Chapter 49

Prue

Sitting in the library was strangely satisfying. The silence and steady, paper-scented environment helped me focus a hundred times better than I ever could at home. It was just me, a mountain of books, and my history research paper – which I was writing entirely on my own, because I refuse to be one of those people who stitches together a Frankenstein's monster of plagiarized internet paragraphs or begs an AI to do the thinking for them. No, I actually had pride and integrity. If I was going to earn a grade, it was going to be an evaluation of what I did, not some fakety-fake digital fabrication. Even if I didn't pull off an A+, at least I’d gain some actual brain cells and skills that might come in handy when tests rolled around or when I needed to survive the real world. Yes, I know, I have very mature thinking for a teen, I thought to myself, though I figured if I didn't, all those hours spent listening to deep-dive podcasts would have been a total waste of my time.

I glanced up, looking over the hundreds and hundreds of volumes lining the shelves. Werewolves have heightened senses and telepathy, so if we could magically read the atmosphere, would we be able to absorb all knowledge just by sitting next to books? I closed my eyes, leaning back in my chair and trying to consciously soak up intellectual osmosis. After a long moment, I opened one eye and sighed. Yeah, keep dreaming, Rue.

Some historian once said that reading history is like whispering in the crypt of the dead, but honestly, trying to force my brain to care about the Treaty of Paris when my own biology was waging a civil war felt more like trying to whisper while standing next to a jet engine. At least history stayed where you left it; my life was currently being rewritten by a teenage werewolf alpha with zero boundaries.

I shook my head and went back to work, periodically hunting down reference texts with the librarian's help, scribbling notes, and diving headfirst back into writing. Hours slipped away in a blur of ink and page-turning. Look at me, being such a diligent student, I thought sarcastically, feeling like a Victorian orphan who had accidentally wandered into an Ivy League.

And yes, I knew I was hiding out here from a certain someone-not-to-be-mentioned. Was it actually working? I figured – a little bit. I had gotten so deeply immersed in my subject that I almost, almost stopped thinking about him and – whatever, work, work, work, let's get back to work, I mentally chanted like a broken record.

This was getting more impossible by the day. And by "this," I didn't mean the history assignment; I meant the stupid, inescapable mate bond. It was pulling at me with the force of a gigantic, malevolent magnet, making me feel like a speck of iron dust slowly, irresistibly, and undeniably dragging toward a very annoying piece of metal. It was as if I didn't have a single choice of my own. Like free will was just a cruel joke played by the Moon Goddess on teenagers who already had enough anxiety to deal with.

Ugh, I hated it. I felt so utterly powerless – the absolute worst feeling in the world. I felt weak and pathetic, stripped of my ability to impact my own life or stop the chaos happening around me. It was pure, unadulterated injustice!

I had convinced myself I was doing a stellar job ignoring him, but he was practically everywhere. Not to mention the shared rides to school and back, every single meal at the pack house, and the way we randomly collided in the halls – both at school and at pack house. Every single time he looked at me, he wore that infuriating, knowing smirk, as if he possessed a cheat code to my brain. Abso-fucking-lutely annoying. But I always forced myself to look the other way, channeling all my remaining energy into Tessa, my dad, my training routines, laundry, and, of course, my studies. I’m such a good girl, I thought, offering a bitter smile to the scattered papers and books on the desk.

I remembered my conversation with Dad the other day. I had been complaining that this whole mate-thing was a complete structural failure of nature, and he had just looked at me with that infuriating, patient stare before saying, "Give it a little more time, kiddo." I swear, he might say that exact phrase for a solid year. But my gut was screaming that I might not last a month, let alone a year. I’d succumb to the mate bond out of sheer exhaustion by then. It was like a black hole, sucking me past the horizon of reasoning. The only way to regain any semblance of power would be to reject him outright – except the Alpha forbade it, and Andrew's oversized Alpha pride would never let him accept a rejection anyway. Grr. It was such a dreadful, suffocating feeling to be this trapped.

I glanced at the library clock and groaned – it was time for detention duties. I packed up my things, slung my bag over my shoulder, and dragged my feet toward the main hall near the cafeteria.

Standing right in the middle of the corridor were Mrs. Clark, our arts teacher, and Mrs. Taylor, the English teacher. And, of course, leaning casually against the wall with his back to me was Alpha boy. As I approached, he shifted, pushed off the wall with an effortless roll of his shoulders, and looked back over his shoulder at me.

What are you looking at, greaseball? was the instant snarl sitting right on the tip of my tongue, but I clamped my teeth together and reigned myself in. I really did not want to spend another afternoon in detention staring at the back of his arrogant head.

The teachers beamed at us, clearly proud of their latest collaborative brainstorm. They explained that they had paired up students’ written stories and poems with corresponding paintings created by the art classes, and now our monumental task was to hang them all along the hallway walls. We were handed a heavy metal ladder and a bundle of strings attached to the various art pieces and manuscripts. Since the heavy-duty nails were already hammered securely near the high ceilings, we just had to loop the strings over them.

"Each collection is placed exactly under its designated hook," Mrs. Clark announced brightly. "So, Mr. Silverstone, please be a gentleman and hold the ladder for the lady. We don't want any unfortunate accidents, you know."

Fuck my life, was all I managed to think.

"We’ll come back to check on your progress in thirty minutes!" Mrs. Taylor chirped, completely oblivious to the ticking time bomb of pure teenage friction standing between us. I stood there frozen, blinking dumbly as they looked at us expectantly.

"Sure, we'll manage," Andrew said smoothly, flashing them a sickeningly polite smile and an easy nod.

We'll manage exactly what? Me doing all the actual labor while he stands down there admiring the view aka my as.s? I glared daggers at him. I was wearing a skirt today, for crying out loud. I might as well just sit on his head – there wouldn't be any functional difference in his line of sight.

"I'm sure you will! Good luck, dear ones!" And with that, they sauntered off down the hall, leaving us stranded in mutual misery.

I looked after them, then slowly turned my glare back to the intimidating pile of supplies.

"After you," Andrew gestured with exaggerated, mocking chivalry.

I stomped over to the ladder, snatched the first string holding a wildly colorful canvas and a handwritten poems, and started climbing.

"Be a gentleman, would you?" I muttered under my breath, casting a venomous snarl down at him. Gentleman, my ass. Fu.ck! That's literally what he was going to do. He was going to stand right there and stare up my skirt. Well, stare all you want, you jerk. I hope you get horribly distracted and come in your pants like the ragingly hormonal teenager you are. Stupid teenage boys.

I looked right and left and while noone else was in the hall I used wolf speed. I reached the top rung, wobbling slightly as I tried my best to attach the string securely to the high hook. The metal clips attached to the displays looked flimsy, so I wound the string around a few extra times to ensure it wouldn't come crashing down mid-exhibition. Glancing down through the rungs of the ladder, I saw that Andrew actually had both hands firmly planted on the sides of the frame, looking straight down with a completely neutral expression.

Oh, so he’s playing the responsible, polite guardian now? Nice try. I don't believe a single shit from you.