43. Chapter Forty-Three
The late October air feels heavier than ever this morning, carrying a damp chill that seeps through my jacket and lingers deep in my bones.
Most of the trees have lost their leaves now, leaving bare black branches scratching against a gray sky that presses low and close.
The few remaining leaves cling desperately to the limbs, curled and brown at the edges, as if they too understand that everything beautiful eventually falls.
I walk across campus toward class with steps that still feel slightly unsteady, the memory of last night’s tears and the long, silent drive with Chase lingering like a bruise I can’t stop pressing. My eyes feel swollen. My chest still aches with that raw, unsettled feeling of regret.
My phone has stayed silent in my pocket for hours now, but I know the messages are waiting there. Alex asking if I slept OK. Jamie sending one of his silly memes with a hopeful little “thinking of you” underneath. Adrian offering to bring me coffee before class.
I haven’t replied to any of them.
I know it’s not their fault. Deep down I understand that.
My biology is the one going wild, not them.
And part of me—the logical, exhausted part—even knows they are right about the risk.
But every unread message feels like a constant reminder of everything my designation might eventually take from me.
The pack has become a mirror I can’t look away from, reflecting back the version of myself the world seems determined to see first.
Maybe if I stay away from them, the heat spikes will stop. The thought flickers through me, fragile and guilty at the same time. If I keep my distance, if I give my body space to relax, perhaps I can still go on the rainforest trip.
Perhaps I can still have this one thing that is mine.
The idea brings a small, tentative spark of hope, but it’s quickly swallowed by the heavier weight sitting in my chest. The injustice of it all.
The unfairness that no matter how hard I work, no matter how many late nights I spend in the archives or how meticulously I pin my specimens, one sniff of my scent is enough for people to reduce me to something smaller.
I approach the Natural Sciences building, its familiar brick facade rising ahead of me. I try to straighten my shoulders and focus on the day ahead, on the lecture, on the lab work waiting for me, on the small piece of myself that still feels safe inside these walls.
But the weight of everything remains, pressing heavy against my ribs.
I’m almost to the wide stone steps of the entrance when someone collides with my shoulder. The bump is light, accidental, and a warm voice immediately follows.
“Oh, I’m so sorry. This is what I get for being attached to this thing.”
I look up and find myself facing a tall woman with sharp, confident features and rich brown eyes, holding up her phone. She’s an alpha, the subtle shift in the air around her makes that clear. She tucks her phone away and offers a quick, genuine smile.
“I really didn’t mean to nearly knock you over. Are you OK?”
I nod, adjusting the strap of my bag. “I’m fine. No harm done.”
Her expression brightens with sudden recognition. “Wait. You’re Elodie Maddison, right? The freshman entomologist who nabbed the spot on the rainforest field trip?”
The words land with surprise, like a small unexpected gift. She says “entomologist” the same way other people might say “doctor” or “artist,” with real respect.
“Yes,” I answer, a cautious smile tugging at my lips. “That's me.”
“I’m Ally,” she says, extending her hand. “Ecology senior. I’m going on the trip too. When Dr. Okonkwo announced the list to our class I actually cheered out loud in the middle of the lecture hall. A freshman earning that spot? That’s huge! I’ve been dying to meet you.”
Her excitement feels real, the kind that doesn’t come with any hidden agenda.
She tilts her head, a light, playful smile curving her mouth. “You carry yourself like someone who already belongs out there, you know? That assured confidence. I bet you’re going to be the one who spots something no one else does.”
The compliment is nice, almost flirty in the lightest way, and I feel my cheeks heat despite everything weighing on me. It’s refreshing. So refreshing. I let myself respond with polite warmth, the first real conversation I’ve had since last night that doesn’t feel like it’s walking on broken glass.
“Thank you,” I say. “I’m really looking forward to it. The chance to study chemical ecology in situ… it’s everything I’ve been working toward.”
Ally’s smile widens. “Same. I can’t wait to be out there with you. We’re going to make a great team.”
We chat easily when Ally leans in a little closer, gesturing with one hand as she describes the research station we’ll be staying at. Her excitement is infectious, and for a few precious seconds I let myself lean into the feeling of being seen as a colleague rather than anything else.
Then she pauses mid-sentence. Her head tilts slightly and she draws in a breath through her nose. The shift in her expression is immediate and unmistakable. The warm, open smile fades into something more guarded. Her eyes flick over me again, this time with new understanding.
“Oh,” she says, pulling back a respectful distance. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t realize you were accounted for. I should not have been flirting like that.”
The words land with a dull thud. Accounted for. As if that single fact overrides everything else about me.
Before I can respond, Ally gives a small, awkward laugh and shrugs one shoulder. “Ah, that makes sense now. That’s why a freshman got the spot on the trip. Being with the Whitmore pack has its perks, huh?”
The comment hits me like ice water poured straight down my spine. For a moment I can’t breathe. The words echo in my head, ugly and casual, as if she hadn’t just dismissed weeks of late nights in the archives, careful pinning work, and the paper I poured my soul into.
I can’t decide which hurts more.
The fact that she immediately reduced me to an omega or the assumption that I only earned my place on the trip because I belong to a powerful pack.
The fragile spark of hope I felt only moments ago flickers and dies. The injustice of it all crashes over me again, heavier than before.
No matter how hard I work, no matter how many hours I spend bent over specimen drawers or writing immaculate notes, one breath is all it takes for someone to decide my merit doesn’t matter.
I force a polite smile that feels brittle on my face. “It was nice meeting you, Ally,” I say, trying to maintain some poise. “I should get to class.”
She nods, looking slightly uncomfortable now, but I don’t wait for anything more. I turn and walk away from her, shoulders tight, the late October chill suddenly cutting deeper than it did before.
The worst part is knowing she’s probably not even the first person to think it.
The wind slips between the bare branches overhead and presses against my skin, but I barely feel it. Everything feels muffled and distant, I turn away from the beautiful building that holds my classes.
A few steps later I spot an empty bench beneath a cluster of skeletal trees. I sink onto the cold wood and pull my poetry notebook from my bag for the first time in a few days. My fingers tremble as I open it to a fresh page. I need the words right now more than I ever have.
Anything to help me process the unfairness, the fear, the deep ache that keeps spreading through my chest.
I wait.
The pen hovers over the paper.
Nothing comes.
No metaphors rise. No verses about wings or storms or hidden strength. The page stays blank, the silence inside me louder than it has ever been. Poetry has always been there for me, even when nothing else was. It has flowed through me like my own scent, natural and unstoppable. Until now.
I stare at the empty lines until they blur. The notebook feels heavier than it should, like it’s judging me for failing it. I close it slowly with trembling hands and press it against my chest.
I can’t keep pretending everything is fine. The pack is not the enemy, but they’ve become a constant reminder of everything my designation might take from me. Pulling away from them, from everyone, might be the only way left to protect the one thing that still feels like mine… my work.
The wind picks up around me, rattling the bare branches overhead, but I stay on the bench a moment longer, letting the silence settle deep inside where my poetry used to live.