Night Wolf High

AMELIA

Trey was too close.

Close enough that I could feel the heat coming off him. Close enough that every instinct I had should have been screaming at me to move.

Instead, my body went completely still.

Because Kade was behind me.

Drake was watching from across the room, his usual grin nowhere to be found.

And Silas—

Silas wasn’t watching me.

He was watching Trey.

Like he was waiting to see what would happen if Trey touched me.

My heart slammed once against my ribs.

This was insane.

These were the four boys I’d spent years avoiding. The boys who had made Night Wolf High miserable enough without adding whatever this was.

Trey lifted his hand.

His fingers stopped inches from my face.

“Tell me to stop.”

I should have.

God, I should have.

But something beneath my skin had already begun to wake.

And the terrifying part wasn’t that it wanted Trey closer.

It was the way it reached for the other three, too.

Then a thought that didn’t feel entirely like mine burned through me.

Mine.

CHAPTER ONE

Three to five is my least favorite time of day.

Football practice.

Not because I love sports.

Not because I have a secret passion for sweating boys, shoulder pads, or the sound of grown men yelling motivational threats across fake grass.

Because Night Wolf High requires every student to log at least one sports-related extracurricular before graduation, and apparently “quietly organizing library returns where no one bothers me” does not count as school spirit.

I tried.

Mrs. Hastings smiled like I was adorable.

“Football program needs support staff, Amelia.”

Support staff.

At Night Wolf High, they had pretty names for everything.

Scholarship kids were “community students.”

Legacy families were “founding bloodlines.”

Bullying was “social friction.”

And being assigned to carry water for the varsity football team was “an excellent opportunity for school involvement.”

I called it what it was.

Punishment with paper cups.

So here I am.

Required.

Cornered.

Counting minutes behind a stack of coolers while the most powerful boys in school pretend football is just a game.

It isn’t.

Nothing at Night Wolf is just anything.

The field sits behind the school like a shrine. Fresh turf. Painted end zones. Silver bleachers that never rust, despite the academic wing shedding brick dust every time it rains.

At midfield, the school crest glares up from the grass.

A black wolf.

A silver moon.

A circle of iron around both.

The same symbol carved above the front doors.

Stamped into our uniforms.

Etched into the bronze statue guarding the main entrance.

The one everyone touches for luck.

I don’t touch it.

Not anymore.

Freshman year, my backpack slipped off my shoulder, and I caught myself against one bronze paw.

For one impossible second, the world disappeared.

Salt.

Smoke.

A woman’s scream.

Grief so old it felt like it had been waiting centuries for someone stupid enough to put a hand on it.

Then I was on my knees with three teachers asking if I’d hit my head.

They called it a panic attack.

I called it none of their business.

I never touched the statue again.

No one noticed.

No one notices what scholarship girls avoid.

That is one of the system’s kinder features.

I stay near the coolers with my clipboard tucked under one arm like it might stop a direct hit. Close enough to look useful. Far enough to run if necessary.

Predictable is safe.

Small is safe.

Quiet is safe.

Invisible would be ideal, but I have pale blonde hair, the coordination of wet laundry, and a face people like to aim comments at.

So I settle for manageable.

The whistle shrieks.

Players break formation.

Helmets come off.

Voices rise.

The fence line fills with girls who definitely came for the athleticism and not the four boys currently walking onto the field like gravity signed a contract with them.

The Iron Circle.

Everyone calls them that.

Trey Vale.

Drake Mercer.

Silas Voss.

Kade Arden.

Four best friends.

Four founding bloodlines.

Four future pillars of pack society, if you believe the plaques in the administrative hall.

I don’t believe plaques.

Plaques are just lies with better formatting.

Still, the air changes when they move together.

It always does.

Conversations thin.

Coaches straighten.

Freshmen step aside before they realize they’re doing it.

Even the cheerleaders get quieter, which might be the most supernatural thing I’ve witnessed all week.

Kade walks a half step behind the others, hands buried in his pockets, dark hair falling into his eyes like he’s trying to hide from his own last name. He sees too much. Feels too much. Then does absolutely nothing with it.

That might be worse.

Drake is impossible to miss. Broad shoulders. Blond hair. Smile bright enough to get him forgiven before he decides what he’s doing wrong.

He is all charm until he isn’t.

All laughter until someone bleeds.

Silas doesn’t stroll.

He calculates.

Tall, lean, posture perfect, eyes moving over the field with quiet precision. He never looks curious. Curious is too human.

Silas looks like he’s already collected the answer and is waiting for the rest of us to embarrass ourselves catching up.

Then there’s Trey.

Trey Vale doesn’t need to be loud.

Loud is for people who need help being feared.

He steps onto the field, and everyone adjusts around him. Not dramatically. Not obviously. Just enough that the world makes room before he asks.

Dark hair.

Sharp jaw.

Shoulders built for violence and expectation.

Eyes too focused to be kind.

He is the kind of boy teachers call intense when they mean dangerous. The kind administrators protect because someday his name will be on buildings. The kind girls romanticize because cruelty looks like mystery when it comes with cheekbones and a trust fund.

I’ve been on the receiving end enough times to know better.

Trey Vale is not mysterious.

He is a warning with good bone structure.

One of them glances my way.

Drake.

Of course.

His smile widens.

Great.

My day was almost tolerable.

I look down at my clipboard and pretend I can’t feel them coming closer.

Pretending is a skill.

I have built an entire personality out of it.

A shadow falls over the cooler.

“Scholarship.”

Drake’s voice lands first, warm and lazy, like he’s inviting me into a joke he wrote at my expense.

I keep stacking cups.

“Football Player.”

He laughs. “Ouch. Formal. Did we move to last names already? Feels fast.”

“I like to keep my relationships as an unpaid laborer strictly professional.”

His grin flickers, just a little.

Good.

Tiny victories are still victories.

“You’re extra sharp today,” he says. “Special occasion?”

My birthday, actually.

Not that anyone knows.

Not that anyone asked.

Not that I would tell them if they did.

“Dehydration brings out my charm.”

“Funny.” Drake leans against the fence beside me like the fence should be grateful. “Didn’t know you had charm.”

“I keep it in reserve for people I like.”

Kade’s mouth almost moves.

Almost.

I catch it because I catch everything. Survival turns you observant in the least fun way possible.

Silas notices me noticing.

Of course he does.

His gaze dips to the clipboard, then my hands, then the route behind me.

“You moved the cooler,” he says.

I still.

Not much.

Enough.

Silas tilts his head. “Yesterday it was two feet closer to the gate.”

“Fascinating. Do you write newsletters or just terrify people recreationally?”

“You’ve been taking the far path all week.”

My fingers tighten around the paper cup.

Drake snorts. “Silas, buddy, casual conversations usually don’t start with stalking statistics.”

“It isn’t stalking,” Silas says calmly. “It’s pattern recognition.”

“That’s worse.”

“For you, maybe.”

I hate that my heart is beating faster.

I hate that Silas sees things I don’t give him permission to see.

Mostly, I hate that Trey hasn’t said a word yet.

Silence from him is never empty.

It’s pressure.

I force myself to look at him.

Mistake.

Trey stands directly in front of me, close enough that the world narrows without asking my opinion. His eyes meet mine, and for half a second something changes in his face.

Not recognition.

Not exactly.

Expectation.

Like he was looking for someone else and found me instead.

Then the mask drops.

Cold.

Familiar.

Safe, in the way knives are safe when you know which direction they’re pointed.

“You lost?” he asks.

Two words.

Flat.

Controlled.

Trey doesn’t waste syllables.

“I’m standing beside a cooler.”

“You seem distracted.”

“That’s because I’m living the dream.”

Drake laughs under his breath. “She’s got jokes today.”

Trey doesn’t look away from me.

I wish he would.

No.

I wish I didn’t care whether he did.

His gaze lowers briefly to my hands.

They’re shaking.

Barely.

I curl them around the clipboard.

“Stay where you’re assigned,” he says.

There it is.

The Night Wolf motto, basically.

Stay where you’re assigned.

Sit where you’re assigned.

Smile when you’re assigned.

Bleed quietly if someone important caused the wound.

I lift my chin. “Pretty sure my assignment doesn’t include being harassed.”

Drake’s smile thins.

Kade looks at the ground.

Silas goes very still.

Trey’s expression doesn’t change, but the air does.

It’s subtle.

A tightening.

Like the whole field inhales and forgets to let go.

“Careful,” Trey says.

Not loud.

Not even angry.

Worse.

Controlled.

I feel something shift beneath my ribs.

A pressure.

A pulse.

Something waking just enough to listen.

I ignore it.

I ignore many things. Bills. Hunger. Group texts. The fact my mother forgot my birthday before breakfast.

Ancient chest pressure is just one more item on the list.

“Or what?” I ask. “You’ll trip me in the hallway again?”

Kade flinches.

Not dramatically.

Most people wouldn’t notice.

I do.

His eyes cut to Trey, guilt written across his face so clearly I almost feel bad for him.

Almost.

Trey’s jaw tightens.

Drake stops smiling.

Interesting.

Usually Drake has a joke loaded before the cruelty lands.

This time, nothing.

“Or maybe you’ll send Lydia and her friends to finish the job,” I add.

Silence.

Heavy.

Uncomfortable.

I shouldn’t enjoy it.

I do anyway.

Bullies hate mirrors.

Trey’s throat works once.

Something almost reaches his face.

Then he buries it.

“Leave,” he says.

I blink. “What?”

“Go.”

Quieter this time.

Sharper.

Urgent.

Not cruel.

That throws me more than cruelty would have.

“I have a job.”

“Not anymore.”

“You don’t get to decide that.”

His eyes search mine like there’s an answer hidden somewhere behind my irritation.

“No,” he says. “You don’t understand.”

I step closer.

Because apparently survival instincts are optional on birthdays.

“I understand perfectly.”

Kade shifts.

Drake mutters, “Okay, maybe let’s not—”

I ignore him.

“You play football. I hand out water. We don’t have to speak. We don’t have to breathe the same air. We definitely don’t have to pretend you own the space I’m standing in.”

Trey goes completely still.

Behind him, Silas’s attention sharpens.

Kade looks like he’s waiting for something to break.

Maybe he’s right.

I should stop.

I don’t.

Eighteen years of swallowing words can make a person reckless when they finally open their mouth.

“I don’t belong to you,” I say. “None of you own me.”

For one impossible second, hurt crosses Trey’s face.

Raw.

Unprotected.

Gone so quickly I wonder if I invented it.

Then Drake says softly, “Damn.”

Trey’s eyes cut to him.

Drake raises both hands. “Not helping. Got it.”

I shove the clipboard against the cooler and reach for the lid.

My fingers slip.

A stack of paper cups tumbles.

Kade moves before anyone else does.

He catches three before they hit the grass.

Then freezes.

Like kindness is a crime and he has just been caught in public with the evidence.

For half a second, our eyes meet.

His are darker up close.

Softer than they should be.

“Thanks,” I say before I can stop myself.

He looks like the word hurts.

Trey looks at Kade.

Not angry.

Not exactly.

Possessive.

Warning.

Wrong.

Kade sets the cups down and steps back.

The pressure beneath my ribs pulses again.

Harder.

The open cooler water trembles.

Just once.

A ripple across the surface.

I stare at it.

Nobody else seems to notice.

Except Silas.

His head turns slowly toward the cooler.

Of course.

Trey follows his gaze.

The water goes still.

My mouth dries.

Old wiring, I tell myself, which makes no sense because water isn’t wiring.

Wind, maybe.

Except the air has gone dead.

Even the cheerleaders at the fence have stopped whispering.

A flock of birds explodes from the stadium lights all at once, black shapes scattering across the pale afternoon sky.

Drake looks up. “That’s not creepy at all.”

Trey’s attention snaps back to me.

Not to the birds.

Me.

Like somehow I’m the problem.

Which is ridiculous.

I am five-foot-four, underfed, unpaid, and holding a clipboard.

My threat level is mostly limited to sarcasm and tripping over flat surfaces.

“Leave,” Trey says again.

This time it sounds different.

Less order.

More warning.

“I’m not afraid of you.”

“You should be.”

The answer comes too fast.

Not threatening.

Almost desperate.

My anger falters.

I hate that.

I need anger. Anger is useful. Anger keeps shame from getting comfortable.

“Stay away from me,” I say.

Then I shoulder past him.

My arm brushes his.

Less than a second.

Nothing.

Everything.

The world stops.

Heat flashes beneath my skin.

Not warm.

Not pain.

Recognition.

The pressure in my chest erupts so violently I gasp.

The cooler water slams against the plastic sides.

Every paper cup rattles.

The stadium lights flicker.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

Someone screams from the fence.

Drake goes completely still.

Kade pales.

Silas whispers something I don’t catch.

Trey inhales sharply.

His pupils flare impossibly wide, then shrink again, like something inside him just woke up and decided the world had made a terrible mistake.

I jerk away from him.

My pulse pounds in my ears.

“Don’t touch me.”

My voice comes out thinner than I wanted.

I hate that too.

Trey stares at his own arm.

Not me.

His arm.

Like it betrayed him.

When he finally looks up, the cruelty is gone.

So is the confusion.

Only walls remain.

Thick ones.

Practiced ones.

For the first time, I wonder who taught him to build them.

“So that’s why,” he says.

Barely audible.

I don’t know what he means.

I don’t want to know.