Rhys’s POV
The dining hall has split itself down the middle like a wound that won't heal.
Gold and black banners hang from the left side—werewolf territory, marked by loud voices and louder confidence. Silver and crimson dominate the right, my side, where the Fangs sit in calculated silence.
We don't need to howl to make a point.
Tonight is the first match of the season. Wolves versus Fangs. Two games to prove ourselves before the academy selects the best players from both teams for the combined regional squad.
One squad. One captain.
One captain’s name carved into Blackmoor's history forever.
I've trained for years, sacrificed everything, built myself into the kind of player they can't ignore. And Grayson Imler wants that captain position just as badly.
His daddy coaches the Wolves as well, which means half the selection committee already has his name circled in red.
I don't have a daddy on the committee. I just have to be undeniable.
"They look nervous." Aaron tears into his rare steak, blood pooling on his plate. "Check out Grayson. He's been grinding his jaw for ten minutes straight."
I glance across the hall and see the golden wolf holding court at the center table, surrounded by his pack like a king with his knights.
He doesn't look nervous to me. He looks like someone who's never been told no in his entire privileged life.
"He should be nervous," I say. "We're going to destroy them."
"Damn right." Marcus grins, fangs catching the light. "The first game sets the tone. We crush them tonight, the committee takes notice, and the second game seals it."
"The committee's already taking notice." I push my untouched plate aside. "Grayson's been running his mouth about legacy and tradition. Like bloodline matters more than performance."
"His daddy's the head coach. That's gotta count for something."
"It counts for nothing." My voice comes out harder than I intended. "The best player leads. End of story."
Marcus raises an eyebrow but doesn't push. Smart man. He opens his mouth to change the subject, but his eyes drift toward the entrance and the grin on his face sharpens into something cruel.
"Well, well… Look who decided to show her hybrid face."
I follow his gaze and see Sloane Imler stands in the doorway, tray in hand, scanning the divided room. Those bright brown eyes sweep across the gold and black section, then the silver and crimson, searching for somewhere to land.
She straightens her spine and I'm starting to recognize that move—the way she armors herself before walking into battle.
She heads toward the Wolves' side, toward her brother's table, but doesn't make it far as a linebacker steps into her path.
I can't hear what he says, but his body language is clear enough—arms crossed, chin lifted, wall of muscle blocking her way. Sloane tries to move around him. Another wolf shifts to cut her off. Then another.
"This should be good." Marcus nudges the vampire beside him. "Watch."
Someone gestures to an empty seat and Sloane reaches for it. Then they yank it away at the last second, and laughter ripples through the gold and black section.
Grayson doesn't look up. Doesn't move. Doesn't do a damn thing except study his phone like his sister isn't being humiliated fifteen feet away.
Sloane's face goes carefully blank as she retreats toward the neutral corner near our territory, trying to find an empty table along the edges.
Two of my teammates rise from our table.
"Wrong side, mutt." The first one blocks her path. "This isn't the kennel."
"Maybe she wants to eat with real supernaturals." The second one circles behind her. "Or maybe she wants to wear her food instead."
Sloane steps backward and her tray tilts. She tries to catch it, but someone bumps her elbow—casual, deliberate—and the tray crashes to the floor. Pasta and red sauce splatter across the tile.
The Fangs erupt. The Wolves join in. For one beautiful moment, the entire dining hall is laughing at the girl standing in a puddle of her own dinner.
Sloane doesn't cry. Doesn't scream.
Doesn't give them a single thing they want. She crouches down and starts picking up the mess with her bare hands.
Pasta slipping through her fingers. Sauce staining her sleeves, spreading up her forearms as she gathers the broken pieces of her tray. A strand of hair falls across her face and she doesn't push it back—won't give them the satisfaction of seeing her hands shake.
No one helps her. No one stops laughing. Her brother types something on his phone, thumb moving casually across the screen, fifteen feet away and a universe apart.
My jaw tightens and I force it to relax.
She’s not mine to protect. She’s not my problem.
Sloane stands, sauce on her hands, on her clothes, smeared across her cheek where she must have touched her face without realizing. Her chin stays up and eyes dry.
She walks out of the dining hall without looking at anyone. Without looking at me.
She didn't eat. She probably won't eat tonight. And tomorrow she'll walk back into this room like nothing happened, because that's what survivors do.
"Did you see her face?" Marcus drops back into his seat, still laughing. "Pathetic little halfblood thinking she could sit with real supernaturals."
"Hilarious." The word scrapes against my throat. "Mutts should know their place."
"Exactly." He claps my shoulder. "Now, about tonight. I'm thinking we open with the spread formation, pull their defense wide—"
I nod in the right places and make the right sounds. My eyes stay fixed on Marcus's playbook diagrams while my mind replays the image of her crouching on the floor, cleaning up the mess they made, refusing to break.
The performance of indifference while you shatter inside.
I know that feeling. I know it better than anyone at this table will ever understand.
"Rhys." Marcus snaps his fingers. "You listening?"
"Spread formation. Pull their defense wide." I drag my attention back. "I heard you."
"You sure? Because you look…"
"I look like someone who's about to win a championship." I push back from the table. "I need to prep, see you on the field."
I walk out before he can respond. The hallway is empty, quiet after the chaos of the dining hall, and my cleats echo against the stone floor as I head toward the locker room.
I should be thinking about the game. About formations and defensive reads and the sixty minutes that will determine whether the committee sees me as captain material.
This is what I've worked for. What I've sacrificed everything for.
I'm also thinking about brown eyes that flash amber when she's angry. About a girl who picks herself up when no one else will. About the way she looked at me in that equipment room—like she could see straight through every wall I've ever built.
Your breath smells like insecurity.
My hands curl into fists at my sides.
She's Grayson Imler's sister. She's a halfblood—the kind of weakness both sides love to punish. She's nothing but a distraction I can't afford, not with the captaincy hanging in the balance, not with everything riding on tonight.
I tell myself it doesn't matter.
The ghost of amber in her eyes—the same amber that bleeds into my own when I lose control—tells me I'm lying.