Se connecterJuneI wake up already tired.Not the kind of tired that comes from sore muscles or lack of sleep. This is different. It sits under my skin, hums in my chest, makes my thoughts sharper than they need to be.The room is quiet when I open my eyes. Pale light slips through the curtains. For a moment, I lie there and stare at the ceiling, trying to breathe through the tightness building inside me.It is too early for this.I swing my legs over the side of the bed and sit up. My pulse feels louder than usual. My fingers curl into the sheets, then release. I roll my shoulders, trying to shake it off.Practice starts in thirty minutes.By the time I step onto the training field, the air is crisp and cool. Others are already there, stretching, talking in low voices. I keep to myself like I always do. A quick nod here. A brief glance there.The drills begin.We run first. Laps around the perimeter. My feet hit the dirt in rhythm, breath moving in and out. Normally the motion helps. Normally it
CalebI know I have a temper.It flares fast, burns hot, and sometimes I speak before I think. I have know this all my life. This is how I am.But damn, watching June walk toward Kylie when she was about to shift lights up my fuse like nothing else.We have been told since we were pups to never go near anyone in the middle of a shift. It is one of the first rules drilled into us. Bones break. Control slips. Instinct takes over. Even the gentlest wolf can lash out without meaning to. The outcome can turn devastating in a blink.And June was already too close.Kylie was trembling, her body caught between human and wolf, pain twisting her features. A few people stood back, giving her space. That is what we are supposed to do.June stepped closer.Closer.My chest tightened so hard it felt like something snapped inside me. What was she thinking? Did she not understand the risk?When she took another step, I did not think. I moved.I jumped in between them, my body planting itself like a s
JuneThis is the exact reason I never feel like I belong anywhere.Because sooner or later, you are expected to bend. To soften the edges that make other people uncomfortable. To pretend you did not see what you saw. To hold back because someone with money or a last name that carries weight must not be bruised.You have to be untrue to yourself so someone unworthy can keep their shine.It sits wrong with me.The only place I never felt that way was underground.Down there, under flickering lights and stained ceilings, nobody cared where you came from. Nobody asked who your parents were or what car dropped you off. It was dangerous. It was ugly sometimes. People could be cruel in ways that left marks you carried home.But they were honest.Respect was earned. Not handed out because of a trust fund or a powerful family.The richest man in the room could be knocked flat and walk out a loser. A dirt poor girl like me could leave with cheers ringing in her ears because she earned that spot
JuneBy the time the first session ends, my arms feel like they are filled with sand and my shoulder throbs where Allan’s punch connected. Sweat cools against my skin as the breeze moves across the field. Around me, people stretch, laugh, groan dramatically about sore muscles.There is a lightness in the air. We survived the first round.Sasha claps her hands once. “Good work. That’s it for this session.”A few people cheer quietly. Someone mutters something about finally getting food. The group begins to disperse, bodies turning toward the building, water bottles lifted, conversations already starting.I bend to retie my laces again, tightening them out of habit.“Where do you think you’re going?”Sasha’s voice slices through the movement.Everyone pauses.She stands with her hands on her hips, scanning us like we are a class of children caught trying to leave early. “Your session with me has ended,” she says, her tone sharp but not cruel. “You are not free yet.”A collective groan r
June Fortunately, I am paired against a guy. Relief slips through me before I can stop it. It is not that I look down on girls. Strength is not owned by any gender. I have met girls who can knock the air out of a room with a single punch. But I know my own power. I know how much force I carry in my limbs, how quickly instinct can take over. And when I glance at some of the girls in our group, I see hesitation in their eyes. Not all of them. A few look eager, focused. But others shift their weight nervously, their smiles tight. If I had been paired with one of them, there is a real chance I would have hurt them without meaning to. I do not want that. Not even for Mean Barbie and her circle. The guy standing across from me is built like a wall. Broad shoulders. Thick arms. Veins running along his forearms like cords. He looks like he inhales steroids for fun and washes them down with protein shakes. He studies me, and I can practically hear his thoughts. She is small. She is light
JuneI do not get it. What is his problem?The question loops in my head as I tighten my grip on the barbell and push through another rep. My muscles burn in a way I understand. That kind of strain makes sense. Lift. Breathe. Lower. Repeat. There is comfort in the rhythm.Caleb does not make sense.It would have been easy to avoid him if he were just another trainee. A random face in a crowd. But he is not. He walks through this place like it belongs to him, like the walls recognize him. People listen when he speaks. They move when he moves. That makes him impossible to ignore.And for some reason, he seems to be taking a special interest in me.I rack the bar with more force than necessary and sit up, reaching for my water bottle. My heart is pounding, but not just from the workout.Maybe some other girl will catch his attention. That would solve everything. He can focus on someone else. Smile at someone else. Stare at someone else like he is trying to read through their skin.Yes. T







