CHAPTER 4

"Who are you? Tell me how you even know my name."

The message hissed out of Emily’s fingertips as she gripped her cracked device. She stood by the jagged obsidian gates of the Lycan Academy, her pulse thrumming against her throat. The "Watcher." The name felt like a phantom limb.

No answer.

"Dammit," she muttered, staring at the 6:30 AM timestamp. Three hours late. In the Silver-Run Territories, three hours was the difference between a successful hunt and starving in the frost. A girl like her—a "Hollowed" with no internal compass to guide her through the mountain mists—had no right to be this careless with the only person acknowledging her existence.

She shoved the phone into the pocket of her frayed wool trousers and broke into a jagged run toward the Hall of Runes. The thin air burned her lungs, tasting of ancient pine and the musk of a hundred shifting Alphas.

"Look at the little stray go!"

The sneer cut through the wind like a bone-handled knife. Emily didn't have to look. The scent reached her first—stale ale and the aggressive, spicy heat of her brother's pack.

Ryan stood by the obsidian archway, flanked by his usual circle of sycophants. They weren't in uniform. They didn't need to be. Their "Essence-Aura" flared in shades of arrogant crimson and gold, marking them as the apex of the Academy's brutal caste system.

Emily lowered her head, trying to vanish into her oversized furs. She was five minutes late for Professor Arnold’s Lunar-Logic lecture. Arnold didn't care about blood-purity; he cared about discipline. If she missed the opening incantation, he’d skin her alive in front of the elite.

A boot shot out.

Emily didn't see it coming. Her foot caught on a thick leather sole, and the world tilted. She hit the frost-hardened stone with a sickening crack. Pain, white and electric, exploded in her right knee. She let out a strangled cry, her vision blurring.

Laughter erupted, high and sharp, echoing off the ice-slicked walls.

"In a rush, Omega?" Ryan’s shadow fell over her. He didn't offer a hand. Instead, he nudged her bruised ribs with the toe of his boot, a casual, dehumanizing gesture. "Careful. If you break those spindly legs, you're not even worth the meat to the winter crows."

Emily’s eyes stung. My own blood. My own twin. "Move, Ryan," she wheezed, her voice trembling.

"Oh, she’s got a tongue today!" Mike, a Beta with a scent like wet dog and malice, stepped closer. "Professor's little pet wants to get to class. Tell us, Emily, do you let Arnold shift before he marks your grades, or do you prefer him in the skin?"

The implication made her stomach turn. They couldn't believe a Latent could out-score them on merit. To them, her intellect was just a commodity she traded for with her body.

Emily forced herself up. Every nerve in her knee screamed as she put weight on it. She leaned against the frozen obsidian of the wall, dragging her leg, each step a jagged needle of agony.

"Get out of here before you bleed on my boots," Ryan spat, turning back to his friends as if she were a discarded carcass.

She limped into the lecture hall fifteen minutes past the hour. The heavy doors groaned, drawing every eye in the amphitheater.

"Ms. Carter. How gracious of you to join us," Professor Arnold snapped, his grey eyes tracking her from the podium. "I assume the moon rose in the wrong direction today? Or perhaps your time is simply more valuable than the ancient laws of Rune-Warfare?"

The class snickered.

"I'm sorry, Professor," Emily whispered, her face burning.

"Sit," he barked. "Before I decide your seat is better occupied by a pile of scrap."

Emily dragged herself to the nearest vacant bench. Her kneecap felt like it was being held together by shards of glass. She bit her lip so hard she tasted copper, forcing the tears back. Don't give them the satisfaction. Do not cry.

"Ms. Carter," Arnold's voice softened just a fraction, his gaze dropping to her trembling leg. "Did someone trip you?"

The silence in the room became a vacuum. Under the Moonlight Law, bullying was a crime—if you could prove it. But if she named Ryan or his pack, she wouldn't just be a pariah; she’d be a dead girl. Her parents would discard her before the sun set for shaming the family's Alpha-star.

"I... I fell, Sir," she lied, her voice hollow. "The ice is slick."

"Indeed. Sit down."

The lecture was a blur of high-level equations and lunar cycles, but Emily couldn't focus. The pain was a living thing, gnawing at her bone. She looked around, desperate for a distraction, and her eyes landed on the row in front of her.

Lucas Montgomery.

He was a wall of silent, dark energy. His hair was the color of midnight, his shoulders broad under a tailored charcoal tunic that screamed of the Montgomery Pack’s wealth. He was the Academy’s enigma—an Alpha so powerful he didn't need to bark to be heard.

Emily watched the back of his neck, the way his hand moved with fluid, lethal grace as he inscribed runes into his tablet. Yesterday, he had stood in the center of the football pitch, a storm of mud and muscle, leading the Academy to a brutal victory. He was the most genuine wolf she had ever seen—ruthless, yes, but he never played dirty. He didn't have to.

If only I could hide in that shadow, she thought, a fleeting, desperate wish. If I could just bury my face in a scent that didn't want to hurt me.

The bell tolled, a heavy bronze sound that signaled the end of the session. Students scrambled, the air filling with the rustle of furs and the scent of hormones. Emily stayed seated. She didn't want them to see her limp again.

Her phone vibrated in her pocket.

The Watcher: Go to the infirmary, Princess. Right now. Watching you walk like that is tearing a hole through me.

Emily’s heart skipped. A cold sweat broke out on her brow. He’s here. He’s in this room. Or he was just outside. She looked at the exit. Lucas was leaning against the doorframe, his silver eyes fixed on her for a fraction of a second before he turned and vanished into the hall.

The pain in her knee flared again, but the heat in her chest was stronger. Someone was looking. Someone saw the "Hollowed" girl and didn't see a ghost.

She stood, leaning heavily on the desk, and began the long, agonizing trek toward the medical wing.

The infirmary was a sanctuary of white linen and the sharp smell of antiseptic herbs. The head medic, an old Beta woman with kind eyes, pointed Emily to a curtained cot in the back.

"Strip the trouser leg, girl. Let’s see the damage."

Emily eased the fabric up. Her knee was the size of a mountain melon, bruised a deep, sickly purple.

"You're lucky the bone didn't shatter," the medic grunted, applying a thick, cooling salve of moon-lilies. "I’m going to wrap it. You need to stay off it for an hour while the magic sinks in."

The medic left her alone behind the curtain. Emily leaned back against the thin pillow, closing her eyes. The silence was a luxury.

Then, the curtain rod slid.

Emily’s eyes snapped open. She expected the medic. She expected a bully coming to finish the job.

It was Lucas Montgomery.

He didn't say anything. He stepped into the tiny, enclosed space, his presence making the air feel thick and electric. He looked at her bandaged knee, then up at her face. His eyes were no longer bored; they were burning.

"You're a terrible liar, Carter," he said, his voice a low, gravelly hum.

"What are you doing here, Lucas? This is the Omega ward."

He didn't answer. He stepped closer, the weight of his body pressing into the side of the cot. He reached out, his hand wrapping around her waist, pulling her forward until her chest brushed the soft fabric of his tunic.

Emily gasped, her hands instinctively flying to his shoulders. He was solid. Hot. The primal scent of him—ozone and wild musk—flooded her system, making her head spin.

"Your brother is a coward," Lucas whispered, his face inches from hers. "And you... you're a martyr. I hate martyrs."

His hand slid lower, his palm hot against the small of her back, pinning her to him. The friction of his trousers against her bare, uninjured thigh sent a jolt of raw electricity through her.

"Lucas, stop—"

"Shh." He leaned in, his lips grazing the shell of her ear. "You want to forget the pain, don't you? You want to feel something that isn't a bruise."

Before she could protest, his mouth was on hers. It wasn't a question. It was a claim. He tasted like dark chocolate and mountain air. His tongue swiped against her bottom lip, demanding entry, and Emily found herself opening for him, her fingers tangling in the thick hair at the nape of his neck.

He groaned into her mouth, a deep, animal sound that vibrated in her chest. He lifted her, her legs wrapping instinctively around his waist. The weight of him, the sheer Alpha-dominance, felt like a drug. He slammed her back against the cot, his body a heavy, glorious anchor.

"Lucas..." she breathed, her head tossing back as his mouth found the sensitive cord of her neck.

"Mine," he growled against her skin. "For this hour, you're mine."