Three days at Crescent Ridge High, and I've already claimed my throne.
Blake Morrison sits beside me at what's apparently been the "popular table" since the dawn of time, his arm draped casually over the back of my chair like he owns me.
"So then Coach actually made us run suicides for an hour because Peterson couldn't hit a free throw to save his life," Blake says, stabbing his mystery meat with unnecessary violence.
The gaggle of girls across from us—his usual admirers—laugh like he's performing stand-up comedy. I force a smile and take a bite of my salad, watching the social dynamics play out like a nature documentary. The alpha male holds court while his subjects compete for scraps of attention.
"That's hilarious," I murmur, though it really isn't.
"You should come to the game Friday," Blake continues. "We're playing against Lincoln High. Should be a massacre."
"I wouldn't miss it."
A sharp laugh cuts through the cafeteria noise. I turn to see a girl with perfectly styled auburn hair and enough makeup to stock a Sephora approaching our table.
"Blake, honey," she purrs, sliding into the seat across from him. "Aren't you going to introduce me to your new friend?"
Blake's jaw tightens. "Macy, this is Scarlett. Scarlett, Macy Henderson."
Henderson. Like the dragon lady in the office. Must be a family trait.
"Macy was..." Blake starts.
"We dated for two years," Macy interrupts, her eyes never leaving mine. "Until recently."
The territorial challenge hangs in the air like smoke. I can practically smell her jealousy, sharp and bitter. My wolf wants to bare its teeth, but I keep my expression neutral.
"That's nice," I say, my voice honey-sweet. "How... quaint."
Macy's smile falters for just a second. "So where did you transfer from? Blake mentioned you're from out of state."
"Ashland."
"What brings you to our little town?"
"Change of scenery." I lean back in my chair, deliberately casual. "Need a fresh start."
"Hmm." Macy's gaze flicks to Blake, then back to me. "Well, I hope you find what you're looking for."
Before I can respond, the bell rings. Blake stands, offering me his hand. "Come on, I'll walk you to class."
As we leave the cafeteria, I catch Macy's glare burning into my back. Luna always said the hardest battles are fought between women, and Macy Henderson just declared war.
Fourth period is Biology with Mr. Kim, a nervous little man who keeps adjusting his tie like it's strangling him.
By now, everyone knows I'm Blake's new girl, which automatically makes me either an object of worship or hatred.
"Today we're discussing predator-prey relationships," Mr. Kim announces, pulling down a chart covered in food webs. "Can anyone give me an example of an apex predator?"
Several hands shoot up. I don't bother raising mine.
"Great white sharks," someone calls out.
"Excellent. What makes them apex predators?"
"They're at the top of the food chain," a girl with braided hair answers. "Nothing hunts them."
"Precisely. They've evolved to be perfectly adapted to their environment. No natural enemies, superior senses, overwhelming physical advantages."
If only they knew they were sitting next to one.
The lesson drones on, but I'm distracted by a strange scent in the air. Something wild and earthy, like pine forests and moonlight. My wolf stirs restlessly, and I have to grip the edge of my desk to keep from shifting right here in class.
What the hell?
I scan the room, trying to identify the source, but everyone looks perfectly normal. Boring suburban teenagers discussing marine biology like it's the most fascinating thing in the world.
The scent grows stronger.
After school, I find myself in the gymnasium. Blake invited me to watch basketball practice, claiming it would give me a chance to "see the real Crescent Ridge High experience." What he really means is he wants to show off in front of his new girlfriend.
The gym smells like sweat, rubber, and teenage desperation. Blake's already changed into his practice uniform, and I have to admit he looks good. Tall, muscular, confident. Everything I've been conditioned to want in a mate.
"Jackson!" The coach, a red-faced man with the build of a former athlete gone to seed—blows his whistle. "Morrison, get your girlfriend off my court!"
"She's fine, Coach," Blake calls back, jogging over to me. "She's just watching."
"This isn't a social club! Either she's here to work or she's gone!"
"I can handle myself," I say, loud enough for the whole team to hear.
Coach Martinez looks me up and down, taking in my leather jacket and designer jeans. "You play ball, princess?"
"I play a lot of things."
A few of the players snicker. Blake shifts uncomfortably beside me.
"Tell you what," Coach says, grabbing a basketball from the rack. "Make this shot, and you can stay. Miss it, and you find somewhere else to spend your afternoon."
He tosses me the ball. It's heavier than I expected, worn smooth by thousands of hands. I dribble once, testing the weight, then look up at the hoop.
Piece of cake.
I shoot from half-court, putting just enough supernatural strength behind it to make the shot impressive but not impossible. The ball arcs through the air in a perfect parabola and drops through the net with a satisfying swish.
The gym falls silent.
"Lucky shot," someone mutters.
"Do it again," Coach challenges.
I retrieve the ball and sink another shot from the same spot. Then another. The third one I make from the three-point line behind my back, just to make a point.
"Jesus," Blake breathes.
Coach Martinez stares at me for a long moment. "You ever consider trying out for the women's team?"
"I don't really do team sports."
"Your loss. All right, ladies, let's get back to work!"
The practice resumes, but I can feel eyes on me from every direction.
A few of the other players whisper among themselves, probably wondering where the new girl learned to shoot like that.
I settle onto the bleachers, pulling out my phone to look busy while keeping one eye on the court. That's when I notice him.
A skinny kid hunched over a laptop near the scorer's table, frantically typing while watching the scrimmage.
This must be the team statistician Blake mentioned. The guy who tracks every shot, every assist, every mistake in obsessive detail.
As if sensing my attention, he glances up from his screen. Our eyes meet across the gym, and the world tilts sideways.
Heat explodes through my chest like I've been struck by lightning.
No.
The kid freezes like a deer in headlights. His laptop slides off his lap, clattering to the floor and sending stat sheets flying everywhere. He scrambles to collect them, his face flushing red, but his eyes keep darting back to mine.
"Way to go, Professor Calculator!" Blake calls out, laughing as he jogs past. "Maybe try not to destroy the equipment!"
A few other players chuckle.
I want to go to him. The urge is so strong it's almost physical, like an invisible rope pulling me across the gym. My wolf is practically clawing at my chest, desperate to get closer to him.
This cannot be happening.
I force myself to look away, gripping the edge of the bleacher until my knuckles turn white. This guy is not my mate. He can't be. He's everything I've been trained to despise—weak, awkward, invisible.
My mate is supposed to be someone like Blake. Strong, confident, alpha material. Not some statistics-obsessed nerd who can't even hold onto his laptop.
But when I risk another glance, Danny is watching me again. And the heat in my chest flares so bright I'm surprised the whole gym doesn't burst into flames.
"You okay?" Blake appears beside me, sweat dripping from his forehead. "You look flushed."
"I'm fine." My voice comes out rougher than intended. "Just warm in here."
"Coach has the heat cranked up too high. Always does." He follows my gaze to where Danny is now frantically typing, trying to catch up on whatever stats he missed during his laptop disaster. "Don't mind Danny. Kid's harmless. Brain like a computer."
"He's on the team?"
"Technically. He keeps track of all our stats, breaks down game film, that sort of thing. Coach says he's the best analyst he's ever had, but honestly?" Blake shrugs. "I think he just feels sorry for the guy."
"I should get going," I say, standing abruptly. "I have homework."
"I'll walk you to your car."
"That's okay. I need to stop by my locker first."
Blake looks disappointed but doesn't push. "I'll call you tonight?"
"Sure."
I practically flee the gymnasium, my heart hammering against my ribs. In the hallway, I lean against the lockers and try to catch my breath.
This is not happening. The Moon Goddess would not be cruel enough to saddle me with a mate who looks like a strong wind could knock him over. I'm destined for greatness, not... whatever that was.