Howl You Like Me Now

The first rule of Saint Dorian’s Academy: never show fear.

The second rule: never trust a smiling Beta with a clipboard.

Rowan Blackwood stepped off the shuttle with a duffel bag, three scholarship forms, and the distinct feeling she’d just made the worst decision of her life. The school loomed ahead—ancient, gothic, crawling with ivy that looked like it might strangle someone given enough time. Gargoyles crouched along the eaves, judging her outfit like they’d seen centuries of bad fashion and hers still offended them.

Fair.

Her blazer was too big, her skirt too short, and her shoes had already absorbed a mysterious sidewalk puddle that she prayed wasn’t alive.

A Beta—she could tell by the badge and the weaponized smile—materialized beside her. “New arrival? Bag check.”

“Want to see my vaccination records too?” Rowan deadpanned, but handed over the duffel.

He unzipped it with dramatic care. “Policy. For the safety of the pack.”

“I’m not rabid,” she muttered. “Try again next full moon.”

He rifled through her clothes, found nothing interesting, and zipped it back up. “Welcome to Saint Dorian’s, Blackwood.” His grin sharpened. “Hope you like surprises.”

Rowan walked toward the check-in desk, trying to ignore the sense that everyone was staring. The omega attendant slid a clipboard toward her, not even looking up. “Name?”

“Rowan Blackwood.”

His pen stopped mid-stroke. His head snapped up. Something flickered in his eyes—recognition? Fear? Both?

“Blackwood,” he repeated, voice smaller. “As in…?”

Rowan raised a brow. “Is that going to be a problem?”

He swallowed hard, forcing a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “No. Just… unexpected.”

Right. Totally normal reaction. Not suspicious at all.

Inside, the grand entry hall buzzed with students—packs clustered in groups, all expensive haircuts, glossy confidence, and sharper eyes. The air smelled like cologne, ambition, and a little fear.

Whispers followed Rowan like a tail.

“That’s the scholarship girl.”

“Nightshade pack, right?”

“I heard feral.”

Rowan squared her shoulders. Let them talk.

The first-period bell shrieked like it was personally offended. Classroom doors flung open. Rowan ducked into Advanced Literature and scanned the rows.

Only one empty seat—front row, dead center.

Perfect. Her favorite.

She dropped her bag and slid in. The girl next to her—a petite brunette with glitter-tipped nails and a mischievous grin—leaned over.

“Isla Reyes. Don’t worry, they’ll stop staring by, like… Thanksgiving. Probably. Maybe.” She paused. “Okay, no promises.”

“Rowan,” she whispered back. “How does everyone know who I am already?”

Isla shrugged cheerfully. “Welcome email, group chat, and the meme page. You trended for an hour. Sorry.”

Before Rowan could process being meme-famous, the room shifted. Every head turned toward the door.

A boy walked in like he owned the building, the air, and possibly the moon. Tall, messy black hair, jacket slung over one shoulder, and eyes the color of a brewing storm. Girls straightened. Boys tensed. Even the teacher froze mid-roll call.

He stopped in front of Rowan, gaze locked on her like he’d scented something unexpected.

“You’re in my seat.”

Rowan blinked. “Didn’t see your name. Unless it’s ‘Reserved for Overinflated Egos.’”

A ripple of laughter. Isla choked on her own breath.

A muscle in the boy’s jaw twitched. “Careful. Some of us bite.”

“My shots are up to date,” Rowan shot back.

From the back row, a blond guy eating a granola bar called, “She’s got you there, Lucian.”

So this was Lucian Vale. The name fit—sharp, dramatic, overconfident.

His eyes never left Rowan. “You’re new.”

“Wow. Observant.” Rowan kept her chin up. “Should I be flattered or concerned?”

He leaned down slightly, voice low. “You’re making an impression, Blackwood. Not all of us like surprises.”

Her smile was sweet and bladed. “Then you’re really going to hate me.”

The teacher cleared her throat loudly. “Mr. Vale. Sit.”

Lucian slid into the desk behind Rowan. Close. Too close. His presence curled around her like smoke.

Her wolf, normally silent,lunged—a sudden, violent shove under her skin.

Rowan’s breath hitched.

What the hell was that?

Ignore him. Focus. Pretend your wolf isn’t trying to either fight him or climb into his lap. Hard to tell which.

During a lecture on gothic poetry, Rowan felt Lucian’s eyes on her—steady, unnerving, hungry for answers she didn’t have.

Isla nudged her. “Don’t let him get to you. Lucian Vale’s allergic to losing.” She lowered her voice. “Last year he bit someone. True story.”

Rowan forced a grin. “Good. I bite back.”

The rest of class blurred by in notes, stolen glances, and whispers that clung to her like burrs. When the bell rang, Rowan reached for her bag—then frowned.

It weighed twice as much.

She unzipped it and froze.

Dog biscuits. Dozens of them. And a squeaky toy shaped like a mailman.

Isla peered in. “Initiation! Could’ve been worse. Last year someone filled a kid’s locker with live crickets.”

Rowan rolled her shoulders. “Joke’s on them. My wolf loves snacks.”

Across the room, Lucian watched her again. Not smirking. Not mocking. Just studying.

The game was on.

As she stepped out into the common hall, she noticed a battered whiteboard propped near the couches, labeled in messy handwriting:PACK PRANK SCOREBOARD.Someone—probably the granola guy—had already updated it.

Rowan: 1

Lucian: 0

Rowan grinned. Let them underestimate her.

She walked into the courtyard, sunlight warming her face—then stopped. A shadow shifted behind one of the stone pillars.

A voice whispered, faint but sharp:

“Nightshade? Here?”

Rowan’s pulse spiked.

Then the shadow vanished.

Welcome to the wolves’ den.