Loner for Luna

Prue

Moving is the only stable thing I've ever known.

Everything else was ever-changing—town names, houses, my room, wall colors, bed size, mattress softness, neighbors, classmates, teachers, friends.

But the more we moved, the more everything started to feel the same—like some kind of multiverse. You think you’re changing towns, but it’s always the same: same stores, same cafés, same grumpy and cheerful neighbors, same tired, chatty cashiers.

You think you're changing schools, but the pattern never changes—some teachers are awesome and friendly, some are strict, some are grumpy, and some should never have become teachers in the first place.

And classmates? Same old story—jocks and cheerleaders ruled the place, there were always the bi.tches and as.sholes, the nerds, the quiet ones, the bullied ones, the arrogant ones, and the middle ground that just floated through the years.

"Sweetheart, let’s try to stay in this town for at least one year. What do you think? Can you do that?"

My dad’s voice pulled me out of my thoughts just as we parked in front of my new school. I turned from the window to look at him.

He always supported me, never judged me—even now, he had that familiar twinkle in his aging eyes, surrounded by new wrinkles.

And even though he was asking me this, I knew he wouldn't be upset if I got expelled after a month.

The only thing I hated was that every time it happened, he would just look at me and say, "I'm sorry."

I hated that so much.

It was my fault.

My stupidity.

My responsibility.

But every single time I messed up, he took it as his own failure—blaming himself for not being a good enough dad, for not giving me the life I deserved, for not being able to replace my mom, for not giving me a stable home.

Everyone thought that because I grew up without a mom and moved constantly, it had to mess me up somehow.

Like clockwork, they said that’s why, when I hit my teenage years, I started acting out. Rebel without a cause.

Total crap.

I loved moving. I loved changing places, seeing new cities, new people, new corners of the world.

And every time I started to get bored of a place, all I had to do was push the right buttons. It doesn’t take a genius to get expelled from high school—just a few “accidents” and poof, we were gone.

It was all my plan.

And every time Dad got that dreaded call from the principal, I already had the name of our next destination ready.

"Okay, Dad. I think we can do that," I said, smiling at him.

I leaned in to kiss his stubbled cheek and hugged him tightly.

He was the best dad in the world.

And for him, I was willing to be extra patient with idiots and douchebags—for the sake of peace, quiet... and a clean record.

As I stepped into the building, I inhaled deeply. Yep — still the same smell.

I swear it’s the weirdest thing ever — every school across the States smells exactly the same: a mix of paint, bleach, sweat, and fart.

Comforting, really.

I ran through the typical newbie routine before entering my first classroom.

"Miss Whitmore, is that right?"

A cheerful teacher beamed at me as I nodded.

Lately, I didn't even bother trying to remember the teachers' names anymore. I mean, what’s the point? I could always just call them "Sir" or "Ma’am," and they’d be fine with it.

"Class, this is your new classmate, Prudence Grace Whitmore, who just moved into our town."

God, I hated my name.

What kind of parents name their kid Prudence in the new millennium?!

But it was one of the two things my mom had given me before she died — the other being, well, life — so I had to honor it.

Didn’t mean I had to like it.

I always wished I had a name like Kate, Roxanne, or Skylar... anything but Prudence Grace.

"Please welcome her sincerely," the teacher added.

A few half-hearted "hi's" mumbled around the room.

I smiled back with a tight, polite grin.

"Please, have a seat," he said warmly, motioning toward the far corner.

Thank God it wasn’t already taken.

I nodded and made my way to the back of the class.

I always chose the furthest corners — in classrooms, cafeterias, hallways.

It was the best place to observe, to figure out the landscape without getting sucked into it.

By the fifth period, I already had a mental map of all the major groups — just like always:

the nerds, the jocks, the bi.tches, the populars, the rebels (aka the latecomers), and the floaters who just drifted through school life like ghosts.

What surprised me was the smell.

There were a lot of weres around.

It was shocking at first — we usually avoided schools crawling with werewolves to steer clear of trouble.

Lone wolves weren’t exactly popular. We were barely a step above rogues.

But this city had been my pick, and honestly, I hadn’t checked how close or far the packs were.

That was Dad’s job.

He always set up a meeting with any local Alpha, handed over the same letter from our original Alpha — you know, the whole "we mean no harm, please don't eat us" spiel.

He had at least fifty copies of that letter, each sealed in wax like some old medieval contract.

(Yeah, super cool — I’ll admit it.)

Of course, I knew exactly what the letters said.

I knew every secret Dad tried to keep from me.

I was way too sneaky — and way too curious — to let anything slip by me.

Those meetings usually soothed the local pack wolves, but honestly?

Stuck-up douchebags, the lot of them.

I used to be curious about pack life and Alphas and ranks and all that...

But the more stories Dad told me, the more annoyed I got.

Packs were just politics and ego wrapped up in fur.

And me?

I was perfectly fine being wild, free... and out of their little system.