Marked (Wolves of Stone Mountain #1)

Chapter 1

Maya

Two weeks at Stone Mountain High, and I had been failing to hide in the shadows since day one.

I stare at my reflection in the bathroom mirror, adjusting my glasses before pulling my dark curls into my signature messy bun. My skin looks paler than usual under the harsh fluorescent lights, and the dark circles under my eyes remind me of the sleep I’ve been missing.

“Maya! You’re going to be late!” Mom calls from downstairs, her voice carrying that familiar mix of worry and exasperation that has been constant since we moved here.

“Coming!” I yell back, grabbing my backpack from my bed.

The hallway still smells like the pancakes Mom made for breakfast, Elena Ortiz, constantly trying to make every new place feel like home through the power of comfort food and fierce maternal love. It hasn’t worked yet, but I appreciate the effort.

I find her in the kitchen, already dressed for work in her scrubs, car keys dangling from her fingers.

“Remember, I have that late shift tonight,” she says, brushing a strand of dark hair from her face. The silver streaks at her temples catch the morning light. “There’s leftover lasagna in the fridge.”

“Got it.” I nod, accepting the travel mug of hot chocolate she hands me. Chocolate for breakfast, another of her little attempts to make the day better.

Her dark eyes study me for a moment. “You okay, sweetheart? You seem distracted lately.”

I force a smile. “Just school stuff. Still adjusting.”

The truth is more complicated. I’ve already broken every rule in my own survival guide: Don't stand out. Don't attract attention. Don't get involved with the popular crowd.

Instead, I’ve somehow caught the attention of Bolton Sharpe, the dark-haired heir to the teenage hierarchy at this school. The guy everyone watches but nobody approaches. The one whose gaze follows me through hallways and across classrooms with an intensity that should be creepy but somehow isn’t.

And the strangest part? I don’t hate it.

“Well, try to have a good day,” Mom says, pulling me into a quick hug. She smells like jasmine and coffee. “And maybe try talking to some people? Making friends wouldn’t be the worst thing.”

“I’ll consider it,” I reply with a half-smile.

We’ve had this conversation in every town, every school. Her hopeful suggestion that maybe this time I’ll put down roots and make connections. My noncommittal response. The unspoken understanding that we probably won’t stay long enough for it to matter anyway.

The school hallway hums with the usual Monday morning chaos, locker doors slamming, snippets of weekend stories, couples reuniting with dramatic embraces. I weave through it all, keeping my head down, clutching my books against my chest like armor.

“Hey, Maya!”

I turn at the sound of my name, surprised that anyone would call it out so publicly.

Cassie Jenkins stands by her locker, surrounded by her usual entourage of perfectly styled girls.

Her blonde hair cascades in overly perfect waves, too polished to be real, and her pale green eyes sharpen with a smile that’s more predatory than friendly.

“Love the outfit,” she says, her voice loud enough for nearby students to hear. “Very thrift store chic.”

Her friends giggle on cue, and I feel my cheeks warm. My jeans and oversized sweater suddenly feel painfully ordinary compared to their coordinated ensembles.

I push my glasses back in place and open my mouth to respond, with what, I’m not sure, when a deep voice cuts through the tension.

“Problem here?”

Bolton Sharpe, Stone Mountain High’s golden-boy enigma and the reason half the school walks a little faster in the halls, materializes beside me, tall and unreadable, his presence disrupting the moment like a sudden shift in gravity. Cassie’s smile falters.

“Just girl talk,” she says, her tone softening dramatically. “Nothing for you to worry about.”

Bolton’s eyes flick to me, then back to Cassie. He doesn’t say anything else, just stands there, waiting. The silence stretches uncomfortably until Cassie rolls her eyes and turns away, her friends following like magnetic fragments.

“You didn’t have to do that,” I mutter once they’re gone.

“I know.” He adjusts the strap of his backpack, his expression unreadable. “You heading to English?”

I nod, surprised he knows my schedule.

“Me too.” He gestures ahead. “Walk with me?”

It’s not really a question, but I find myself falling into step beside him anyway. We walk in silence, but it’s not uncomfortable. His presence feels strangely right, like we’ve done this a hundred times before.

Students part for us in the hallway, or rather, they part for him. Bolton moves with easy confidence, shoulders relaxed, head high. I catch the curious glances, the whispered comments, the new girl walking with Bolton Sharpe. I can almost hear the rumor mill grinding into action.

“Why are you being nice to me?” I finally ask when we’re almost at the classroom.

He looks down at me. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Because people like you don’t usually notice people like me.”

A hint of a smile touches his lips. “Maybe I’m not people like me.”

Before I can respond, the bell rings, and we’re swept into the classroom with the rest of the class. I take my usual seat by the window, and Bolton slides into the desk behind me. I can feel his presence like a warm shadow.

Ms. Peterson starts talking about The Great Gatsby, but I can barely focus.

All I can think about is the way Bolton’s eyes tracked me across the cafeteria last week, how he chose to sit next to me in Bio even when other seats were available, how something electric seems to spark in the air whenever we’re close.

The full moon is tomorrow night. I heard some kids talking about a bonfire to celebrate, though I don’t understand why a lunar phase deserves a party. But that’s Stone Mountain for you, strange traditions, strange people. A strange connection I feel to a boy I barely know.

I glance out the window at the mountains looming in the distance, their peaks disappearing into low-hanging clouds. Something about this place calls to me, tugging at something deep in my chest. Like I’ve been searching for it without knowing.

I turn my attention back to my notebook, trying to focus on Fitzgerald and green lights and the American Dream. But Bolton’s presence behind me is distracting, his energy palpable even though he hasn’t made a sound.

Rule #8: When a boy makes you feel things without even touching you, keep your distance.