The Alpha's Unwanted Mate

The August sun slammed into the brick walk like a fist, and the air over Celestia Prep's South Campus quad rippled like hot glass. I hunched under the weight of two duffels and a backpack that smelled faintly of the cedar closet it had lived in since eighth-grade camp. Orientation pamphlets called the quad "historic," but right now it looked like a kiln with grass. Somewhere beyond the sweating maples, Hawthorne Hall waited--my new cage, my launchpad, and my whatever. I just needed the key.

"Outta my way, speckles!"

The bark came from behind, low and amused. I pivoted too late; a body brushed past, all shoulders and careless energy. My specs--jam-jar lenses, Mom's phrase--slid down my nose; sweat made the plastic slick. The guy didn't break stride, but a girl trailing him muttered, "Sorry, Your Highness."

Your Highness?

The nickname clung to the air like gnats. I must've said it aloud, because the shoulder-guy glanced back. Sunlight carved a white grin across a face that knew every mirror on the planet. "You okay?" he asked, tone half-laugh, half-genuine.

I resettled the duffel strap digging into my collarbone. "Peachy."

He angled toward me, curiosity flickering. "Need help with your stuff?"

The offer startled me more than the collision. At Eastbridge High I'd been the human pack mule; no one ever volunteered. "Yes, sure," I said before pride could slam the gate.

He relieved me of the larger duffel as if it weighed the same as his empty smile. "Were you headed to pick up your dorm key?"

"That obvious?"

"Only freshmen carry their entire childhood on their backs." He freed a hand. "I'm Leo, junior RA for Hawthorne Hall."

"Ivy," I said, wiping sweaty fingers on my jeans before accepting the handshake. His grip was firm, warm, gone too soon.

Leo flicked a glance at the paper schedule sticking out of my pocket. "Close--you're eighteen, right?"

"Nineteen, actually. Gap year fixing my mom's roof."

"Respect." He tipped his head. "Pre-med track?"

"Yep, hoping for--" I stopped myself before admitting I'd never seen a doctor who looked like me in rural Fairhaven and I wanted to change that statistic. "Hoping I survive chemistry," I amended.

"Chem's a beast," he agreed, steering us past a fountain where upperclassmen lounged like lizards. "But Hawthorne's got a study coven that basically levitates through the periodic table."

Coven. Cute. Celestia loved its witchy lore; the brochure bragged about "Nightshade Circle" scholarships. I'd rolled my eyes then; now I wondered if the Circle met in the basement with candles and discounted cadavers.

We rounded a hedge shaped like a phoenix and the residence hall appeared: red brick, iron balconies, gargoyles mid-squat. Gothic chic, Instagram-ready. My stomach fluttered--equal parts dread and adrenaline.

"Here we are," Leo announced. "Main entrance. ID, please."

I fumbled for the laminated card still warm from the printer. My photo scowled under unflattering fluorescence. Leo scanned it with a handheld wand that beeped like a heart monitor. "Welcome to Hawthorne, Ivy Blackwood. Floor two, room 204. No roommate--lucky."

Lucky meant solitary, meant nights with no one to nudge when nightmares hit. I forced a nod. "Elevator?"

"Broken until October. Stairs are character-building." He started up the wide oak steps two at a time. I followed, thighs already burning. Portraits of stern donors glared down, their oil-paint eyes tracking the speckled freshman wheezing behind the golden RA.

On the second-floor landing Leo produced a brass key, antique enough to belong in a museum. "Tradition," he said, noting my raised brow. "President Hawthorne believed modern keycards lacked soul." He paused. "One rule: don't duplicate it. Lost keys mean lock changes and a very cranky facilities gnome."

"Understood." I accepted the key; its teeth bit cold into my palm. "Thanks… for the carry, the directions, everything."

He shrugged like kindness cost him nothing. "RA duty. Plus, you looked ready to collapse. Orientation picnic starts at six--South quad. Free farro salad and honey-sriracha tofu." He started away, then pivoted. "Ivy."

"Yeah?"

"Your specs--they're reflective. Great for laser tag if Hawthorne ever hosts." He winked, jogged down the stairs, and disappeared.

I exhaled, unsure if I'd been complimented or recruited. The hallway smelled of lemon polish and something older--dust, secrets, maybe both. Room 204 waited at the end, doorframe scratched with initials of students who'd paced here since 1892. I slid the key home; the lock sighed like it had been holding its breath.

Inside, late-afternoon light pooled across plank floors. Two beds, only one mattress. A cube cooler hummed under the window. The desk stretched beneath a corkboard already pinned with a Hawthorne Hall survival guide: "1. No candles. 2. No hotplates. 3. No unauthorized experiments." Someone had scrawled under #3: "Define unauthorized."

I dropped the duffels, and opened the window. Heat rushed out; cooler air slipped in, carrying the smell of cut grass and distant barbecue. Campus bells chimed the half hour--five thirty. Unpack or explore? My stomach voted "explore"; the rest of me felt like overcooked noodles.

I peeled off the sweaty T-shirt, rummaged for a tank, and caught my reflection in the wardrobe mirror: curly black hair frizzed into a halo, skin shiny, shoulders already pink. Mom's voice floated up: "You're a Blackwood, Ivy. We don't burn, we endure." Easy for her to say--she'd never left the county.

A soft knock. I yanked the tank on. "Come in."

The door cracked; a girl with teal-streaked braids peeked. "Hey, neighbor. I'm Zoe, 206." She brandished a basket of mini-shampoos. "Bribe for borrowing your micro-fridge outlet tomorrow. My straightener nukes the circuit."

I laughed, surprised at how quickly the sound surfaced. "Deal. I'm Ivy."

"Freshman?"

"Obvious?"

"Only people who laugh at outlet politics are freshmen or theater majors." She stepped inside, eyes sweeping the empty half of the room. "No roommate? Score. Mine hums show tunes in her sleep."

"Could be worse," I said. "Could hum anatomy terms."

Zoe grimaced. "Pre-med?"

"Guilty."

"Condolences." She backed out. "Picnic soon. Walk together?"

"Sure. Ten minutes?"

"Make it five. The field hockey team inhales tofu like locusts." She vanished, door clicking shut.

I used the remaining minutes to hang two dresses--one crimson, one the color of storm clouds--and line my sneakers beneath the bed. The cube cooler revealed two bottles of sparkling water and a note: "Compliments of Hawthorne. Hydrate or die-drate." I drank half, pressed the cold glass to my neck, and watched the sky bruise toward evening.

South quad sprawled beyond a stone archway. Paper lanterns bobbed overhead like low stars. Students zigzagged between tables, with arms loaded with biodegradable plates. A blues quartet jammed near a giant oak, saxophone curling through humid air. I filled my plate with farro, grilled peaches, and a slab of tofu glazed gold. Zoe added a brownie the size of a coaster.

We claimed a patch of grass. Dusk painted everything violet--my name felt prophetic. Across the lawn a group performed what looked like interpretive yoga. Beside them, guys tossed glowing discs that left neon trails.

"PSI orientation starts tomorrow," Zoe said, with mouth full. "Psych, right?"

"Honor Path trials," I corrected. "Pre-med gets its own special torture."

"Ah, the infamous Honor Path." She licked spicy drizzle from her thumb. "Rumor says they blindfold you and make you diagnose plants."

"Hope they're allergic to whining."

A shadow fell over us. Leo, plate balanced in one hand, gestured to the empty space. "Mind if I crash?"

Zoe's brows shot up. "RA royalty? Be my guest."

He folded gracefully, cross-legged, and the conversation paused like a skipped record. I studied his profile: sharp cheekbones, lashes unfairly long, sun-bleached curls skimming his collar. A thin scar cut through his left eyebrow--white lightning against tan skin.

"So," he began, "Ivy, Zoe--what's your restoration gift?"

The phrase startled me. "My what?"

"Restoration gift," he repeated, then caught my blank stare. "Healing Arts 101? Everyone on the Honor Path has one--some knack for fixing what's broken. Mine's lame: I can reset dislocated fingers." He wiggled his index like evidence.

Zoe snorted. "I can reset Wi-Fi routers. Does that count?"

I swallowed a laugh, but unease prickled. No one had mentioned gifts in the acceptance packet--just rigorous science, cadaver lab, clinical rotations. "I don't think I have one," I said.

Leo's gaze softened. "You will. They surface under stress. Last year a guy coughed up a glowing lozenge that healed his roommate's asthma." He said it so casually that I almost believed him.

Before I could ask if glowing lozenges were FDA-approved, a commotion erupted near the oak. A girl in a flowing kimono clutched her throat, face reddening. People backed away, uncertain. My own pulse spiked; instinct shoved me to my feet.

"She's choking," I said.

Leo rose beside me. "You certified?"

"Lifeguard," I muttered, already moving. The girl's eyes bulged, fingers clawing at nothing. I slipped behind her, planted my fist above her navel, and thrust upward. One, two--on the third jerk a chunk of peach shot free and arced into the grass. She gasped, tears streaming.

Applause scattered. Someone shouted, "Call EMS!" but the girl waved weakly, gulping air. I guided her to sitting, my own legs trembling. Leo knelt, checking her pulse. "Steady. You're okay."

The girl clutched my hand. "Thank you," she rasped.

I managed a nod, adrenaline buzzing in my ears like static. Zoe appeared with a bottle of water. The crowd loosened, chatter resuming, crisis already folding into anecdote.

Leo studied me, with something new in his expression. "Looks like your gift showed up early."

"Basic first aid," I said, with voice thin.

"Still. You acted before anyone else." He smiled, smaller this time, and almost private. "Hawthorne could use more of that."

The bells tolled eight. Staff began packing tables. Leo excused himself to help, leaving Zoe and me under darkening sky. She bumped my shoulder. "You're shaking."

"I hate emergencies," I admitted. "Always have."

"Yet you ran straight in."

I had no reply. My hands felt foreign, pulsing with leftover urgency. Overhead, the first star appeared, indifferent and bright. Somewhere in the distance, Leo laughed at something a sophomore said, with the sound bright as breaking glass.

Zoe stood, brushing grass from her jeans. "Come on, hero. Let's raid the vending machines before curfew."

I followed, with the key heavy in my pocket, mind replaying the moment my arms knew what to do before my brain caught up. Restoration gift. Maybe it wasn't about glowing orbs or magic lozenges. Maybe it was simpler: see hurt, move toward it, try to fix.

Back in room 204, I flicked on the desk lamp. Its pool of light felt like a stage. I pinned the orientation schedule to the corkboard, then added a new note beside it: "Define unauthorized." Underneath, I scribbled: "Define gift."

Sleep took its time. Every creak of the old building sounded like a footstep. Around midnight wind rattled the panes, and I rose to close the window. Across the quad, a single light burned in Hawthorne's top floor--RA quarters, probably Leo drafting incident reports. I wondered if he'd mentioned the choking girl, if my name would appear in official paperwork: "Ivy Blackwood, freshman, intervened." The idea both thrilled and terrified.

I crawled back under the sheet, pulse slowing. Just before dreams dragged me under, I thought I felt a warmth settle in my chest--not glowing, not magical, just steady. A hum that said: "You are here, you are able, and you can move."

Tomorrow the Honor Path trials would begin, whatever they were. Tonight, I was a speckled girl with a brass key and a body that remembered how to save. It was enough.

Outside, the gargoyles kept their stone vigil, and the campus exhaled, and somewhere in the dark Leo Ashford locked up, and Ivy Blackwood, nineteen, pre-med, formerly of Fairhaven, let the new world hold her weight while she slept.

"Next!"

The word cracked like a starter pistol in the marble corridor of Hawthorne Hall. I shuffled forward, my sneakers squeaking on the waxed floor, and clutched the manila envelope that held every important form I'd filled out in triplicate. My mother had laminated the checklist. My father had kissed the top of my head and whispered, "Go write your own legend, Ivy." I'd rolled my eyes then, but the words buzzed inside me now like trapped bees.

"Ivy Blackwood, freshman from Fairhaven," the clerk barked without looking up. Her voice had the same bored efficiency as the airport security guard who once confiscated my peanut-butter jar. She snapped her gum, fingers hovering over a keyboard sticker-bombed with tiny silver stars. I wondered if she'd placed every one of them herself, or if they multiplied at night when the lights went out.

"I'm really honored to--" I began, meaning to say how honored I was to finally stand here, with eighteen years of suburban daydreams condensing into this single fluorescent moment.

The woman cut me off with a raised eyebrow that could have sliced bread. "Room number?"

My mouth dried. "Sorry, I--" I'd memorized it on the train, but the digits had scrambled like eggs in a hot pan. I swallowed. "Two-zero-four?" It came out a question, as though I were guessing my own address.

"It's fine." She slid a keycard across the counter. The photo on her monitor showed a girl with my face but smoother skin and zero panic. "I'm Miriam, your floor mentor. Third door on the left, pastel mural that looks like a unicorn sneezed. Knock if you need bail money or a tampon."

"Thanks." I pocketed the keycard next to my phone. The plastic felt warm, alive, like it might pulse in sync with my heart.

Behind me the line kept moving--duffels thudding, parents fake-laughing, goodbyes stretching like taffy. I stepped aside and almost collided with a boy balancing a neon-green cube cooler on one shoulder. He winked, the kind of wink that knew it was charming. I pretended not to notice and speed-walked toward the elevator.

The lobby smelled of eucalyptus disinfectant and new paint, with the walls a relentless school-spirit crimson. Someone had hung a vinyl banner: WELCOME CELESTIA CLASS OF 27--YOUR STORY STARTS NOW! The exclamation point looked aggressive. I pictured it chasing me down the hallway, demanding enthusiasm I hadn't earned yet.

"Am I interrupting?" a voice asked behind me.

I spun. Miriam again, now wearing heart-shaped sunglasses even though we were indoors. She held two lanyards--one pink, one black--like a magician offering a choice that would determine my destiny.

"Nope," I said, though I had no idea what she might be interrupting. My life felt like one long ellipsis waiting for the noun.

She handed me the black lanyard. "Good. Roommate's already inside. Try not to let her reorganize your soul the first hour; she's efficient."

"Who?" I asked, because the housing portal had only listed one name: Jade Morales. Beneath it, in parentheses: (Honor Path athlete, prefers quiet after 10 p.m.). The parentheses had felt ominous.

Miriam's lipstick curved. "Our roommate, Jade? The quarterback's ex?" She air-quoted 'quarterback' as though the position were fictional. "She trades up fast, so lock your heart or risk it becoming collateral damage."

My heart hammered--excitement, terror, a drum solo I hadn't rehearsed. This was the dream I'd sketched in my journal since seventh grade: the dorm staircase spiraling like a nautilus, the bulletin boards layered with vintage concert flyers, the faint smell of coffee drifting from someone's illegal hot plate. Today the first blank page of the new chapter. I could already see tomorrow's entry: "Moved in. Survived. Didn't cry until the lights were off."

I thanked Miriam again and boarded the elevator. Its doors closed with a sigh that sounded almost human. Floor two. My reflection stared back: flyaway red curls, freckles like cinnamon shaken too liberally, specs slipping down my nose--jam-jar lenses that magnified my eyes into startled saucers. I adjusted them and watched my reflection do the same, a fraction of a second delayed, as though she knew something I didn't.

The hallway carpet was patterned with tiny gold stars that hurtled past under my feet like hyperspace. Room 204 waited at the end, door ajar, indie-rock bass leaking through the gap. I raised my hand to knock, but the door swung inward before I touched it.

Inside, sunlight poured through tall windows onto two beds--one already made with hospital corners, the other naked mattress striped with plastic. A girl in ripped black jeans and a cropped hoodie stood at the mini-fridge, loading organic energy drinks like ammunition. Her hair was the color of midnight dye jobs--so dark it looked wet--and she moved with the economical grace of someone who'd been told since birth that time was money.

"You must be Ivy." She didn't glance up. "I claimed the left side. Hope you're not allergic to monastic minimalism."

"Left is perfect," I said, though I'd imagined choosing after a polite coin toss, maybe bonding over mutual indecision. I stepped over a tower of textbooks--"Healing Arts 101, Advanced Restoration Theory, Ethics of the Empathic Gift"--and felt the room tilt. These were Honor Path volumes. I'd ogled them online, but seeing them in the wild made my palms sweat.

She straightened, finally looking at me. Her eyes were storm-cloud gray, ringed with liner sharp enough to sign legal documents. "I'm Jade. Before you ask--yes, that Jade. No, I don't want to talk about Leo Ashford. Yes, I can get you into the Delta house party, but you'll owe me a favor and I collect like a loan shark." She said it all in one breath, as though reciting a terms-of-service agreement.

I laughed--an involuntary hiccup of nerves--and stuck out my hand. "Nice to meet you, too."

She stared at my extended hand until I lowered it, then offered a fist bump instead. Her knuckles were scraped. "Field hockey," she explained. "Pre-season starts tomorrow. Coach says if I break anything else she'll make me learn the routines left-handed."

I set my duffel on the bare mattress. The plastic crackled like a fire taking its first bite of wood. "I've never broken a bone," I offered, fishing for common ground.

"Keep it that way," she said. "Healing practicum gets messy. Last year a sophomore passed out at the sight of a compound fracture and face-planted into the injury. Two broken noses for the price of one."

I unpacked mechanically: three pairs of jeans, five graphic tees, one dress my mom insisted would 'come in handy,' a hoodie stolen from my older brother that still smelled like his pine cologne. Jade watched with the intensity of a quality-control inspector. When I pulled out a framed photo--my little sister Grace missing her two front teeth, grinning around a popsicle--Jade's expression softened for half a second, then rebooted to neutral.

"Cute kid," she said. "She's sick?"

"No, just… home." I placed the frame on the desk beside a tiny cactus named Professor Prickles. "She made me promise to send daily selfies so she can photoshop me into family dinner."

Jade snorted. "Better than my family. Mom sent me a spreadsheet of potential majors ranked by ROI. Top row: pre-law, pre-med, pre-nuptial." She tossed me an energy drink. "Catch."

I fumbled it; the can hissed against my palm, cold and vaguely accusatory. "Thanks."

We cracked our drinks in synchronized silence. Mine tasted like carbonated watermelon and regret. Outside, someone shrieked--laughter or terror, impossible to tell. A door slammed. The building breathed around us, a living organism digesting four hundred teenagers' worth of anxiety.

I knelt to plug in my desk lamp, and that's when the world tilted off its axis. A shoulder slammed me sideways--hard, deliberate, freight-train solid. My specs flew off; panic spiked hot and metallic in my throat. Colors blurred into Monet smears. I dropped to all fours, hands sweeping the carpet, heart drumming triple-time.

"No, no!" I whispered, with eyes squeezed shut. Without my glasses I was legally blind, a mole person blinking at the sun. The frames had cost three weeks of babysitting money; the lenses were custom-ground to correct my wonky astigmatism. I imagined them shattered, tiny shards embedding in unsuspecting bare feet, and nausea surged.

Laughter echoed--male, baritone, too far to pinpoint. A sneaker scuffed. Then silence, cruel and complete.

"Ivy?" Jade's voice came closer, softer than before. "You okay?"

I forced my eyes open. Shapes sharpened: Jade crouched, holding my specs by one arm. The left lens was spider-web cracked, but intact. She extended them like fragile evidence.

"Someone was here," I said, voice shaking. "They just--rammed me and left."

Jade straightened, scanning the hallway. Her jaw tightened. "Describe them."

"I didn't see. Everything's blur." I accepted the glasses; the crack bisected my left eye like a lightning bolt. My reflection looked bifurcated, half me, half stranger.

Jade stepped into the corridor. "Coward!" she yelled. The word ricocheted off walls, unanswered. She came back, shutting the door with deliberate care. "Campus is huge. Could be anyone hazing freshmen for sport." She paused. "Or someone sending a message."

"To me?" The idea felt narcissistic and terrifying in equal measure.

"To us." She tapped her phone screen, thumbs flying. "I'm texting Leo. He owes me a favor bigger than Jupiter. If this is Delta house idiocy, he'll sniff it out."

I wanted to ask why the quarterback's ex would still hold leverage, but the question tangled in my throat. Instead I sat on my bed, cradling my wounded specs. The cracked lens caught the light, fracturing it into tiny rainbows that danced across my notebook--empty pages waiting for today's entry. I reached for a pen, hand trembling, and wrote: "Day One. Moved in. Survived. Glasses broken. Mystery shoulder. Do not cry until lights off."

Jade watched, arms crossed. "We'll get them fixed. Campus optician's open tomorrow. Student discount if you bat your eyelashes hard enough." She hesitated, then added, "And we'll find who did it. Hawthorne Hall doesn't tolerate bullies. Mentor's code."

I nodded, with gratitude swelling despite the ache behind my eyes. The room felt smaller now, a fortress under siege. Somewhere outside, footsteps receded--one pair or many, I couldn't tell. The building held its breath with me.

Jade cracked another energy drink and handed it over. "To roommates," she said. "And to war."

We clinked cans. The fizz sounded like distant thunder. I drank, tasting watermelon and something sharper--resolve, maybe, or the first bitter swallow of a story I hadn't planned to write.

The after-images still pulsed behind my eyelids like dying fireworks--shards of tomorrow that refused to stay buried. I pressed my palms to my temples, counting heartbeats until the tremor in my knees eased. Stay, the administration had ruled. As if "stay" could muzzle the glimpses that barged in at 3 a.m. and turned my dreams into riot footage.

I sucked in the salt-sweet Fairhaven air and forced myself to move. Suitcases first, sanity later.

The aluminum handle of the bigger case bit into my palm. I yanked; it snagged on the curb. One wheel spun uselessly, the plastic cracked in yesterday's airport melee. Perfect. I was one busted suitcase away from a country song.

"Got em!" I whispered, fingers finally closing around the warped frame. The case lurched free--and smacked straight into a pair of running shoes that hadn't been there a second ago.

Momentum flipped me forward. Asphalt rushed up. I flung an arm out, bracing for road rash, but a hand clamped my elbow mid-fall and jerked me upright. My glasses skated down my nose; the world blurred into watercolor streaks.

Through the smear I caught him: blue hoodie, shoulders broad enough to cast their own shadow, dark hair curled against the collar. He'd been the one who'd bumped me outside Hawthorne Hall ten minutes ago, muttering an apology without slowing. Now here he was again, same guy, same sweatshirt, same electric jolt racing up my forearm where his skin touched mine.

A glimpse slammed against the inside of my skul--night sky, stadium lights, the hollow crack of helmets colliding. Then Leo's voice shouting my name across a field of painted grass. The vision snapped shut as fast as it opened, leaving copper on my tongue.

Hoodie Guy looked back once. Eyes the color of winter ocean locked on mine--panic, recognition, something else I couldn't read--then he bolted toward the curb where my second suitcase was rolling, rebellious and driverless, straight into traffic.

Tires squealed. A delivery van swerved. He vaulted the gutter, scooped the case like a fumbled football, and spun back. The driver laid on the horn; a cyclist yelled. Hoodie Guy didn't flinch, just strode toward me, with suitcase in tow, expression carved from granite.

Flustered didn't cover it. My pulse jack-hammered; my ribs shrank two sizes. I accepted his outstretched hand, skin still buzzing from the earlier contact. Up close he smelled of eucalyptus and jet fuel, an odd mix that made my stomach swoop.

"Thanks," I managed.

The granite cracked into a grin bright enough to power the whole campus grid. "No pavement face-plant on my watch."

California dripped off him--sun-bleached hair, freckles across the bridge of his nose, the laid-back vowels that turned "watch" into "waaaaatch." He could've stepped off a Venice Beach billboard selling coconut water or abs or both.

I realized I was still holding his hand. I let go; my fingers felt cold immediately.

"Can you only say 'yes' ?" he teased, head tilted.

"Ye--I mean no," I stammered, with cheeks igniting. Brilliant, Ivy. Demonstrate vocabulary range.

His grin widened, but before he could reply, a whistle shrilled across South Campus quad. A stocky figure in a Pacific State windbreaker waved him over. Coach, judging by the clipboard and the scowl.

"Gotta run," he said, backing away. "See you around, Specs."

Specs. Great. First day and I'd already been nicknamed for the jam-jar lenses my guardian swore made me "inconspicuous." I watched Blue Hoodie jog off, muscles moving like well-oiled pulleys, then shook myself. Priorities: find dorm, hide luggage, suppress supernatural freakery. Easy.

I wheeled the rescued case toward Langford Hall. The cracked one wobbled, clacking like a broken shopping cart. Students streamed around me, laughter bouncing off stone façades. Nobody else's suitcases seemed hell-bent on escape. Then again, nobody else's guardian had packed them at 5 a.m. while muttering "blend in" like a mantra.

Complication: the Alpha who'd raised me after the crash wasn't actually blood. Gideon Crowe, legal guardian, wolf-pack patriarch, and master of the stone-cold stare. "Uncle" only in paperwork, never in warmth.

When I was eight, Mom and Dad died in a twenty-car pile-up outside Brighton. Fog was so thick that first responders needed ropes to find the wreckage. I remembered the phone ringing at dawn, Gideon's boots creaking the farmhouse floorboards, his voice saying "They're gone" without a tremor. He'd taken me in because no one else wanted the girl who flinched at shadows and answered questions no one asked aloud. Pack law: protect the cub, even the weird ones.

Gideon's rules were simple: no glimpses in public, no shifting until initiation, no embarrassing the Ashford Pack. He'd repeated them this morning while loading my duffel into the pickup. "You're a sophomore now, Ivy. Football scholarship kids like Leo already watch for weakness. Don't give them ammo."

Leo. I rolled the name across my tongue, tasting salt and eucalyptus. So Hoodie Guy was the pack's star running back, the one whose face sold booster-club calendars. Of course he was. Fate loved a cosmic joke.

Langford's lobby smelled of lemon polish and nerves. Elevator out of order. I dragged both cases up four flights, biceps burning. Room 204's door stood ajar; inside, a blonde girl wrestled with a tapestry the size of a movie screen. She looked up, and cheeks flushed.

"Hi! You must be Ivy." She shoved hair from her eyes. "I'm Zoe, your roommate. Hold this end?"

We spent ten minutes anchoring the tapestry--midnight sky stitched with silver wolves--while she chatted about majoring in marine bio and her allergy to gluten. She didn't mention glimpses. Good. Maybe I could fake normal for a whole semester.

Unpacking took longer than it should; every folded shirt triggered a flashback to Gideon's gravelly instructions. "Blend in." As if invisibility came in detergent scent. I shoved the last sock into the cube cooler, slammed the door, and sagged onto the mattress.

Through the window, South Campus quad buzzed with welcome-week chaos. Booths, banners, and free pizza. And there, striding across the grass like he owned tectonic plates, strode Leo. Sunlight licked his shoulders; girls pivoted as he passed, with elbows nudging, smiles flaring like struck matches.

I told myself I wasn't staring. I was… observing pack dynamics. Field research. Totally academic.

He stopped beside the Theta sorority tent, laughed at something a petite redhead said, then glanced up--straight at my window. My lungs collapsed. I dropped my gaze to the scuffed floorboards, heart hammering loud enough to hear over the quad's din.

Footsteps thudded in the hallway. A rap on the door. Zoe opened it to a guy in a Delta shirt. "Pizza run. You coming?"

She looked at me. I shook my head. "I'll catch up."

Alone, I pressed my back to the door, squeezed my eyes shut, and tried to slow the spin. Glimpses, football stars, guardians who weren't uncles--ingredients for a meltdown. The tapestry wolves glinted, silent witnesses.

Somewhere outside, a whistle blew again. Practice. Leo would be sprinting forty-yard dashes, with sunlight slicing through helmet bars. And I'd be here, pretending I didn't already know the exact angle his smile took when he lied.

Because the glimpse hadn't shown me football. It had shown him shouting my name across a field painted with something darker than yard lines. Blood on grass. Sirens wailing. My own hands glowing lunar white.

I snapped the specs off, cleaned nonexistent smudges. First day. Thousands to go. I could do this. Blend in, no freaky glimpses. How hard could it be?

The cracked suitcase chose that moment to topple from the wardrobe and spew socks across the rug like party streamers.

Yeah. Piece of cake.