my car and leave before he decides that he wants me to stay with him for the day. Sitting in class is not something I want to be doing right now. I'm in agony, and I have nowhere to go to let it out. Everyone is staring at me. I may not have a wolf, but I can still hear them whispering about me. Those who have hated me from the moment Santiago made our relationship known think I have finally been put in my place. As if being Santiago's mate was the only thing I was ever good at. It's such a shallow notion, and it's an odd feeling when I think that I was no better until the day I didn't shift. I complete the pop quiz and take it to the front. I'm still the first one done. I'm probably the only one in this class who's going to ace it. None of them is going to see that simply because my misery is more exciting. They want something to make me smaller. Envy is ugly when power is involved. I never wanted any of it. I fell in love with the idea of mates, especially after I lost my family. Before I went to Artume Academy, my grandmother had to stay here with me. We were both miserable. She was stuck here babysitting a twelve-year-old who couldn't even move after the attack—two years of surgeries and physical training. It was lonely, so when I met the boy with the pretty sea glass colored eyes and sly smirk, I didn't even question it. It was comforting to be vulnerable around him. To have someone to share my small world with. He was my best friend, but he was gone for a whole year, and things can change during a big stretch of time. I was stupid to think I'd get the same person back. "Ms Helvig," Professor Harrington greets me. She takes my test and sets it down on her desk. "If you need some time to-" "I don't. I'm fine," I reassure her. Her pity stings. I gather my things, wanting nothing more than to go back to my apartment and sleep for the rest of the day. "Omega bitch," someone growls as I make my way over to the exit. I pause and see an eraser on the desk beside me. Using my knee, I knock the table up and round-house kick the eraser at her. She turns back to look at me right on time, and I get her right in the center of her forehead. The class laughs at her when she stands up and screams. "I may be some omega bitch, but I can still end you. Then you'd be the stupid bitch that some omega nobody killed," I remind her. Her eyes are glowing amber with rage. I stand my ground, waiting for her to give me an excuse to beat the shit out of her. She stares at me long enough for it to be embarrassing for her. She takes a seat without saying another word. Some of the others laugh at her. I walk out satisfied. I slam against a brick wall, dropping all of my things. I look up to see a smirk aimed back at me. "Bullying the little girls, Little Omega?" he grins. "Some things never change, huh?" 6 It's been about three years since the last time I've been around the second crown prince of the Lycans. My grandmother used to bring him and his older brother here when the Lycan King and Queen were away on business. Ivar Axel is five years older than me and was best friends with my eldest brother, Gavin. Growing up, he and Gavin made it their life's purpose to infuriate me and my brother Oliver. "My prince," I step back and bow. "Don't even do that," he laughs. I smile at him and crouch down to pick up my things. "Are you okay?" Professor Harrington comes out of the classroom to check on me. I stand up, looking between the two of them. Ivar hands me my belongings. "I'm sorry for the interruption, Professor. I ran into an old friend. This is Ivar Axel. The second crown prince," I introduce him so that she can just go back inside and leave me the hell alone. Is everyone going to ask me if I'm okay? That's the last thing I need. Maybe leaving school early and having to work twice as hard in the upcoming term, so I'm not set back, isn't as bad as I think it might be. Then again, the perfectionist in me would riot. "My prince," she bows to him. She looks up at me. For a moment, she considers reaching for me, but she hesitates, then nods. "Be careful." "What was that?" Ivar laughs when she goes back into her classroom. "Don't ask," I shake my head. "It's been a long time, your highness." "I know. I'm sorry, but it's been a long two-" "Three years," I correct him. I was sixteen the last time I saw him. Not long after, I found out I was an omega. I chalked it up to the exact reason why everyone else pulled away. When others heard I didn't shift, they recoiled as if I had suddenly become contagious. "Shit, it's really been that long?" he laughs. "I'm going to the cafeteria for breakfast. Want to come?" "Lead the way. You know I love to eat." "What brings you to Artume City?" I ask. He takes a deep breath and lets out the heaviest sigh ever. I laugh at how dramatic he still is. That hasn't changed at all. "I got in trouble," he admits. "The night before a huge summit, I went out with some of the alphas in the North, and we got plastered. I didn't show, and Ragnar benched me for the rest of the year." "Ivar," I say his name, disappointedly. The alphas of the North are known for their wild parties. They're all a bunch of cowboys. "I know. I know," he shrugs. "But honestly, I don't even care. I'm tired. I hate politics, and my dad wants me to be beta. That means I'd have to walk beside Ragnar for the rest of my life, and I can't think of anything worse." "I thought you guys were close. Did something happen?" I ask. "Nah, I just hate how planned out his life is. He doesn't know how to have fun. He's devoted to sucking up to our dad and training to be the new Lycan King. I don't have that responsibility, and we have an amazing up-and-coming Beta. I don't see why he's pushing this so hard." "I can think of one thing. You'd be the King's most trusted. There would be no one better to watch his back than his own brother," I shrug. He takes two trays off the belt and hands me one. "Okay, when you put it like that, it makes me sound like I'm entitled," he smirks. "Just a little," I laugh. "So, what? You decided to come slum it with us civilians?" "Actually, I'm here on guard duty." "Oh yeah? Who?" I ask, interested. "You," he says. "Me?" I ask, glancing back at him as I reach for a slice of pizza. I snort as I take a few other items. "Why would I need guarding?" "You tell me. Major General Helvig set the order. My orders are to stay with you until your move to Blackstone. She didn't specify any details," he says, glancing at me as if I were hiding some grand secret. I grab a couple of drinks and get in line for the cash register. My stomach tightens as I play what he said over and over in my head. She couldn't make it, so she sent Ivar to make sure I made it back in one piece. Santiago is not going to like it one bit. Shit. "Ms Helvig," the girl at the register greets me kindly. "Hey, Steph," I say. "The two lunches, please." "Of course," she says and rings us up. We take a seat somewhere away from the big crowds. "Is there something you want to tell me?" he asks. I reach for my lemonade. The sleeve of my hoodie pulls up. I try not to make it evident that I'm hiding it, but I know he saw it. His playful demeanor instantly fades. He stares at me as I reach for my breakfast pizza slice and take a bite. What am I supposed to do in this situation? Lie? To the crown prince? And then what? I tell him the truth, and he confronts Santiago. This is not going to end well. "Some shit happened," I shrug it off. "Who did that to you?" he asks. "I mostly did it to myself," ugh. I just said that. "Did Santiago hurt you?" he asks, his voice low, and leans forward to hear my answer. I don't know how to answer him. I don't know how to explain what is happening to me. I'm scared. Anything I do or say will be evaluated. Santiago made a choice, and I wasn't it. Yet things aren't as black-and-white as that. He sits back without pushing it, and I feel like an idiot for feeling this relieved. "Can we talk about this later? Where are you staying?" I ask him. "At the Helvig Estate. There are instructions for you," he says, reaching into his jacket pocket. He places the envelope with the royal seal wax stamp on it. I wipe my hands and my mouth before reaching for it. There are envelopes—one for me and one for Santiago. I shut my eyes, already exhausted with where this is headed. I open my letter to see it written on the page. By order of Major General Zaraphine Helvig, Sophia Marie Anne Helvig is to return to the Helvig estate for the remainder of her school term to liquidate all Helvig properties and ensure the safety of all valuables so they may be returned to her in Blackstone. It's specified that no outsiders are to enter the house during this time to protect said valuables. It goes on to say that Ivar is here to ensure that everything listed is completed in accordance with the provided schedule. It's not only signed by my grandmother, but the Lycan King himself. If anyone were to question it, they would have to ask the two of them directly. "Fuck my life," I toss the envelope onto the other one. He'll know exactly what's going to happen when the term ends in three months. There will be no hiding it, even if I'm able to convince him for a while. We'll both know. I wonder if we're going to make it out of this. If anything will ever be okay again. "You promise to tell me what's going on when we get home?" he asks. "I'm going to have to keep him off you, aren't I?" "I'd like to think he's above that, but it's a probability," I whisper. "Okay," he nods, his expression softening. "I'll try not to kill him. Although I doubt my brother would hate it when I tell him I mistakenly started a war because someone is hurting you."

InactiveJun 29, 26 · 1d
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The queen bee of our school watched *Terrifier* and got this brilliant idea. She wanted to know what it felt like to be hunted by a real killer. Connor grew up on my block. He didn't hesitate. He grabbed a few guys from the locker room and knocked me out cold. They used fake blood and Halloween props. Turned me into a monster. Their little gift for Harper. "Relax. It's just a prank. She's tough. She'll be fine." "Besides, she does whatever I say. She'll play along." I woke up with my face painted into something unrecognizable. Industrial zip ties cut into my wrists and ankles. Silver duct tape sealed my mouth shut. Then they shoved me in front of Harper. She screamed. Then she grabbed a steel folding chair. The kind they stack in the auditorium for school assemblies. She swung it into me. Once. Twice. Three times. More than a dozen. My bones shattered. My face caved in. The last thing I heard through the fog was Connor's panicked voice. "It was a joke! Maya, stop faking it. Get up!" I didn't get up. I spent three months in the Memorial Hospital ICU. Machines kept me breathing. But I wasn't the same girl anymore. And Connor? He lost his mind completely. *** That afternoon, the AP Physics classroom buzzed with something electric. Harper, the most popular girl in school, had just finished watching the latest *Terrifier* reboot. She leaned against Connor's desk, all soft edges and calculated sweetness. She wore an expensive Ralph Lauren sweater. Her fingers twisted through blonde hair. Her voice dripped with that fake-helpless tone. Part pout. Part invitation. "Connor, I really want to know what it feels like. Being that scared. In real life." She paused. Something sharp flickered behind her eyes. "Those CGI effects are so boring. Zero adrenaline." Connor sat up. His quarterback's shoulders squared. The corner of his mouth curved into that familiar smirk. His I've-got-a-genius-idea look. "Easy. I got you." His eyes swept the room. They passed over every corner, every face. They landed on me without surprise. I was hunched over my physics problem set. The one for MIT early admission prep. My pen scratched across scratch paper. "Maya!" His voice cut through the room. "Get over here." I looked up. My fingers were numb from gripping the pen too long. I shook them out and stood. I always went when Connor called. Since we were kids. When he broke someone's bike and blamed me in grade school. When I wrote his history papers in high school. It was reflex now. Burned into my bones. "What's up?" I asked. I tightened my ponytail without thinking. Connor leaned back in his chair. His arm draped over Harper's seat. Casual. Possessive. It stung more than I wanted to admit. "Prank idea. You'll help us out. Super simple. Just dress up like a monster and scare someone." I frowned. I glanced at the binder on my desk. "I need to study. AP Physics mock exam tomorrow." "Jesus. Just a minute." He cut me off. His voice carried that entitled edge. Star athlete. Untouchable. "You've always had my back." The football guys in their varsity jackets piled on. Tyler banged the desk, laughing. "Come on, Maya. Don't be a buzzkill." "Connor asked you himself." Jackson chimed in. "It's a Halloween-level gag. What's it gonna cost you, ten minutes?" Harper's voice came next. Soft. Sugary. "Nerd girl, just help us out. I really want to experience it." She leaned into Connor's shoulder as she said it. I looked at Connor's face. That expectant look. Blue eyes I'd known since we played in the dirt together as kids. Eyes that didn't allow refusal. I nodded. Like I always did. I didn't know that nod would destroy every last hope I had of escaping this neighborhood.They told me they needed Hollywood-level special effects makeup. Told me to wait in the drama club prop room. "Go ahead. We'll grab the fake blood." Connor said it like it was no......

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I used to ask every new dialysis patient the same thing — "What was your A1C before your kidneys failed?" After 11,000 patients and the same answer every single time, I stopped asking. It was always "managed." It was always between 6.5 and 7.5. It was always someone who did everything their doctor told them to do. The chairs aren't full of people who ignored their blood sugar. They're full of people who trusted the wrong number. I need to tell you something I've been carrying for a long time. And I'm telling you now because last month I got my own prediabetes diagnosis — and I refuse to end up in one of my own chairs. I'm Sandra Keller. I've been a dialysis nurse for 14 years. Roughly 11,000 patients connected to machines. Let me tell you what that actually looks like — because most people only know the word. They don't know the room. Three days a week. Four hours a session. A needle goes into a fistula — a surgically created access point in the arm that leaves a scar most patients hide under long sleeves even in summer. The machine pulls their blood out, cleans it — does what their kidneys cannot anymore — and pushes it back in. For four hours. While they sit there. I've watched people cry during sessions — not from pain but from the weight of what their life became. I've watched a 61-year-old man read the same magazine in the waiting room every Tuesday and Thursday for three years while his wife was connected. I've watched patients stop traveling because they cannot miss a session. I've watched marriages buckle under the schedule. I've watched grandchildren learn to plan around Grandma's dialysis days — "we can't do Saturday, Grandma has her treatment." I've watched patients stop coming. And I know what that means. One of my long-term patients — a woman named Ruth, 63, three years in my unit — told me something I think about every single day. She said: "This isn't living. This is just not dying yet." And you know what every single one of them says when I ask how they got here? "I did everything right. My blood sugar was managed. Nobody told me my kidneys were dying." Every. Single. One. Last month I sat in my own doctor's office and heard the word "prediabetes" attached to my name. A1C: 6.4. Fasting glucose running 135 to 145. And here's the part that made my hands go cold — my creatinine had crept from 0.8 to 1.0 over ten months. My GFR — the number that tells you how well your kidneys are actually filtering — had dropped from 98 to 86. On paper, none of that is alarming. My doctor said "we'll keep an eye on it." But I've heard those exact words before. I've heard them from the charts of people who are now sitting in my chairs. I know what "keeping an eye on it" looks like from the other end. It looks like quarterly labs that document the decline in neat little rows while the kidneys quietly fall apart between appointments. I know what a creatinine of 1.0 looks like at the beginning. Because I've held the hands of people whose creatinine started at 1.0. And I felt something I'd never felt in 14 years of nursing — real, bone-deep terror. Not for my patients. For myself. Two weeks later, something happened that changed the direction of everything. A patient came into my unit for his session. Type 2 for twelve years. On dialysis for nineteen months. I'd known him the whole time. He pulled a bag out of his jacket and set it on the table next to his chair. "Sandra. Tell your people about this." I picked it up. Ceylon cinnamon. Concentrated extract. 7,200mg equivalent in MCT oil. Called Metabolae. "My brother-in-law started taking it four months ago. A1C was 7.2. Now it's 5.9. His kidneys haven't gone further down. He was headed where I am. Not anymore." He looked at me. "My brother-in-law is not sitting in one of these chairs. And he was supposed to be." I took the bag home that night. I did what I've done my whole career when something doesn't add up. I opened my laptop at 11:30 PM and started reading. Here is what I found. And here is the thing I should have learned years earlier. Your A1C measures one thing: the percentage of your red blood cells coated in glucose. It's a rolling 90-day average of how much sugar is floating in your blood. That is all it measures. It does not see what that sugar is doing while it circulates. It does not see the tiny capillaries threading through your kidney tissue. It does not see the small vessels feeding the nerves in your feet. It does not see the delicate blood supply behind your eyes. It sees the level of the flood. Not where the flood is going. A 6.4 can be called prediabetic and your kidney filters can still be quietly wearing down behind it. A 6.8 can be called "managed" and the decline keeps moving. Both things are completely true at the same time. Because the A1C is tracking the water level. Your kidneys are paying the price of the current underneath. This is what produces foam in your toilet. The tiny filters inside your kidneys — glomeruli — have been under sustained pressure from glucose circulating through their walls for years. They start to fail. Protein leaks out. It shows up in your urine as foam that sits there after you flush. That foam is not a warning sign that something might happen. It is evidence that something is already happening. Let me explain the mechanism underneath — because once you see it, you'll understand why "managed" doesn't mean "safe." Every cell in your body has tiny doors on its surface — protein transporters called GLUT4. Their job is to open up, grab glucose from the blood, and pull it inside the cell where it gets converted to energy. In a healthy body, insulin gives the signal, the doors open, glucose moves from blood into cell, and blood sugar comes down. In insulin resistance — the thing underneath type 2 diabetes — those doors stop responding. They're still there. They just stopped coming to the surface. Insulin gives the signal. Nothing happens. Your pancreas sends more insulin. Still nothing. The glucose has nowhere to go, so it stays in your blood and keeps circulating. Your cells are starving. Your blood is flooded. And the sugar floating through your bloodstream keeps passing through every small blood vessel in your body, hour after hour, year after year, wearing the walls down from the inside. Think of your kidneys like the finest mesh screen you've ever seen — millions of tiny filters. That excess sugar is like fine sand being forced through the mesh under pressure. Hour after hour. Day after day. Month after month. The mesh starts to tear. First it leaks a little protein — that foam. Then the tears get bigger. Then the filtration rate drops. Then the whole system starts to fail. Metformin slows the flow of sand a little. But the sand is still coming. And the mesh is still tearing. And the monitoring? The monitoring just measures how torn the mesh is getting. Nobody is stopping the sand. And it is not just the kidneys. That same sugar pileup strips the insulation off your nerves — that's why your feet burn and your hands tingle. It starves your brain of fuel — that's why the fog rolls in by 2pm and the words get lost. It wrecks the tiny blood vessels behind your eyes — that's why the floaters showed up. It locks your body in fat-storage mode — that's why the belly won't budge. It shatters your sleep — that's why you're up three times a night with a racing heart. And it damages the blood vessels responsible for intimacy — that's why that part of your life quietly disappeared and nobody connected it to blood sugar. All of it — kidneys, nerves, brain, eyes, sleep, weight, intimacy — traces back to the same closed doors. Your doctor monitors the headline number. The story underneath it is your organs falling apart. Now — your medications. Metformin works on the input side of this problem. It tells your liver to produce less glucose. It reduces the flood. That is a real, useful thing and your doctor is not wrong to prescribe it. But it does not touch the doors. The GLUT4 transporters are still not responding. The glucose that remains in your blood — even at a "managed" level — keeps circulating. Keeps passing through your kidney capillaries. Keeps grinding the mesh. Because the drug that reduced the flood did not open the drain. And here is what stopped me cold at 2 AM in my kitchen with 14 years of dialysis nursing behind me: The research on how to open those doors exists. It has been published. Peer-reviewed. Cited by the ADA's own journals. Sitting in databases that a 15-minute appointment leaves no time to read. There is a specific compound that triggers GLUT4 transporters directly. It bypasses the broken insulin signal entirely. It goes to the cell, speaks to the machinery inside it, and wakes the doors back up. A 2003 study in Diabetes Care — the ADA's own flagship journal — showed these compounds produced a 29% drop in fasting blood glucose. A study published in the Journal of the American College of Nutrition found that MHCP triggers the same internal chemical cascade that insulin is supposed to trigger, and was 20 times more effective at activating this pathway than any other natural compound tested. Twenty times. A second study in the Archives of Biochemistry and Biophysics confirmed that Ceylon extract physically increases the number of GLUT4 transporters at the cell surface. The doors do not just crack open. They multiply. A 2012 review in the Journal of Medicinal Food analyzed eight randomized controlled trials and found meaningful drops in both fasting glucose and A1C. Published. Replicated. Real. And in 14 years of working at the end of the road — watching thousands of patients get pulled into those chairs — not once had anyone put this in my hand. Not because doctors are hiding it. Because the pipeline that moves research from a journal into a treatment room runs on patent money. You cannot patent a plant. So no pharmaceutical company funds the trials that would land it on a sales representative's desk. No sales rep walks it into a primary care office. The studies stay in databases. The patients keep coming in with foam in their toilets and GFRs that drop another point each quarter. That is not your fault. You took the pills. You tracked the number. You kept every appointment. You were not failing the system. The system was only giving you half the answer and never telling you the other half existed. Now. You have probably tried cinnamon before. You sprinkled it on oatmeal. You found a bottle at the grocery store or on Amazon and took it faithfully for three months and watched your meter not move. I've watched patients bring supplement bottles to their dialysis sessions and ask me if they should keep taking them. I need you to understand exactly why most of them fail. They use the wrong plant. The cinnamon in your spice cabinet and in most capsules is Cassia. It looks the same. It smells similar. It is a completely different species with a completely different chemical makeup. At the doses required to move blood sugar, Cassia silently burdens your liver. The European Food Safety Authority documented that as little as a quarter teaspoon per day pushes daily coumarin intake past safe limits — and coumarin damages liver tissue at therapeutic doses. You were not taking the wrong amount. You were taking the wrong plant. True Ceylon cinnamon contains 250 times less coumarin. It is the only species appearing in the clinical research showing real metabolic results. They are catastrophically underdosed. Clinical trials used concentrated extract equivalent to 6,000 to 7,200mg daily. Most capsules contain 500 to 1,500mg of raw powder. That is not a small gap. That is the difference between a therapeutic dose and a decorative amount. They use the wrong delivery format. The active compounds in Ceylon — the ones that wake up GLUT4 transporters — are fat-soluble. Your cell walls are a double layer of fat molecules. Fat-soluble compounds need fat to pass through them. A dry powder capsule has no fat. So the compounds reach your gut, look for a fat carrier to cross the cell wall, find none, and pass straight through without ever reaching the cells that need them. Your cinnamon did not fail because cinnamon does not work. It failed because it was never delivered. The bag that my patient set down on the table next to his chair? He was taking Metabolae. True Ceylon cinnamon. Cinnamomum verum, sourced from a single estate in Sri Lanka's Central Province — the original home of true cinnamon, where the tree has been cultivated for over two thousand years. DNA-verified at the species level. An actual Certificate of Analysis, not a label claim. Dosed at 7,200mg equivalent per softgel. A 12:1 concentrated extract. The dosing range that corresponds directly to the published clinical trials. Suspended in MCT oil from coconuts. Not as a filler. As the delivery system — the fat bridge that carries the active compounds through your cell wall and into the cells where the GLUT4 transporters have been waiting for years to be told to surface. Third-party tested. GMP-certified. Every batch verified for purity, potency, and coumarin levels. Made in an FDA-registered facility. Zero fillers. I ordered a bag that night. Week 1, the fog lifted. Not managed — lifted. I finished a twelve-hour shift and still had thoughts left. My feet stopped aching after long days on the floor. I slept through the night for the first time in months. Week 2, my fasting readings — which had been running 135 to 145 — started showing up in the 110s. I checked three times the first morning I saw 108 because I didn't believe it. Week 4, the readings stabilized in the low 90s. Stable. Consistent. The kind of numbers I had not seen since before any of this started. Week 8, I pulled my own labs. Creatinine back to 0.8. GFR climbed from 86 to 91. Week 10, my doctor pulled up my full panel. A1C down from 6.4 to 5.4. Creatinine holding at 0.8. GFR at 94. Seven pounds gone without changing what I ate. She looked at the numbers. Looked at me. "What did you change?" I handed her the research I'd been reading at 11:30 PM for three weeks. She read for ten minutes. Closed the folder. "Your kidney function improved." I nodded. "Keep doing whatever you're doing." That patient who set the bag on the table? He's still on dialysis. That door closed for him a long time ago. But his brother-in-law — the one he told me about — came in with him to a follow-up visit two months later. I met him in the waiting room. A1C 5.9. Creatinine stable. GFR climbing. Not in a chair. Not going to be. He looked at me and said: "The drain opened." I've recommended Metabolae to eight patients now. Or to their family members in the monitoring window — the ones who still have a chance. Every single one has come back and reported the same pattern. Better sleep within the first week. Steady energy through the day. Lower fasting glucose within the first month. One woman — 58, A1C 6.9, protein spillage climbing for three years — came back at her 90-day follow-up with spillage down 45 percent. She cried when she told me the foam in her toilet was gone. Another patient's GFR went from 53 to 59 in four months. His nephrologist, who had been preparing him for the dialysis conversation, told him the trajectory had changed and asked what he had added. But the one I think about most is Ruth. I told her what I'd found. She looked at me with tears running down her face and said: "Tell everyone. Don't let them end up like me." That's why I'm writing this. If you are sitting in the monitoring window right now — if your A1C is between 6.0 and 7.5, if your doctor keeps saying "we'll keep an eye on it," if your creatinine is creeping up a tenth at a time, if your GFR is dropping a point or two each quarter, if there is foam in your toilet, if your feet tingle — try Metabolae risk-free. Ninety-day money-back guarantee. No questions asked. If your fasting glucose does not come down, if your kidney markers do not move, if you see no difference in 90 days, you pay nothing. The patients who see real movement in their kidney function are the ones who committed to at least three months. That is how long it takes to give your GFR a real chance to stabilize and shift. That is how long it takes to move A1C meaningfully. The 90-day guarantee means those three months cost you nothing if the numbers do not move. Here is what happens if they do. Your fasting glucose starts dropping between weeks 2 and 4. Your sleep improves within the first week — most people stop waking multiple times within 5 to 7 days. Your energy levels out through the day. And at your next lab draw — the one where your doctor has been saying "let's keep an eye on it" — she pauses. Looks at the numbers. Looks at you. Asks what you changed. You tell her. She uses a word you have not heard in years of appointments. "Improving." Not managed. Improving. The window stays open. The chair stays empty. One softgel daily with breakfast. That is the whole protocol. Metabolae is a small company sourcing verified Ceylon from a single estate in Sri Lanka's Central Province, testing every batch, using a fat-based delivery system that costs more to produce. When a batch sells out it waits on the next harvest. If you click and see out of stock, sign up for the notification. If it is available, order now. There is a promotion running currently. Three bottles at a significant discount — which is exactly the window for the kidney markers to actually move. If you are dealing with: Foam in the toilet that will not go away no matter how many times you flush. Tingling or burning in your feet that your doctor calls neuropathy. Fasting glucose that will not come below 130 no matter what you cut out. Creatinine climbing a tenth at a time every quarter. GFR dropping while your doctor "keeps an eye on it." An A1C your doctor calls "managed" or "prediabetic" while your body keeps sending signals that something is wrong. Give it 90 days. Track your fasting glucose every morning. Note your sleep, your energy, your feet. Go back for your next labs. If the numbers do not move, you get your money back. But if they do — if your kidney markers hold or climb, if the foam stops, if your doctor pauses over your labs and says the word you have been waiting to hear for years — you will understand why I now have a standing conversation with every patient who still has a chance to avoid my chairs. The doors are closed. The sand is still coming. But the window is still open. Don't let someone else tell your story with the words "I wish someone had told me sooner." I just did. Click below and get Metabolae while it is still available. ~ Sandra Keller, RN, Dialysis Unit, 14 years 👉 https://metabolae.com/products/ceylon-cinnamon-7200mg

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