My phone buzzes at 7:03 AM, before I've even finished pretending I slept last night.
Dad: My office. 8 AM. We need to talk.
The walk across campus takes ten minutes. Everyone I pass looks through me, like half a wolf is worse than no wolf at all.
My father's office smells like leather and old victories. Trophies line the shelves—championship after championship, golden wolves frozen mid-howl, dates stretching back decades.
Marcus Imler, head coach of the Blackmoor Wolves, legacy of pureblooded excellence.
And me. His halfblood daughter. Perched on the edge of a chair that probably costs more than my entire wardrobe.
"I want you as team manager."
I stare at him, waiting for the punchline. "Why?"
"I pulled your transcripts." He slides a folder across the desk. "Ninety-eight in advanced mathematics. Perfect score in statistical analysis. Your science teachers wrote that you notice details other students miss entirely."
He leans back, watching me from head to toes.
"You remember information most people forget within minutes. You're precise and organized. These are exactly the qualities I need in an assistant."
What he's not saying hangs between us like smoke.
I can't protect you from what's coming without making you look like you need protecting. This is the best I can do.
"So I'll be useful," I say. "Not just your daughter."
"You'll have a place here." His voice softens. "A role. Something that makes you belong."
Please don't make me choose between you and everything else. We both know how that ends. We both know you won’t be the choice.
"Okay." What else is there to say?
His shoulders drop with relief as he slides another folder across the desk—thicker this time, stuffed with forms and checklists.
"Your first task. Equipment audit for both teams before the joint practices start. Everything needs to meet league requirements. And I need signed confirmation letters from both captains."
Both captains. Grayson and Rhys.
My stomach tightens, but I take the folder. "When do you need it?"
"End of day."
Of course he does.
The Wolves' training facility is a temple to testosterone and athletic excess—weight rooms with equipment that could double as medieval torture devices, walls plastered with action shots of snarling players, the permanent smell of sweat and ambition saturating every surface.
I push through the doors with my clipboard and my equipment checklist and my desperate hope that maybe, just maybe, this will be easier than I think.
Two guys near the entrance stop mid-conversation and their eyes track me across the room.
"Coach's daughter," one mutters, loud enough to carry. "Halfblood charity case."
"Dirty blood shouldn't touch our gear." The other one—a linebacker whose neck is wider than my entire torso—doesn't bother lowering his voice at all. "Someone should tell Coach his pet project is contaminating the equipment room."
Laughter ripples outward and I do what I always do. Keep my head up, my face blank, my hands steady on the clipboard even as my knuckles go white around the edges.
Grayson stands by the water cooler, surrounded by his inner circle. His eyes flick toward me for half a second before sliding away.
He heard everything and didn’t tell them to stop. Didn’t acknowledge I exist.
His silence is permission and they all know it. Great.
I work through my checklist. Tackling dummies—six, regulation weight. Blocking sleds—check. Helmets, shoulder pads, practice jerseys sorted by size and condition. I document everything, photograph the equipment tags, note the items flagged for replacement.
Three hours of pretending I can't hear the whispers, the snickers, the muttered slurs that follow me from station to station.
By the time I find Grayson again, my jaw aches from clenching.
"I need your signature." I hold out the confirmation letter. "Equipment audit for the joint practices."
He takes the paper without looking at me, scrawls his name across the bottom and hands it back.
"Don't embarrass me over there," he says quietly. "The Fangs are looking for any excuse to make us look bad."
I take the letter and leave without answering.
The Fangs' facility is colder. Literally colder—the temperature drops the moment I step through the doors, goosebumps prickling up my arms beneath my sleeves.
The vampires train in conditions that would have werewolves shivering within minutes. I have the same checklist, the same audit requirements and the same folder of forms clutched against my chest.
A blonde vampire with cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass notices me first. He circles around, blocking my path to the equipment room.
"Look what the wolves dragged in." He tilts his head, nostrils flaring. "Did they send their mutt to fetch?"
"Halfbloods make decent servants, at least." Another vampire appears at my shoulder, fangs flashing when he grins. "Maybe she can clean the locker room when she's done. Or when we’re done with her…"
"I'm here for the equipment audit." I keep my voice flat. "League requirements. I need access to your gear and a signature from your captain."
"Our captain." The blonde one laughs. "You want to talk to Rhys Vance about league requirements?"
"That's the job."
They exchange looks, and I see something pass between them—amusement, anticipation, the particular cruelty of predators who've just spotted wounded prey.
"Equipment room's in the back." The blonde one steps aside, gesturing with exaggerated courtesy. "Good luck."
I walk past them with my spine straight even as their laughter follows me down the corridor.
The equipment room is well-organized, at least. I work through my checklist methodically, photographing tags, noting serial numbers, documenting everything that meets requirements and flagging what doesn't.
The cold seeps through my clothes, numbing my fingers, but I keep writing. I'm almost finished when the temperature drops another ten degrees.
"Did Daddy give his little halfblood a job?"
I turn and immediately see Rhys fills the doorway, arms crossed, shoulder braced against the frame. His gray eyes track me like I'm something he's deciding whether to crush or catalog.
"Equipment audit." I hold up my clipboard. "League requirements. I need your signature."
"My signature." He pushes off the frame and moves closer. The cold radiating off his skin makes me want to step back, but I plant my feet. "Something to make you feel useful while the real players work?"
"Something to make sure your gear meets regulation standards." I pull the confirmation letter from my folder. "Sign here."
He doesn't take it and steps closer instead, close enough that I have to tilt my head all the way back to meet his eyes. Close enough that his breath ghosts across my face when he speaks.
"You don't belong here." His voice drops to something soft. Almost gentle. "Not in this room, not in this school. Not anywhere near me. You know that, right?"
"And yet here I am." My heart hammers against my ribs, but I keep my voice steady. "Sign the paper."
"Do I make you nervous?"
"You tell me." The words escape before I can stop them. "You're the one who keeps finding reasons to stand this close."
Something flickers in his eyes—something wild for one unguarded second before snapping back. His jaw tightens and he leans down until his mouth is inches from my ear.
"The only thing you make me is sick." His whisper raises every hair on my neck. "The smell of human blood mixed with wolf… is an offense to everyone in this building."
I should back down. Apologize. Scurry away like the good little halfblood everyone expects me to be.
Instead, I tilt my chin up. "Your breath smells like insecurity. Maybe worry less about my blood and more about losing to my brother again this season."
His jaw tightens. His gaze drops to my mouth for three full seconds before snapping back to my eyes. Something shifts beneath the cruelty, beneath the mask. Something that looks like hunger.
Then it vanishes and he snatches the paper from my hand. Signs it with a sharp, aggressive scrawl, and shoves it back against my chest hard enough to make me stumble.
"Here. Now get out."
I walk past him without looking back. My spine stays straight until I clear the corridor, until I push through the exit doors, until the afternoon sun hits my face.
Then my hands start shaking.
Both signatures. Job done. First day survived.
But I can still feel his eyes on me. The way his gaze dropped to my mouth. The way his voice said one thing and his body said another. Something happened in that equipment room. Something he didn't want me to see.
And I have no idea what it means.