The combined team's first practice starts with a declaration of war. I arrive early to set up equipment, dragging tackle bags across the field while the morning dew soaks through my sneakers.
My father paces the sideline with his clipboard, pretending he doesn't see me struggling with a blocking pad that weighs more than I do.
"Need help with that?"
I look up. One of the vampire players—tall, dark-haired, silver jersey stretched across broad shoulders—watches me with something between amusement and curiosity.
"I've got it."
"Suit yourself." He shrugs and jogs toward his teammates, glancing back once with a smirk that says he's filing this away for later mockery.
The players filter onto the field in waves. Wolves claim the left side, gold jerseys catching the afternoon light. Vampires drift to the right, silver and crimson moving in eerie synchronization.
Nobody crosses the invisible line down the middle.
Grayson arrives last, because of course he does. He strides through the facility like he owns every blade of grass, stopping to clap shoulders and exchange words with his wolves while pointedly ignoring the vampires.
Captain's privilege—the right to act like half his team doesn't exist.
Rhys stands among his vampires, arms crossed, face unreadable. Our eyes meet for one electric second before he looks away.
We haven't spoken since the corridor. Since footsteps interrupted whatever he was about to say. The not-knowing has been eating at me for days, but I refuse to chase him.
I made my move. The next one is his.
My father's whistle cuts through the tension. "Demonstration drill. One-on-one tackling. Captain leads by example."
Grayson's grin could power the stadium lights. "Happy to show the vampires how it's done, Coach."
"Vance." My father gestures toward the field. "You're up."
The silence stretches until I can hear my own heartbeat.
Captain versus best vampire—everyone understands what this is really about.
Grayson rolls his shoulders, already celebrating a victory he hasn't earned, as Rhys walks onto the field without a word, gray eyes fixed on his target.
They face each other across ten yards of grass, and the whistle blows.
Grayson charges forward, all power and aggression, expecting Rhys to crumble like he did in the championship game. But Rhys sidesteps at the last second—fluid, effortless—and Grayson's tackle catches nothing but air.
My brother stumbles, recovers, lunges again. Rhys spins out of reach like he's made of smoke.
"Come on, Grayson!" one of the wolves shouts. "Put him down!"
The third attempt is when things get interesting. Grayson commits fully, diving low to catch Rhys around the waist. But Rhys drops his shoulder and drives forward, using Grayson's momentum against him.
The impact echoes across the field as my brother hits the ground hard enough to bounce and Rhys stands over him for one perfect second.
Not gloating. Not celebrating.
Just letting the moment speak for itself.
My father's whistle sounds again. "Next drill."
And then the next. And the next.
Rhys dismantles Grayson piece by piece, each takedown more decisive than the last.
The smugness drains from my brother's face. The wolves stop cheering. The vampires stay silent, but I watch their spines straighten, their chins lift—pride rekindling from ashes.
By the final drill, Grayson is grass-stained and breathing hard while Rhys hasn't broken a sweat. He walks off the field without looking back, leaving my brother's humiliation complete.
I slip into the locker room while everyone's distracted, needing to organize equipment that definitely doesn't need organizing. The space is quiet, empty, rows of lockers standing like silent witnesses.
I think I'm alone, before cold hands catch my shoulders and spin me around.
My back hits the lockers with a metallic clang, and suddenly Rhys is everywhere—inches away, close enough that I can see the grass stains on his jersey and the sheen of sweat on his skin.
His scent crashes over me, different from before. Wilder. Less controlled.
"You wanted protection." His voice is low, rough. "I'll give you protection."
My pulse jumps in my throat. "Just like that?"
"On my terms."
His hands are still on my shoulders, pinning me against the cold metal. I should push him away. I should be furious, but can’t stop my fingers from curling against the locker behind me, nails scraping metal.
"What terms?"
His mouth curves into something that isn't quite a smile as he leans closer, his breath ghosting across my cheek. "You're going to be my girlfriend."
The words land like grenades. I stare at him, certain I've misheard. "Excuse me?"
"Public. Official. You on my arm where everyone can see."
His gray eyes bore into mine, and there's nothing cold about them now.
"Every day, your brother will watch you walk through those halls with me. Every day, he'll see exactly who owns his precious sister."
My breath catches. The word owns should make me furious—should make me shove him away and tell him I'm not property to be claimed. Instead something twists low in my stomach, hot and unwanted.
"Owns." I force the word out past the tightness in my throat. "That's an interesting way to describe a business arrangement."
"Is that what this is?" He tilts his head, studying me. "You came to me with an offer. Protection for silence. I'm simply... adding conditions."
"Conditions that benefit you."
"Conditions that benefit us both."
He leans closer, and I press harder against the locker, but there's nowhere to go.
"You want your brother off your back? Nothing will piss him off more than watching you date his greatest rival. You want the bullying to stop? No one touches what's mine."
"I'm not yours."
"Not yet." His lips brush the shell of my ear, and my knees threaten to buckle. "But you will be. Publicly, at least. What happens privately..." His voice drops to a whisper. "That's up to you."
My heart hammers so hard I'm sure he can hear it. "Why? Why would you want this?"
He pulls back just enough to meet my eyes.
"Because I enjoyed watching your brother's face when I put him in the dirt. Enjoyed it more than any touchdown I've ever scored." Something dark flickers in his gaze. "I want to see that expression every single day. And you're going to help me."
"So I'm a weapon." My voice comes out steadier than I feel. "A tool to use against Grayson."
"You were already a tool." He says it without cruelty, just fact. "To your brother. To your father. To everyone at this school who sees you as nothing more than the coach's halfblood daughter."
His thumb traces my collarbone, feather-light.
"At least with me, you'll get something in return."
He pushes off the locker and steps back. Cold air rushes in where his body heat used to be, and I hate how much I feel the loss.
"Think about it." He's already walking toward the door, already back in control while I'm pressed against the lockers like I've forgotten how my legs work. "You know where to find me."
The door swings shut behind him, and I stay frozen, heart pounding, his scent still clinging to my skin.
Every rational part of me is screaming to march out there and tell him exactly where to shove his terms and his arrogant assumption that I'll agree to anything.
But rational isn't what's running the show right now. The word owns is.
About his lips at my ear and his thumb on my collarbone and the way he looked at me like I was something worth claiming.
I'm thinking about my brother's face when he sees us together—the shock, the rage, the loss of control he prizes so highly.
And I'm thinking about what Rhys said.
You were already a tool.
He's right. I've been used my entire life—by my brother, by my father, by everyone who saw me as leverage or liability. At least this time, I'd be choosing it.
At least this time, I'd get something back.