Chapter 21
Possession And Promises
~SERAPHINE~
The water is hot.
Scalding, really—the kind of temperature that turns skin pink and makes muscles unknot whether they want to or not. I stand under the spray with my eyes closed, letting it cascade over my shoulders, down my back, washing away the sweat and tension of the past hour.
One-two-three-four.
My toe taps against the tile.
One-two-three-four.
The rhythm is automatic now—so ingrained that I do it even in moments of relative peace, even when the chaos in my head has temporarily quieted.
Class is over.
The volleyball incident is behind me—along with the whispers, the stares, the particular kind of attention that comes from being at the center of something everyone is talking about. I survived. More than survived, actually. I thrived.
And for the first time in years, I had people watching my back while I did it.
My pack.
The thought still feels foreign.
Impossible.
Like I'm trying on someone else's clothes and they somehow fit.
I reach for the shampoo—academy-issued, nothing special—and work it through my hair, creating suds that smell like artificial flowers and industrial cleaning products. The scent is familiar, grounding, a reminder that some things haven't changed even as everything else shifts beneath my feet.
A pack.
Four Alphas.
One week until the audition.
One week until everything changes.
The variables spin through my brain, organizing themselves into patterns I can analyze.
If the audition goes well—if, if, if—I get a scholarship. I get to leave Ruthless Academy. I get to dance somewhere that isn't soaked in blood and violence and the constant, grinding effort of survival.
If the alliance holds—if, if, if—Kai takes down his father. The threat against the pack is eliminated. The mission that brought them here in the first place becomes irrelevant.
And then?
Then we're enemies again.
Aren't we?
The thought doesn't land the way it used to.
Doesn't feel as certain, as final, as inevitable.
Because enemies don't catch volleyballs for each other. Don't touch your cheek with gentle fingers. Don't look at you across a crowded gymnasium like you're the only thing that matters.
Stop.
Don't go there.
Hope is dangerous.
I rinse the shampoo from my hair, letting the water carry the suds down my body and into the drain. The sound is soothing—white noise that blocks out everything else, that creates a bubble of isolation in this shared space.
But isolation doesn't last.
I smell them before I see them.
Multiple scents, all female, all carrying the particular edge of hostility that I've learned to recognize over three years of being the academy's favorite target. They're approaching—slowly, deliberately, with the careful coordination of predators who've planned their attack in advance.
Four of them.
Maybe five.
Surrounding the shower area.
How predictable.
I sigh.
Reach for the faucet.
Turn off the water.
The sudden silence is jarring—no more spray, no more white noise, just the distant sounds of the locker room and the too-loud breathing of girls who think they're being stealthy.
Amateurs.
I grab my towel from the hook outside the stall, wrapping it around my body with practiced efficiency. The fabric is rough against my skin—academy-issue, like everything else—but it covers what needs to be covered.
"If you want to do shit," I say, stepping out of the shower stall to face whatever's waiting, "can I at least wear clothes first? Like, that's just common decency."
They're arranged in a semicircle.
Five of them—I was right—blocking the path between me and my locker. The ringleader is the blonde from earlier, the one who made snide comments about charity cases. Her friends flank her like lieutenants, all wearing matching expressions of righteous indignation.
How adorable.
They think they're intimidating.
None of them respond to my request.
They just stand there, glaring, as if the force of their collective hostility will somehow make me spontaneously combust.
One-two-three-four.
My fingers flex at my sides.
One-two-three-four.
I brush past them.
My shoulder connects with the blonde's arm—harder than necessary, a deliberate statement—as I move toward my locker. They let me through, apparently deciding that whatever confrontation they have planned can wait until I'm dressed.
Smart.
Naked people are unpredictable.
Too much vulnerability makes everyone uncomfortable.
My locker opens with a click.
Inside: my uniform, neatly folded. My bag, containing Ro and the few possessions I managed to salvage. My blades, waiting in their sheaths like old friends eager to say hello.
I start getting dressed.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
Taking my time like I have all day, like there aren't five hostile Omegas standing behind me, like I can't feel their eyes boring into my back with the particular intensity of people working up the courage to start something.
Underwear first.
Simple black cotton—nothing fancy, nothing designed to impress. I step into them with careful precision, adjusting the waistband before reaching for my bra.
"Hurry up."
The blonde's voice is sharp.
Impatient.
I ignore her.
Fasten my bra.
Reach for my skirt.
"Did you hear me? I said hurry up."
"I heard you."
I step into the skirt, pulling it up over my hips, zipping the side with meticulous care.
"I'm just choosing to take my time."
The sound she makes is somewhere between a growl and a screech.
Satisfying.
I reach for my shirt.
Button it up.
One-two-three-four.
Four buttons on each side.
Even number.
Safe.
The tie comes next—looped around my collar, crossed, pulled through, adjusted until it sits exactly right.
Only then do I turn around.
"Okay." I lean against my locker, arms crossed over my chest, expression perfectly composed. "I'm dressed. What do you want?"
"Break up with the pack."
The demand is immediate.
Breathless.
Like she's been holding it in this whole time, waiting for the moment she could finally say it.
I blink.
"Which pack?"
Her face goes red.
"Obviously the pack with Lawson in it!" She takes a step forward, and her friends move with her—a unified front of jealousy and entitlement. "Do you even know who those men are?"
"I know they're my pack."
"They're known in the black market." Her voice rises, taking on the particular shrillness of someone who's convinced they're sharing earth-shattering information.
"They're connected to actual crime families.
They're filthy rich and dangerous and you—" she gestures at me like I'm a particularly disappointing piece of furniture, "—you're nothing.
You're the crazy bitch everyone avoids. You're not deserving of them. "
Deserving.
The word lands weird.
Not because it hurts—it doesn't, not really, not anymore—but because it's such a strange framework to apply to this situation.
Deserving.
Like pack bonds are prizes awarded to the most worthy. Like love and loyalty and connection are things you earn through being sufficiently normal, sufficiently sane, sufficiently acceptable to people who never wanted you in the first place.
I shrug.
"This has nothing to do with deserving."
"Then what—"
"It has to do with level of insanity." I push off from the locker, enjoying the way they all take half-steps backward despite themselves. "And thankfully, I fall in the line of crazy."
My hand finds the handle of my bag.
Pulls it out.
Reaches inside.
"So unless you want me to make all of you lose some screws—" my fingers close around the familiar weight of my blades, sliding them from the bag with practiced ease, "—so you have a chance with them, I suggest you pull out."
Their eyes go wide.
Tracking the weapons.
Calculating the threat.
"School is over," I add, sliding the blades into their sheaths at my back. The weight is comforting—familiar—the particular security that comes from being armed. "We can just take this outside if you want."
No one moves.
No one speaks.
The silence stretches—thick with tension and the particular kind of fear that comes from realizing you've picked a fight you can't win.
"That's what I thought."
I close my locker.
Adjust my bag on my shoulder.
And walk toward the exit like they're not even there.
"I won't even be here by the end of the week," I throw over my shoulder, not bothering to look back. "So take your jealousy and shove it somewhere the sun doesn't shine. I hear it's roomy."
The door swings open.
I step through.
And stop.
Because Sage is there.
Leaning against the wall next to the door, arms crossed over his chest, pink hair catching the fluorescent light of the corridor. He's changed back into his regular clothes—dark jeans, a fitted shirt that shows off the lean muscle of his arms—and he looks like something out of a magazine.
Or a fever dream.
Or both.
"I thought I'd have to come inside," he says, pushing off from the wall. His green-gold eyes scan my face, cataloguing details, checking for damage. "Heard raised voices."
"I could handle myself."
The words come out defensive.
Automatic.
Three years of proving I don't need anyone has made independence my default setting—the knee-jerk insistence that I'm fine, that I don't need help, that I can survive anything on my own.
Even when I'm starting to suspect that's not entirely true.
Sage smirks.
"I know you can."
He moves.
Fast.
One moment he's an arm's length away, and the next his hand is around my throat—not squeezing, not threatening, just holding—and my back is against the door I just came through.
Then he's kissing me.
Long.
Hard.
Thorough.
His mouth claims mine with a possessiveness that makes my toes curl inside my shoes. His tongue sweeps across my lower lip, demanding entry, and I give it without hesitation—opening for him, letting him in, feeling the heat of him flood through my system like wildfire.
One-two-three-four.
My fingers flex against his chest.
One-two-three-four.