The shunning starts before lunch.
I approach a group of wolves outside the science building to ask about the equipment schedule for tomorrow's practice. Three players I've worked with for weeks, ones who at least acknowledged my existence before today.
"Excuse me—I need to confirm the blocking sled rotation for—"
They walk past me like I'm not there. Not a glance, not a word, not even a sneer. Just three bodies moving around an obstacle that doesn't deserve acknowledgment.
I try again at the cafeteria. A wolf I recognize from the defensive line sits alone at a table, finishing his lunch.
"Hey. Coach wants confirmation on the helmet inventory. Do you know if—"
He stands, picks up his tray, and walks to another table without looking at me once.
By the time I reach the training facility for my afternoon manager duties, I've been non-personed by eleven different wolves. The message is crystal clear: Grayson's orders. Social death, effective immediately.
The equipment room feels colder than usual. I work through my checklist in silence—sorting jerseys, logging damaged gear, organizing the medical supply cabinet. Every time a wolf passes the open door, their eyes slide right through me like I'm made of glass.
"Need the first aid kit."
I turn. A massive linebacker stands in the doorway—one of Grayson's inner circle.
"It's on the second shelf." I point. "Behind the tape."
He walks past me, grabs the kit, and leaves without a word. Like I never spoke. Like I don't exist.
The vampires are different. They don't ignore me—they watch. Every time I enter their section of the facility, silver eyes track my movements with calculating interest. Not friendly. Not hostile. Just... assessing. Measuring the halfblood who somehow landed their captain.
"You're Rhys's new pet."
I look up from my clipboard. A female vampire leans against the doorframe, dark hair cascading over one shoulder, beautiful in that cold, carved way all vampires seem to be.
"I'm his girlfriend, actually."
"Same thing." She tilts her head, studying me like I'm a specimen under glass. "Word of advice? Don't get comfortable. His attention spans are... limited."
She's gone before I can respond, leaving me alone with my equipment lists and the growing certainty that I've traded one cage for another.
The sun is setting by the time I finish my duties. My phone buzzes with a text from an unknown number: Groundskeeper's cottage. 8 PM. Don't be late. No name, no signature, but I know who it's from.
The cottage sits at the edge of campus, half-swallowed by overgrown ivy and forgotten by everyone except the ghosts of groundskeepers past. The door creaks when I push it open, revealing a single room lit by battery-powered lanterns.
Rhys stands in the center, rolling mats spread across the floor. He's stripped down to a black t-shirt and athletic pants, and the casual clothes somehow make him more intimidating—less vampire prince, more predator.
"You're early." He doesn't look up from adjusting the mat edges.
"You said don't be late."
"I said eight. It's seven fifty-two."
"So I'm punctual." I drop my bag by the door. "What is this?"
"Training." He finally meets my eyes. "My girlfriend won't be weak prey. If you're going to walk around with my protection, you need to be able to defend yourself when I'm not there."
"I can defend myself."
"Can you?" He moves toward me, fluid and fast, and suddenly he's in my space—close enough that I have to tilt my head back to meet his gaze. "Show me."
"Show you what?"
"Hit me."
I blink. "What?"
"Hit me." He spreads his arms, leaving his torso open. "Anywhere you want. Give me your best shot."
I swing before I can overthink it—a right hook aimed at his jaw. He catches my wrist an inch from his face, grip firm but not painful.
"Telegraphed." He releases me. "I saw that coming from a mile away. Again."
I try a jab. He deflects it. I go for his stomach—he sidesteps. Every punch I throw, he blocks or dodges with infuriating ease.
"You're thinking too much." He catches both my wrists this time, holding them between us. "Fighting isn't chess. It's instinct. Reaction. You hesitate, you lose."
"Then teach me not to hesitate."
Something flickers in his eyes—approval, maybe. He releases my wrists and circles behind me.
"Stance first." His hands land on my hips, adjusting my position. "Feet shoulder-width apart. Weight on the balls of your feet, not your heels."
His chest presses against my back as he corrects my posture, and my breath catches. His fingers slide down my arms, repositioning them in front of my face.
"Guard up. Always protect your face." His voice is low, close to my ear. "Elbows in. You leave gaps, someone will exploit them."
We drill for an hour. He shows me how to throw a proper punch—rotating from the hip, driving power from my legs. How to block, how to slip, how to use my smaller size as an advantage instead of a weakness. And through it all, he keeps touching me—a hand on my waist to adjust my balance, fingers correcting the angle of my elbow, his body behind mine guiding my movements.
"Again." He backs up, dropping into a ready stance. "Come at me."
I lunge. He deflects, spins me around, and takes me down to the mat in one fluid motion. His body covers mine, pinning me flat, his weight pressing me into the foam.
"Dead." His face hovers inches above mine. "If I were your enemy, you'd be bleeding out right now."
"Then get off me so I can try again."
He doesn't move. His gray eyes search mine, and I become acutely aware of every point of contact—his thighs bracketing my hips, his chest against mine, his hands pinning my wrists above my head. The cold heat of his skin seeps through my shirt.
"You're distracted," he murmurs.
"I'm not."
"Liar." His lips brush my ear, and a shiver races down my spine. "Your pulse just spiked. Your breathing changed. You're thinking about something other than fighting."
I am. I'm thinking about his weight on top of me, the cold heat of his skin through the thin fabric of my shirt, the way his body fits against mine like it was designed to be there.
"Maybe I'm thinking about how to get out of this hold."
"Are you?" He shifts, pressing closer, and my hips arch involuntarily. His jaw tightens. "Because your body's telling a different story."
He holds the position a beat too long. Two beats. Three. His eyes drop to my mouth, and for one breathless second I think he's going to kiss me.
Then he releases my wrists and rolls off, putting distance between us. The sudden absence of his weight leaves me feeling strangely hollow. "Again. And this time, focus."
We go three more rounds. He pins me every time, and every time he holds the position just long enough to make my skin burn. By the time he calls an end to the session, I'm sweating, breathless, and more confused than when I started.
"Same time Thursday." He tosses me a water bottle. "Practice the combinations I showed you. Muscle memory takes repetition."
I catch the bottle and take a long drink. The water is cold, grounding—a reminder that this is training. Just training. Nothing more.
"When do we work on my transformation?"
The question hangs in the air. Rhys goes still, his back to me as he rolls up the mats.
"Not yet."
"You promised to teach me control. That was the deal."
"I said I'd teach you." He straightens, but he doesn't turn around. "I didn't say when."
"Rhys—"
"You're not ready." His voice has gone flat, closed off. "Combat first. The other stuff comes later."
"What are you hiding?"
He turns then, and his expression makes me take a step back. The playful predator from training is gone, replaced by something cold and guarded.
"Same time Thursday," he repeats. "Don't be late."
He walks out without another word, leaving me alone in the cottage with my questions and the ghost of his weight still pressed against my skin.
He's hiding something—something about the transformation, about what he knows, about why he's so reluctant to teach me the one thing I need most. And I'm going to find out what.