Silver Creek Academy

The gates of Silver Creek Academy rose before me like the entrance to a fortress.

Wrought iron, black as ink, topped with spikes that caught the morning light. Beyond them, the campus sprawled across manicured lawns—grey stone buildings with ivy climbing their walls, a clock tower that pierced the sky, students moving in clusters across paths lined with flowering trees. It was beautiful in the way that old money was beautiful: deliberate, exclusive, designed to remind everyone who entered exactly where they stood.

I stood at the gates with my borrowed blazer too big in the shoulders, my secondhand bag clutched to my chest, and I felt the weight of every eye that passed over me. They knew. They always knew.

The uniform was the same one Luna had left me—starched white blouse that gaped at the chest, navy pleated skirt that ended too high on my thighs, the Blackwood crest stitched over my heart like a brand. I had pulled my hair back with a strip of fabric, the only ribbon I owned, and I had hidden my father's dagger in my boot. Some things, I would not leave behind.

Iris Voss found me before I made it ten feet onto the property.

She materialized out of the crowd, her dark hair pulled back in its usual messy ponytail, her uniform rumpled, her expression fierce. She looked at my face, then at my clothes, then at the bruise still fading on my cheek from the rogue attack. Something in her expression softened.

You look like you are about to be executed, she said.

I feel like it.

She fell into step beside me, her shoulder brushing mine, and the simple contact was grounding. First day jitters are normal. Even for the rich kids, though they pretend otherwise. The trick is to act like you belong. Confidence is ninety percent of the battle.

I glanced at her. And the other ten percent?

Survival instincts. She grinned, sharp and quick. Which you seem to have in spades.

We walked through the main courtyard, and I kept my eyes forward, my shoulders back. I did not look at the clusters of students who whispered behind their hands. I did not react to the laughter that followed us. I had learned to be invisible in my old pack. I could learn it again here.

But I was not invisible. Not here.

The whispers followed me like shadows.

That is her. The one Marcus Blackwood took in.

Her mother married the Alpha.

Look at her skirt. She looks like she is wearing a uniform from a donation bin.

Iris's hand closed around my wrist. Ignore them. They have nothing better to do.

I nodded, but I could not ignore the way my skin prickled, the way my wolf stirred beneath the surface. She did not like being hunted. And somewhere in this crowd, I was being hunted.

The main building was a cathedral of learning—vaulted ceilings, stained glass windows, the scent of old books and floor wax. My homeroom was on the third floor, a classroom with windows that overlooked the training fields. I took a seat in the back corner, as far from the front as possible, and Iris sat beside me without being asked.

The teacher was a beta with nervous hands and a voice that droned. I took notes mechanically, my mind only half on the words. The rest of me was cataloging exits, watching the door, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

It dropped at lunch.

The cafeteria was a cavernous space, all steel beams and fluorescent light. The food was better than anything I had eaten in weeks—hot, fresh, served on trays that did not have to be returned if they broke. I took a plate of pasta and followed Iris to a table near the windows, a table she claimed was hers by right of being too poor to sit anywhere else.

We had been eating for perhaps five minutes when the doors opened and the room went quiet.

The Triplet Alphas entered the cafeteria like kings returning from war. Theron first, his grin already in place, his eyes scanning the room with the lazy confidence of a wolf surveying his pack. His gaze found me immediately, and his grin sharpened. Lysander behind him, quieter, his hands in his pockets, his honey eyes settling on me with that same intensity I had felt in the main hall. And Cassian last, moving with that slow, deliberate grace, his face a mask of ice. He did not look at me. He never looked at me.

They did not sit with the other students. They had their own table, raised on a platform at the far end of the room, a throne disguised as a lunch table. Students parted for them without being asked. A few bowed their heads slightly, a gesture of respect that was not quite submission but close enough.

Theron sat down, but his eyes stayed on me. He lifted his hand and touched his own neck, right where his fingers had brushed mine in the main hall. A mockery. A reminder.

My cheeks burned. I looked away.

Iris followed my gaze. What did you do to get on his radar? she asked.

I existed, I said.

She snorted. That will do it.

The rest of the day passed in a blur of classrooms and corridors. I kept my head down, did my work, and counted the hours until I could leave. But everywhere I went, I felt them. Theron's burning gaze. Lysander's quiet watching. Cassian's cold indifference that somehow burned more than his brothers' attention.

The attack came after sixth period.

I was walking through the courtyard toward the east gate, my bag heavy with textbooks, when a hand closed around my arm and yanked me sideways. I stumbled, my shoulder hitting stone, and found myself pressed against the wall of the old chapel, Theron's body blocking my escape.

Hello, stray, he murmured.

He was close enough that I could see the gold flecks in his brown eyes, the faint scar above his left eyebrow. His scent was overwhelming—pine and smoke and something wild—and his grip on my arm was iron. But it was not his grip that made my breath catch. It was the way his body pressed against mine, the heat of him seeping through the thin fabric of my blouse, the way his thigh pressed between my legs, trapping me against the cold stone.

I did not scream. I did not flinch. I stared up at him with a face made of stone, but my body was betraying me. My pulse raced. My skin tingled where he touched me.

My name is Ravenna, I said.

He laughed, low and rough. I know what your name is. I also know you have been avoiding me. That is not very friendly, considering we are family now.

You are not my family.

His grin sharpened. No. We are something much more complicated than that.

He leaned closer, his face inches from mine. His hand moved from my arm to my chin, tilting my face up. His thumb brushed my lower lip, and the touch was electric, burning. I felt my body lean toward him, my wolf rising, and I hated myself for it.

You looked at Cassian, he said. In the hall, when Father was questioning you. You looked at him like you wanted him to devour you.

I tried to pull back, but his hand tightened.

Do not lie to me, he murmured. I can smell it on you. The heat. The hunger.

His thumb pressed against my lip, and I felt my mouth part, felt my breath quicken. His eyes darkened.

You want to be devoured, he said. You just do not know it yet.

He released me abruptly, stepping back, and I had to brace myself against the wall to keep from falling. His grin was back, wider now.

Enjoy your first day, stray. It is the easiest one you will have.

He walked away, his hands in his pockets, whistling softly. I stood there with my back against the cold stone, my heart pounding, my body still burning where he had touched me.

I did not see Lysander until he spoke.

He is not wrong about one thing.

I jerked, my hand going to my boot, but Lysander was already there, leaning against the corner of the chapel, his arms crossed. He had been watching. Of course he had been watching.

I did not know you were there, I said.

That is the point.

He pushed off the wall and walked toward me, his steps silent, his eyes never leaving mine. Unlike Theron, he did not crowd me. He stopped at a distance that felt almost respectful, though I knew better than to trust it.

You do want to be seen, he said. That is why you tremble when we touch you. Not fear. Hunger.

I opened my mouth to deny it, but the words would not come. He was right. I hated that he was right.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. You dropped this, he said, holding it out.

I took it. Our fingers brushed, and the contact sent a jolt through my hand, up my arm, into my chest. His skin was cool, smooth, and he did not pull away. His eyes held mine, and I saw something in them that I had not seen before. Not cruelty. Not calculation. Hunger.

When wolves like us decide we want something, he said, we do not stop until we have it.

He released my hand and walked away, disappearing into the crowd. I stood alone in the courtyard, my heart pounding, the paper crumpled in my fist.

When I opened it, it was not my schedule.

It was a single word, written in his careful hand.

Mine.

I walked back to Blackwood Manor with my shoulders straight and my head high, but my hands were shaking. My lip still tingled where Theron had touched it. My fingers still burned where Lysander had held them. And somewhere in the manor, Cassian was waiting, cold and silent, refusing to look at me at all.

Three wolves. Three hungers.

And I was trapped in the center of all of them.