Chapter 19
Misfits And Monsters
~SERAPHINE~
The door clicks shut behind me.
The sound is soft—barely audible over the ambient noise of the academy hallway—but it feels like a punctuation mark. The end of one conversation. The beginning of... something else.
One-two-three-four.
My fingers flex at my sides.
One-two-three-four.
I take a breath.
The corridor stretches out before me, grey and institutional, lined with doors that lead to offices and classrooms and the endless bureaucratic machinery that keeps Ruthless Academy running.
Students pass by in small groups, their conversations washing over me like white noise—meaningless syllables that don't quite penetrate the fog in my brain.
Scholarship.
Dance school.
Leave Ruthless Academy.
The words keep circling, refusing to settle, too impossibly good to feel real.
I clutch the strap of my bag tighter, grounding myself in the texture of worn fabric against my palm.
Don't hope.
Hope is dangerous.
Hope will—
A scent cuts through my spiraling thoughts.
Ember smoke.
Citrus peel.
Cinnamon.
The combination is distinctive—impossible to mistake for anyone else, because I've only smelled it once before. In the forest. When I had my blade inches from an Alpha's heart and didn't know why I was hesitating.
My head turns before I can consciously decide to look.
And there he is.
Leaning against the doorframe across the hall, arms crossed over his chest, head tilted back against the wood with his eyes closed in an expression of supreme boredom.
He's tall—not as tall as Kai, but substantial enough to command attention.
His hair catches the fluorescent light, golden blonde shot through with streaks of fire-orange that look almost deliberate, like someone painted flames into his strands.
Blaze.
The name surfaces from the chaos of that night in the forest, from snippets of conversation I half-remember through the haze of poison and performance.
He's being watched.
I notice it in the way I notice everything—compulsively, automatically, my brain cataloguing details even when I don't want it to.
A cluster of Omegas has gathered at the end of the corridor, not quite close enough to be obvious but not far enough to be innocent.
They're looking at him the way hungry people look at a feast—with naked want, with speculation, with the particular kind of interest that says I'd climb that given half a chance.
One of them giggles.
The sound is soft, breathy, nothing like the manic noise that escapes me when my brain shorts out.
Flirtatious.
Deliberate.
Another girl tosses her hair, the motion drawing attention to her neck—bare, unmarked, available.
They're trying to get his attention.
Putting on displays.
Making themselves available in ways that are just subtle enough to maintain plausible deniability but obvious enough that he'd have to be blind to miss them.
He doesn't seem to notice.
Or maybe he's just not interested.
His eyes are still closed, his breathing steady, his posture relaxed in a way that suggests complete indifference to the hormonal chaos happening twenty feet away.
I start walking toward him.
My footsteps are silent—ballet training, muscle memory, the ingrained habit of not announcing my presence—but something must alert him anyway. His eyes snap open when I'm still ten feet away, golden-brown irises catching the light and zeroing in on me with predatory precision.
For a moment, we just look at each other.
Me, approaching.
Him, watching.
The Omegas in the corner, bristling with barely concealed jealousy as they realize his attention has landed somewhere else.
A smirk curls his lips.
Slow.
Knowing.
"So we finally get an official introduction," he says, pushing off the doorframe and straightening to his full height. His voice is rough—sandpaper on silk, a sound that makes something low in my belly flutter. "The Omega who got Sage all knotted up."
The words could be mocking.
Should be mocking, maybe, given the circumstances.
But there's no malice in his tone. Just amusement, and something that might be respect, and the particular kind of interest that doesn't feel predatory so much as... curious.
Like he's genuinely interested in meeting me.
Like I'm something worth being curious about.
A smirk of my own forms—I can feel it happening, the way my lips curve without permission, the familiar armor of attitude sliding into place.
"I'm very proud of my achievements," I say, matching his casual tone. "Getting Sage knotted up is my greatest accomplishment to date. I should put it on my resume."
He laughs.
Full and warm and real—not the polished, performative laugh people deploy in social situations, but the genuine response of someone who's actually amused.
"I bet you should," he agrees, golden eyes dancing with humor. "Though if we're comparing accomplishments, I once got Kai to smile at a joke. Genuinely smile. It was terrifying. I thought his face might crack."
A giggle escapes me before I can stop it.
High.
Bright.
Just unhinged enough to make the watching Omegas flinch.
I clap my hand over my mouth immediately, feeling the familiar flush of embarrassment that always follows my uncontrolled outbursts.
But Blaze just grins wider.
"There it is," he says, like he's just discovered something valuable. "Sage told us about the giggle. Said it was the first thing that made him realize you were absolutely insane."
"Is that supposed to be a compliment?"
"In our pack? Absolutely."
The sincerity in his voice catches me off guard.
I don't know what to do with it—this casual acceptance of my quirks, this easy acknowledgment of things that usually make people uncomfortable. Most Alphas would be put off by my outbursts, my instability, the way my brain doesn't work the way it's supposed to.
But Blaze is looking at me like my particular brand of crazy is a feature rather than a bug.
"Well," I say, recovering, "until I can see you jump through a ring of fire, I won't make any promises either. Seems only fair."
He blinks.
Then laughs again—that same genuine, delighted sound.
"Fire is more my thing, actually." He raises one hand, and for a moment—just a moment—I swear I see flames dancing between his fingers. "Jumping through it, setting it, playing with it like a toy. Got me into trouble more times than I can count, but at least I look pretty while doing it."
The flames vanish.
If they were ever there.
Maybe I imagined them.
Maybe my brain is playing tricks again.
"I don't know about jumping," I say, forcing myself to focus, "but I can definitely do my part hanging from a ring of fire with the right protection. Aerial work is sort of my specialty."
His eyebrows rise.
Interest.
Genuine interest.
"Aerial work. Like circus stuff?"
"Like ballet stuff, but in the air." I shrug, feeling the pull of muscles that haven't been properly stretched in too long. "Rings, silks, ropes. Anything I can hang from and make beautiful. Though I suppose fire would add a certain... flair."
"Flair." He rolls the word around like he's tasting it. "I like that. Might have to take you up on that offer sometime, Omega. I've been looking for a partner who doesn't mind getting a little singed."
The way he says Omega—casual, affectionate, without any of the weight most Alphas put on the designation—makes my chest do something complicated.
Don't get attached.
This is temporary.
Remember the deal.
But it's hard to remember the deal when he's looking at me like that.
Like I'm a person.
Like I'm interesting.
Like I'm worth more than my designation or my body count or the madness that lives behind my eyes.
My gaze drifts—automatic, assessing, cataloguing details the way I always do—and lands on his throat.
Bandages.
White gauze wrapped around his neck, partially hidden by the collar of his shirt but visible enough to notice. The wrapping looks professional—neat, precise, the work of someone who knows what they're doing.
"Why are you bandaged?" The question comes out before I can filter it. "Did you get hurt?"
He touches the gauze automatically—a gesture I recognize, the unconscious check of an injury that's still tender.
"This?" A chuckle, low and rough, the sound scraping over something damaged. "The antidote I gave you did a number on my throat, is all. Healing up fine."
The memory surfaces.
Ro's voice, clinical and matter-of-fact: "The pack member designated 'Blaze' utilized oral transfer methodology to deliver the compound."
"Blaze kissed me?"
"Affirmative."
He kissed me.
While I was dying.
While the poison was working through my system and my body was shutting down and Sage was holding me and screaming for help.
Blaze took a boiling hot antidote, put it in his own mouth, and transferred it to mine.
The liquid was heated.
Boiling, Ro said.
He literally burned himself to save me.
"That's..." I trail off, struggling to find words. "You burned your throat. For me."
It's not a question.
He shrugs—casual, dismissive, like drinking scalding liquid to save a stranger's life is just a thing people do.
"Needed to get the antidote into you fast. Kiss was the most efficient delivery method." His golden eyes meet mine, and there's something serious beneath the humor now. "Would do it again in a heartbeat, by the way. Before you start feeling guilty."
Guilty.
The word lands wrong.
Because I do feel guilty—a hot, squirming sensation in my chest that doesn't know what to do with this kind of casual heroism. People don't sacrifice for me. People don't help me. That's not how my life works.
I'm the one who does the saving.
I'm the one who fights alone.
I'm the one who survives because no one else is going to ensure my survival for me.
But this Alpha—this stranger I've barely exchanged two sentences with—burned his throat to keep me alive.
And he's standing here telling me he'd do it again.
Why?
What do you see in me that's worth burning for?
I don't ask.
Instead, I lift my hand.