Rhea

Our pack lands go on forever. And I don’t mean “wow, that’s big.” I mean forever—the kind of forever that makes you wonder if the Moon Goddess got bored one night, kept dropping forests on the map, and decided to see if anyone would complain. If I ever had to walk it end to end, they’d probably find me days later—collapsed, clutching an empty canteen, mumbling about rogue squirrels staging an ambush.

Every Alpha in Ridge Storm history has been obsessed with expansion, and now our borders stretch wider than almost any in Lycandra. Endless pines sway like they’re whispering secrets to one another. Silver-lit lakes so clear you can count every stone on the bottom. And that annoyingly perfect waterfall at the edge of our land—the one that looks like the Moon Herself sculpted it just so couples could pose for mating-mark pictures. Sigils etched into the cliff face shimmer there, waxing and waning with whoever dares to spar—or flirt—beneath the falls. Accord glyphs are braided through our own wardwork, too: Valorian anchor runes at the basin, Drakonis heat-sigils (dormant, thank the Goddess) flash-baked into the bedrock from some old treaty-ceremony, and Lycandra’s lunar script stitched over all of it like a blessing you can’t scrub off.

Normally I’d admire it. Today? I can’t see anything past the storm in my head.

Ethan drives, one hand steady on the wheel, the other brushing the gearshift like he’s barely aware of it. Warding runes pulse faintly across the dash—our pack’s travel lattice extending a protective shell around the SUV as we cross district lines. He doesn’t say anything, but I know he feels it—that heaviness leaking off me. He always does. That’s the thing about growing up beside someone: you learn their weather. You can smell the rain before it falls.

Ethan. My boyfriend of two years now. My safe place. The one constant I gambled my future on. He’s always believed we’re fated. A traitorous part of me has clung to that belief too, like if I repeat it enough, it’ll become true by muscle memory.

But the what-ifs won’t stop chewing at me.

Handful of days. That’s all until I turn eighteen and my wolf wakes fully and the bond—if there is one—reveals itself. Ethan’s day is today—his birthday, his “adult wolf” milestone. Technically at midnight, but who’s counting? We’ve been toeing the line between dangerous thoughts and worse decisions for years, but lately? My hormones have staged a coup. A mutiny. And by mutiny, I mean they’ve been screaming for something I’m not sure I can handle.

Which is ironic, because I’m still a virgin. Yep—factory settings, untouched warranty, tighter than a sealed spell scroll. And yet here I am, one bad mood away from a decision I can’t undo.

What if we’re not mates?

Would we survive it?

Would we break?

“Rhea.” Ethan’s voice cuts through my spiral. The faint protective sigils inked onto his wrist flare as his emotions spike, glowing warm gold against his skin—standard Ridge Storm warding, keyed to calm and shield. “You’ve been quiet the whole drive.”

Of course I bite my lip. Then—because subtlety has never been my strong suit—I just spit it out. “Have you ever thought about… what happens if we’re not mates? Would you still want me?”

The question hangs there as the car crests the last hill, and the world outside transforms.

Silver Ridge Academy looms ahead, carved high into the stone like a myth that refused to die. Spires of pale moonstone and obsidian spear the sky, catching late-afternoon light so they glitter like starlight frozen in rock. Sigils crawl along the outer walls like veins of living fire, pulsing in time with the academy’s wards. The wrought-iron gates rise tall and twisted like vines; every curve etched with runes that flare brighter as we pass, recognizing Ridge Storm wolves and reading our intent. Accord law is baked into this place—you can feel Valoria’s glamour anchors humming in the archstones, Lycan’Dra governance knots knuckled into the pillars, old Drakonis heat wards sunk deep under the flagstones (dormant but watchful, a deterrent and a memory).

The air shifts instantly. It always does here. Magic curls heavy in my lungs, carrying the faint scent of night-blooming flowers that only open under moonlight. Cobblestone paths glow faintly underfoot, enchanted to guide newcomers toward ivy-clad courtyards, trickling fountains streaked with silverleaf, and glass domes where light bends like secrets. Students from every realm move through it—wolf, fae, draconic-blood, a few brave humans in reinforced amulets. Unity by design. Competition in practice. The Great Accord wanted cooperation; teenagers brought ego.

It’s beautiful. Untouchable. And in this moment, it feels like it belongs to everyone but me.

Ethan pulls to a stop beneath my dorm archway. The Ridge Storm crest gleams above the stone—silver carved into a wolf’s head howling at a moon rune that pulses faintly as it tastes our scent signatures. The doorframe is layered with latticework—ward-scripts in silver and slate, each ring keyed to a different truth (identity, intent, oath). They flare at our arrival, humming like a warning bell in the back of my skull. The academy reads everything. It remembers longer.

By the time Ethan turns to me, my heart’s already thudding too fast. He cups my face; his palm is warm, steady, the sigil on his wrist pressing to my jaw. It lights in response, a soft glow that throws gold along my cheekbone, as if it could shield me from my own thoughts.

“Even if the Moon has other plans—and I don’t believe She does—you’re stuck with me,” he says firmly. His words thrum with conviction, and the threshold runes flash in recognition, bright enough that I notice. Accord wards love oaths—especially ones spoken with intent. His mouth twists into that smirk that always, always slips under my walls. “And if I’m not your mate, whoever is better thank Her every day.”

My chest squeezes—sharp and sweet at once. Damn him.

I lean into his touch for half a second, stealing the comfort, then shove it down under a smile. “Okay, enough feelings. Go before someone thinks you’re trying to romance me in the parking lot.”

Dominance flickers off him—barely a brush. The wards flare, respond, settle. “That would be terrible, huh?”

I shove his shoulder. “Go, Ethan.”

He’s still smiling when I step out, but there’s something in his eyes as he watches me go—wistful, weighted, almost like he already knows something I don’t.

And I can’t shake it.

The second I step through our suite archway, I’m assaulted by sloppy kissing and muffled groaning.

There they are.

Lila and Theo, tangled on the couch like a scene straight out of one of Bree’s ridiculous romance dramas. She’s straddling him, knees digging into the cushions, one hand fisted in his hair like she intends to own the individual strands, the other cupping his jaw with that terrifying tenderness only she can pull off. Theo’s hands? Low. Firm. Braced on her hips in a way that screams mine. The sigils along the wall flare faint red as his dominance leaks through—annoyingly proud of themselves, like the wards are fans of PDA now.

“Really?” I drop my bag with a pointed thud. “Not on the couch. I nap there.”

Lila doesn’t even lift her head, just smirks against his mouth. “You’re welcome for warming it up.”

Theo glances over her shoulder at me, lips kiss-bruised and unrepentant. “Feel free to critique my form, Rhea.”

“Hard pass,” I deadpan, veering toward the hall. The wards above the kitchen arch brighten and dim like they’re rolling their eyes with me.

“Your loss,” he says, and the sigils pulse silver at the gloat. Beta energy: smug, protective, carved from granite, wrapped in charm.

I’m almost free when he reaches over and ruffles my hair like I’m twelve.

“Theo!” I swat, glaring. “Stop doing that!”

“You look cute when you’re mad.”

“Oh, you think I’m cute now? Wait until you see me plotting your murder.”

I’m muttering threats when Bree and Nora walk in. Bree smirks instantly, biting back a laugh; Nora’s soft brows pinch with librarian-grade disapproval.

“Wow,” Bree drawls, dropping into the armchair. “You two going to come up for air, or should we fetch a bucket of water?”

Instead of being embarrassed, Lila tears away from Theo just enough to launch herself at me. “Oh, you thought you’d sneak by?”

And then I’m on the rug, pinned, her fingers digging into my ribs while I shriek. Bree joins instantly (traitor), and even Nora gets pulled in, half-protesting, half-laughing. The dorm’s warded walls glow faint blue with our noise; the latticework feeds on joy and friendship, strengthening the room’s protections like a housecat purring louder when you scratch the right spot. For a second, it feels like home. Like nothing can touch us if we hold on tight enough.

We’re still mid-wrestle when the door opens.

Finn. MJ. Evan… and Ethan.

Everything stills inside me. His eyes find mine like they’re trained to, and my stomach does that stupid swoop. The wards above the door glow faint gold at the pulse of his wolf and the charged thread vibrating between us.

“Alright, my chipmunks,” Finn claps, grinning. “Time to suit up. And Rhee—maybe wear something unforgettable tonight. Our boy Ethan’s got plans.”

Heat slams into my cheeks. “Finn, I will end you.”

“Oh, come on,” he sings. “Little lace, a little silk—set the mood…”

Ethan’s brow arches. His smirk turns dangerous. “Red wouldn’t hurt.”

The girls lose it—Lila collapses against Theo’s lap, laughing until she wheezes. Even the kitchen wards flicker pink like they’re in on the joke.

“Everyone out before I die of embarrassment!” I shove at them, face on fire. The sigils answer with a rosy glow, reflecting the humiliation bleeding off me.

Ethan lingers in the doorway, gaze unreadable. For a breath, I think he’ll say something else. He doesn’t. He just nods, soft, and moves down the hall. It shouldn’t hurt. It does.

That’s when I notice Nora.

She’s a little apart, expression stuck between guilt and grief, fingers twisting in the hem of her dress. The delicate ward marks etched along her collarbone—personal focus runes she drew herself—flare in distress, giving her away.

“Nora?” My voice softens without permission.

She steps closer, takes my hand, squeezes like she’ll float away otherwise. Her eyes are wide, wet, trembling.

“Rhea…”

The way she says my name already has my stomach knotting.

“I think Ethan is my mate.”

The words don’t just land. They detonate.

Every sigil in the room flashes white—walls strobing like lightning trapped in stone, the lattice vibrating so hard it hums through my bones. The dorm reacts to the spike in me, to the crack in my chest widening fast. Accord wards like truth. They sing to it. They scream with it, too.

No. Not her. Not him.

But the devastation on Nora’s face is a mirror; she believes it. She wouldn’t say it if she didn’t.

The floor seems to tilt; my pulse stutters; the wards whine under my skin like a struck tuning fork.

This isn’t just a crack. It’s the first fracture.

And if she’s right?

It’s the start of everything shattering.