The final whistle splits the air and the stadium explodes. Grayson's team won by a single point—a field goal in the last thirty seconds that sends the gold and black section into hysterics.
I watch from the sidelines as my brother is hoisted onto his teammates' shoulders, golden and perfect, the conquering hero who delivered exactly what everyone expected.
And I'm still wearing Rhys's jacket.
The silver and crimson fabric hangs heavy on my shoulders, his scent wrapped around me like a secret I can't hide.
I need to leave before anyone notices. Before anyone asks why the head coach's halfblood daughter smells like the enemy captain.
"Sloane."
My brother materializes beside me, still sweaty from the game. His nostrils flare once, twice, before his eyes drop to the jacket ans the victory drains from his face.
His hand lands on my shoulder—firm pressure that looks protective from a distance. He doesn't stop walking until we're behind the equipment shed, out of sight, out of earshot.
"Why do you smell like Rhys Vance?"
"I was cold." I keep my voice flat. "He gave me his jacket."
"He gave you his jacket." Grayson stares at me like I've announced I'm joining a vampire cult. "Rhys Vance. The same Rhys Vance whose vampires dumped your lunch tray on the floor while he watched."
"I wasn't feeling well. He helped."
"He helped." He pinches the bridge of his nose—the same gesture our father makes when he's trying not to lose his temper. "You cannot be this stupid, Sloane. Vance is dangerous. He's a manipulative bastard who will use anything—anyone—against his rivals."
"Including naive little sisters who don't know better?"
"Including naive little sisters who don't know better." He throws my words back without flinching. "If Rhys is paying attention to you, it's because he wants to hurt me through you. You're a tool to him, a weakness. Do you understand that?"
My nails dig into my palms. "Did you even notice I disappeared during the match?"
He frowns. "What?"
I was trapped in an elevator — and you know what small spaces do to me. I couldn't breathe. I was—" I stop myself before I say too much. "I needed help, Grayson. Did you notice I was gone?"
"I was focused on winning." He says it like it's obvious. Like it explains everything. "The team needed me."
"The team." I step closer, and my voice comes out steadier than my hands. "That's funny. Because the mean, manipulative bastard noticed. He was there when I was breaking apart. He helped me when no one else would."
"Sloane…"
"Where were you, big brother?" The words scrape against my throat. "Leading your team to victory by one point while your naive little sister suffered alone?"
Something shifts in his expression—a crack, a flicker of the brother he might have been if our family wasn't so… wrong. Then it hardens into the same cold indifference I've been staring at my entire life.
"Rhys helped you because it serves him somehow." His voice goes flat. "Vampires don't do anything without a reason, don't mistake strategy for kindness."
"And what's your excuse?"
He doesn't answer, just turns and walks away.
"Return the fucking jacket," he throws over his shoulder. "And stay away from Rhys, I don't have time to clean up your messes."
I watch him disappear around the corner—golden and victorious and completely incapable of seeing me as anything other than a problem to be managed.
My dorm room is dark when I get back. I lock the door, sit on my bed, and flip open my Blackmoor-issued laptop. Every student gets one—hardwired into the Veil, the supernatural community's closed network. The kind of information I need doesn't exist on the human internet.
The search bar blinks at me before I type "supernatural hybrids" and hit enter before I can talk myself out of it.
The results fill my screen. Hundreds of articles, forums, academic papers—all documenting the various combinations that exist in our world.
Vampire-human. Werewolf-fae. Witch-shifter. Each with their own stigma, their own challenges, their own carefully ranked position in the hierarchy of acceptable bloodlines.
I scroll past the common ones, past the ones like me—half-human, half-wolf, tolerated but never accepted. Then I find it.
Vampire-werewolf hybrids: The forbidden combination.
My finger hovers over the link and I click, and the article loads with a warning banner across the top: This content contains references to historical violence and extermination practices.
I read anyway, my pulse thudding in my ears.
The vampire-werewolf hybrid is considered the most dangerous and reviled combination in supernatural society. Unlike other hybrid types, which are merely stigmatized, V-W hybrids are actively eliminated at birth whenever discovered. The combination of vampire immortality with werewolf transformation capabilities creates an unpredictable and potentially uncontrollable entity.
Most ancient bloodlines, including the Vance family, have strict protocols for detecting and eliminating such anomalies before they can mature.
I close the laptop. My hands are shaking.
The Vance family with their strict protocols, their obsession with pure bloodlines, their history of eliminating anomalies before they can mature.
Rhys can't be one, it's impossible. The Vances would never let something like that survive, let alone thrive. Let alone become captain of their football team.
He's probably just a halfblood like me. Vampire-human, hiding his human weakness behind that cold, perfect mask. That would explain the amber flash in his eyes.
Halfbloods recognize each other, even when we're pretending we don't.
I pull his jacket from my bag and feel the soft fabric against my fingers. His scent clings to the collar—cold and expensive and something darker underneath that I noticed in the elevator.
Something that didn't belong in a usual vampire's cooper scent.
I press it to my face before I can stop myself and breathe him in. My eyes close, and I hate myself for how safe it makes me feel. Hate that his scent on my skin feels more like home than my own family ever has.
He tormented me. Called me mutt. Told me I make him sick.
But I remember his hands on my shoulders when my bones were breaking wrong. His voice cutting through the agony, calm and certain, guiding me through a transformation he shouldn't have understood.
Grayson says Rhys helped me for strategic reasons. Maybe he's right. Maybe vampires don't do anything without calculating the benefit.
But strategy doesn't explain how Rhys knew exactly what a hybrid transformation feels like. Strategy doesn't explain why his eyes flashed amber—the same amber as mine.
I fold the jacket carefully and set it on my pillow. His scent will be in my sheets by morning. I should care about that. I don't.