The morning sun was too bright.
It poured through the lace curtains like it had something to prove—golden and relentless—spilling over my face until I groaned and buried myself deeper into the pillow. The warmth might have been pleasant if it hadn't felt like a spotlight. My bed was my sanctuary, a cocoon where I could delay the inevitable masquerade of pretending to be something I wasn't. Human.
"Scarlet!"
Ana's voice rang sharp from the hallway, slicing through the haze of sleep like a whip crack.
"If you're not up in sixty seconds, I swear on all things sacred, I will dump cold water on your hair."
I groaned louder, dragging the blanket up to my chin like a shield. "You're evil."
"And you're late," she shot back, the bedroom door flinging open with no concern for privacy. "Junior year, remember? Silverthorne waits for no one."
That got me moving.
I pushed myself upright, brushing the remnants of sleep from my eyes. Morning light caught the fall of my hair—tousled waves of gold cascading down my back like sunlight on fire. In the mirror, my reflection blinked back: crystalline blue eyes, ghost-pale skin, and a face too symmetrical to go unnoticed in a crowd. I looked human enough. Barely.
But beneath that surface—beneath the carefully styled hair and innocent blush—was something else entirely. Something clawing at the seams of my self-control.
Sometimes at night, I dreamt of fire—of screams swallowed by ash and a boy with crimson eyes reaching for me through the flames. I never saw his face clearly, only the way my heart raced when I woke up. Like something in me remembered. Like I was born remembering something the world wanted me to forget.
I reached for my outfit: a pastel pink tennis skirt, cropped white cardigan, and sneakers so clean they practically sparkled. Girly. Flirty. Preppy. A calculated performance. This version of me was easy to digest. Polished and sweet. The kind that waved in hallways and cheered at football games. The world loved a good mask.
They couldn't handle the monster underneath.
Ana leaned against the doorframe, dressed like rebellion in black jeans and a velvet top that clung to her like shadow. Her silver hoop earrings winked in the morning sun, and her wild curls framed a face that could freeze fire.
"You look like a sorority daydream," she smirked, eyes gleaming with amusement.
I returned her smile with a wink. "And you look like a murder ballad."
She curtsied, deadpan. "Thank you."
We descended the creaky staircase to the scent of cinnamon and grilled tortillas. The aroma wrapped around me like memory—comforting, grounding. Lucia, our abuela, stood by the stove in her signature apron, a smear of flour across one cheek. Her dark eyes flicked to us, sharp as ever.
"Eat before you try to blend in," she said, handing us foil-wrapped breakfast burritos. "And keep your senses open. Things shift with the seasons."
"Cryptic," Ana muttered, already unwrapping hers.
"Classic," I replied, grinning. "Thanks, Abuela."
We kissed her weathered cheeks and stepped out into the warmth of a late summer morning. The kind that clung to your skin and whispered of endings. Autumn lingered just beneath the air, waiting.
————
Silverthorne University rose in the distance like something pulled from a dream—or a nightmare. Towers stretched high and hollow, their stone walls veined with ivy that strangled more than it decorated. Old magic pulsed beneath the surface of that place. You could feel it if you listened hard enough. I wasn't sure why it felt stronger this year. Maybe I'd just gotten better at noticing.
The tires of my Jeep bounced along the pavement as we pulled into the lot. A hitch caught in my chest, subtle but instinctual. I closed my eyes, breathing in the energy around us.
"What is it?" Ana asked, her voice suddenly serious.
"There's something... moving," I said softly. "Not just magic. It feels like a current under the ground. Old. Familiar. Watching."
A sudden flash jolted behind my eyes—like lightning behind my lids. For half a second, I saw a hallway drenched in shadows and blood, my name echoing from somewhere I couldn't reach. I blinked it away and shook my head. "It's probably nothing."
Ana stilled, then inhaled deeply, filtering the air like a bloodhound. Her expression hardened. "You're right. It's not from us. But it's not threatening. Yet."
We stepped out and joined the surge of students flooding the quad—ripped jeans, earbuds, coffee cups, the scent of cologne and perfume. None of them noticed the hum in the air. The ripple beneath the ground.
But I did.
We walked past the iron gates, the hum of old wards brushing my skin like static. The university's bones were soaked in magic, buried deep beneath its classrooms and dorms. I'd felt it since day one—like the walls were watching, like something ancient still lingered in the cracks.
————
Inside, the chaos of the first week crackled through the halls. Lockers slammed, students shouted across corridors, and cheerleaders bounced down stairwells with gleaming ponytails and perfectly timed giggles. Ana and I moved through it all like shadows with painted smiles. We were good at that.
"Did anyone see the new quarterback?" Jamie, one of the squad girls, practically squealed. "Brett Blackwood. He's like—ugh—carved from marble."
"He's six-four with a jawline that could cut glass," Kayla added, applying lip gloss with military precision. "Literal Greek god."
I rolled my eyes and turned away, more out of habit than anything else.
And then—I felt it.
A low, electric hum buzzed down my spine, dark and wild. Not fear. Not anticipation. Something primal. Animal.
A tall figure moved through the crowd with liquid purpose. Broad shoulders. Slow, confident strides. The sea of students parted around him instinctively—some drawn, others repelled.
He brushed past me.
And I almost forgot how to breathe.
The scent of cedar and smoke clung to him, underscored with pine and something darker—like secrets soaked in moonlight. My heart stuttered. My wolf stirred. My magic thrummed. Every part of me recognized the power coiled beneath his skin.
Werewolf. Alpha blood.
But not just any wolf.
I turned, heart thudding in time with something I didn't understand. Tousled dirty-blond hair, olive skin, a jaw kissed with stubble. His black T-shirt hugged every sculpted inch of his torso, and his presence devoured the hallway.
Then—he looked at me.
Dark, smoldering eyes locked with mine. The world dimmed. Curiosity flared in his gaze—followed by hunger.
And then... a smile.
Not a greeting. A challenge.
Ana leaned closer, her brow arching. "Let me guess..."
"We're not alone," I whispered.
She grinned. "Good. Things were getting boring."
I pressed my magic tighter against my skin—enchantress-style. Years of hiding taught me how to cloak myself. Let them think I was just another cheerleader with a nice smile.
But I already knew.
Brett Blackwood had felt me. And the part of me that I tried to keep buried?
It wanted to feel him back.
————
By third period, the tension had only grown. The strange pulse threading through the halls thickened like fog I couldn't shake. Brett had passed me twice more, his smirk cocky and knowing. The way his eyes slid over me—assessing, testing—set every nerve in my body on edge.
I wasn't like the others. And he knew it.
But I wasn't the only storm on the horizon.
The bell rang just as I turned the corner, my cheer skirt swishing, sneakers squeaking faintly on the polished floor.
Then I walked into Literature.
And forgot how to breathe.
A man stood at the front—not a nervous grad student, not a weary adjunct—but a force of nature. Tall. Broad-shouldered. Hands braced against the desk like he could crush it with a thought. His white shirt stretched across his frame, sleeves rolled to reveal strong, veined forearms that flexed as he turned.
His hair was dark brown, swept back with just enough mess to make it criminal. A few strands fell across his forehead, catching the soft gleam of classroom light. But it was his eyes—stormy green, sharp and searing—that made the air between us combust.
He looked at me.
And everything inside me snapped.
"You're late," he said. His voice was low—gravel and velvet wrapped in razor wire.
I didn't blink. "Just fashionably."
Something flickered behind his eyes—amusement, maybe. Or recognition. Maybe both.
"You must be new," I added as I took my seat near the window, slow and deliberate. "We usually start class with charm before the judgment."
He straightened, expression unreadable. "I'm Professor Anders," he said coolly. "Take a seat, Miss..."
"Everen," I said, smiling. "Scarlet Everen."
The second our energies brushed, I felt it.
A thrum of ancient magic. Like two threads snapping into place.
His voice wrapped around me like velvet smoke—low, smooth, dangerous. Every word he spoke felt like it was aimed at me, piercing some long-forgotten memory that refused to surface. I didn't know why he unsettled me so deeply. Maybe it was the way he carried himself—commanding, closed off, but watching everything. Or maybe it was the fact that, beneath the chill of his stare, something inside me sparked like a memory trying to be born.
Something inside me reeled, like a door unlocking that I didn't even know was closed. My skin tingled. My blood hummed. And from the sharp clench of his jaw... he felt it too.
He didn't know what I was. Not exactly. But he knew I wasn't normal.
He tried to teach. Tried.
Byron. Monsters. Duality. Internal conflict.
But every time I shifted in my seat, his eyes found me. Not in annoyance—but with curiosity. Like I was a riddle he didn't know how to solve.
I rested my chin in my hand. "So, Professor... what defines a monster?"
The class paused. Even the quiet ones turned.
He stared at me for a long moment. "Power without control," he said finally. "Or control without conscience."
I bit my lip, slow and deliberate. "And what if the monster wears lipstick and smiles sweetly?"
A few students laughed nervously.
Professor Anders didn't.
But he didn't look away either.
His gaze pinned me like a blade. And in that instant, I knew something else—
He wasn't just watching me.
He was recognizing me.