The morning air is crisp, biting at my skin as I walk across the manicured courtyard of Blackwood Academy, but despite the wide-open sky, I feel like I'm suffocating.
The stone walls of the school seem to be leaning inward today, pressing against my lungs. I've spent the last few days trapped in a cycle of self-delusion, repeatedly convincing myself that the cold, professional distance between Killian and me is a massive victory.
I am the teacher; he is the student. The line is drawn in thick, permanent ink. I have reclaimed my safety. I have protected my secret.
I walk into the Literature classroom, my posture perfect and my expression carefully blank, like a fresh sheet of paper. I've practiced this walk in the mirror; shoulders back, chin level, eyes focused on nothing but the lesson plan in my hand.
I'm ready for another hour of the silent treatment. I'm ready to spend sixty minutes pretending that the magnetic pull in the room isn't trying to rip my heart out of my chest.
But the moment I cross the threshold, I realize that the battlefield has shifted.
The energy in the room is different. It's louder, brighter, and buzzing with a frantic kind of excitement that wasn't there yesterday. The students aren't slumping in their seats; they are leaning forward, whispering behind their hands and casting glances toward a new face sitting near the front of the room.
"Class, please take your seats," I say. My voice is steady, a practiced tool of authority, but it feels hollow in my own ears. "We have a new student joining our ranks today. I expect you all to make her feel welcome."
A girl stands up, and for a second, I actually forget how to breathe. It's as if the sun has suddenly decided to take a human form and sit in my second row. She is stunning; radiating the kind of polished, effortless wealth that only comes from centuries of undisturbed Alpha bloodlines.
Her hair is a shimmering, heavy waterfall of gold that catches the light from the tall windows, and her smile is confident, wide, and practiced, as if she already owns every person and every piece of furniture in the room.
"Seraphina Sterling," she introduces herself. Her voice is like silk, smooth and expensive, carrying the weight of a name that rings through the werewolf world like a bell. "My family just moved back from the coast to oversee the merger with the Blackwood territories."
The name Sterling carries almost as much weight as Blackwood. It's a name associated with ancient lands, massive fortunes, and a lineage so "pure" it makes my own forged papers feel like they're smoking in my briefcase. She isn't just an elite; she's royalty. She is the kind of girl the Council holds up as the gold standard of their species.
As she heads back toward her seat, she doesn't just sit down. She stops right in front of Killian's desk.
My heart stutters, skipping a beat and then racing to catch up. My pulse is a frantic drum in my ears. I expect him to give her that cold, unreadable stare he gives everyone else; the look that says he is bored of the world. I expect him to assert his space, to lean back and make her feel like an intruder in his kingdom.
Instead, Seraphina leans down, her movements fluid and comfortable, and wraps her slender arms around his neck in a familiar, intimate hug. It's the kind of hug that speaks of years of shared history, of childhood secrets and family dinners.
"Missed you, Killian," she chirps. Her voice carries easily through the silent, watching room, a bright splash of color in the gray atmosphere I've tried so hard to maintain.
My blood turns to ice. I stand frozen behind my podium, my fingers gripping the edges of the wood so hard the grain bites into my skin.
I wait for him to pull away. I wait for him to assert his dominance, to look at me with some kind of apology or recognition in his eyes that screams 'this isn't what it looks like.'
He does none of that.
Killian stays perfectly still, letting her linger in his space, his expression relaxed for the first time since I met him. He doesn't pull back. He doesn't look annoyed. He doesn't even glance toward the front of the room to see my reaction. He doesn't even glance at me. It's as if I've truly become the invisible machine I spent all morning trying to be.
"Alright," I snap, the sound sharper and louder than I intended. It cuts through the intimate moment like a whip. "That's enough. Let's begin the lecture."
I turn to the whiteboard, my hands trembling so badly I almost drop the marker. I have to focus. I have to be Ms. Moon. But as I stand with my back to the class, I can't stop my nose from twitching.
The scent of rain and cedar is still there; it's always there, but now it's tangled with something else. A floral, cloying, and incredibly expensive perfume. It's the scent of a Sterling, and it's marking her claim on him like a brand.
My wolf is pacing at the very edge of my consciousness, her fur bristling and her lips pulled back to reveal her teeth. She's snarling at the back of my mind, a visceral, jealous sound that vibrates through my throat.
I have to swallow hard to keep the growl from reaching the air. It's a physical battle to stay in control, to keep the teacher mask from shattering into a thousand jagged pieces.
I have to stand here and teach a lesson on the structure of romantic poetry while my soul is screaming to reach across the room and tear that girl away from the boy I'm supposed to be ignoring.
I am the one who wanted distance. I am the one who rejected him in the ballroom. I am the one who drew the line in the dirt.
The scent of Seraphina on Killian's jacket is a brand, a reminder that the world has a place for her at his side and a cage for me in the shadows.
The professional distance I fought so hard for doesn't feel like a victory. It feels like a prison I built with my own hands, and through the bars, I have to watch someone else claim the only thing that makes my wolf feel alive.