POV: Rena Vale
By third period they’ve hatched into full-grown monsters: “Rena’s sleeping with the Alpha King,” “Auren wants her back,” “She made them fight,” “She has powers,” “She’s manipulating both,” “She faked the glow with contacts,” “She fainted on purpose,” “She’s dangerous,” “She’s desperate.” Every version contradicts the last, and somehow each one gets louder. Hailey’s voice rides the current like a queen on a garbage barge, flinging lies with a smile.
“Caught her sneaking out of his car,” she announces outside Biology, not even bothering to lower her tone. “Think she charged him or was it a free sample?”
A few giggles spark and die when I walk past without looking up. That part hurts less than I thought it would; silence costs energy I don’t have. Lyria prowls inside my chest, restless. Breathe. Burn no one. We keep our heat for useful things.
Hallways split open around me as if contact is contagious. In English, whispers tuck themselves inside the scrape of chairs. In Chemistry, a girl I’ve never spoken to leans over her notebook and hisses, “She blinked and the burner sputtered—swear to God.” In the bathroom, two juniors pause at the sight of me and then pivot to the mirror like I’m not there, the air suddenly thick with body spray and scandal.
Lunch arrives like a punishment and a relief. Cafeteria sound hits—metal trays, sporks clacking, low roar of conversation that spikes whenever a rumor needs a stage. I angle toward the back corner out of habit, find an empty table, and lower onto the bench like sitting could count as hiding. Plate: apple, sandwich, a pile of something pretending to be pasta. Appetite: a thread. I break the sandwich into trembling halves, stare at bread that won’t answer questions.
Across the room, Hailey performs near the cheer table, sparkling water in hand, laughter pitched for maximum radius. “No, really,” she croons, “she thinks she’s special because two alphas glanced at her. Blink and they’ll trade her like a spare jersey.”
Lyria’s ears flatten. She wants you to bite.
“I’m not hungry for her,” I mutter to the apple, which smells like nothing.
Trays slide. Seats scrape. I keep my eyes on my food because scanning the room feels like inviting impact. A shadow falls over my table anyway, bringing cedar and soap and guilt.
Auren.
He drops his tray beside mine with a clatter, shoulders braced for boos that don’t arrive—only a fresh swell of whispers. He doesn’t look at anyone but me. “Ignore them,” he says, voice rough. “I’ll sit with you.”
“Auren—”
“No credit for your bravery,” he adds, a crooked attempt at a joke that doesn’t land. “Just… don’t be alone, okay?”
“I’m not a field trip.”
“I know.” He nudges his tray closer to mine like proximity can rebuild trust grain by grain. “But sitting alone while they circle? Feels like letting them win.”
“They don’t know what they’re circling,” I say, quiet.
“They never do.” He picks up a fork, stares at his food like it might tell him how to fix last night. “I’ll take the heat.”
“You already did,” I answer, too sharp. “You started the fire.”
He flinches, nods once. “I deserved that.”
I tear a corner off my sandwich and fail to eat it. The room reorients to this table as if the earth tilted; eyes slide, voices modulate. A sophomore trips over his own backpack, righting himself with a grin that breaks when our gazes brush. I look away.
“Rena—Rena,” Auren corrects, the nickname catching fire on his tongue. “I won’t talk about us. We can talk about nothing instead. Math. Weather. How terrible this pasta is.”
“Water,” I say, because humor feels like a costume too heavy to lift. “I could talk about water.”
“Hydration,” he agrees, grimly earnest. “Top-tier topic.”
He passes me his bottle without fanfare. I take it because refusing feels like making a speech. The first sip goes down like something I forgot I needed.
Conversation dips a note; a new hush ripples from the doors like a cold draft. I feel him before I see him, bones rearranging around the certainty.
Kai.
No announced entrance, no entourage, no crown—just all black and stillness configured into a man who changes room temperature by existing. Sunglasses tucked into his jacket now, eyes bare and storm-gray and scanning like he’s counting exits and threats and my heartbeats. He doesn’t slow when people notice him; people always notice him. The cafeteria opens in front of him without ever admitting it did, and somehow every footstep is soundless.
“Don’t,” I whisper to no one, to everyone, to the part of me that leans toward heat like a plant toward sun.
He doesn’t stop until he reaches my table. Not a word. Not a glance at Auren. He just lowers onto the bench on my other side, knees angled out, body turned slightly toward me as if gravity issued a private memo. The metal trembles under his weight. I smell rain on hot stone and the memory of last period’s hallway—his hands, my cheeks, the word steady.
Silence falls so fast you can hear starch stiffen. For a second, even Hailey forgets how to talk. The entire room freezes at the sight of both alphas silently claiming the same girl.
“Please stop doing this,” I whisper, not sure which of them I mean, not sure they aren’t the same problem.
Neither listens.
Auren clears his throat and leans forward so he can see past me, past Kai’s shoulder, past the wall of presence that doesn’t invite him. “We were—uh—talking about water.”
Kai turns his head a fraction, enough politeness to count, enough indifference to sting. “Hydration is wise.”
“Great,” Auren says, sarcasm twitching back to life. “We all agree on liquids.”
“Drink,” Kai says to me, not a command so much as a reminder he refuses to stop offering. “Your hands are still shaking.”
“I’m fine,” I lie.
“You’re vibrating,” he counters, soft.
“Vibrating is a kind of fine.”
“Not my favorite kind.”
“Mine neither,” Auren mutters, and I would laugh if my lungs weren’t rearranging around panic.
A chair leg shrieks across linoleum. The room flinches. Hailey rises from her throne of gossip, a smile already drawn like eyeliner. Two cheer shadows trail her, smirking. She glides toward our table with the determined grace of someone auditioning for tragedy.
“Oh, sweet,” she trills, stopping in front of us and pitching her voice for rows six through twelve. “We’re doing a charity lunch. One alpha per side. Very egalitarian.”
“Leave,” Auren says, tired.
“Sit,” Kai says, bored, without looking up. “Not here.”
“Make me,” she returns, eyes snapping to him—curious, calculating—then to me with vicious delight. “Rena, love, you’re leaking rumors all over the floor. Want a napkin?” She brandishes her sparkling drink, condensation diamonding her fingers. “Or maybe this helps wash off the ‘I’m so innocent’ act.”
Lyria rears, hackles high. She wants your scream. Don’t give it to her.
“Walk away,” I say, low.
“Aww.” Hailey leans in. “Did the Alpha King teach you that tone? The little whisper-command? It’s adorable you think you can—”
“Enough,” Auren snaps, standing halfway as if his body can block shame. He is shaking too, from anger. “Don’t—”
Kai’s posture shifts without rising; the air tightens as if the room remembered it has a spine. “You are done.”
“Am I?” She smiles wider—terrible mistake—and tips the can in her hand just enough to sparkle. “Because your little girlfriend is ruining lunch with her glow-stick temper.”
“Hailey,” I warn, calm stretched to a wire. “Don’t.”
“Or what?” She tilts her head, ponytail swinging like punctuation. “You’ll blink me into detention?”
“Walk. Away.” Each word costs me something. “Last warning.”
She considers, fake-thinks, then shrugs. “Let’s cool you off.” Cold hits my chest before I process the motion—sweet fizz, citrus sting, liquid sliding down my throat and collarbone, soaking my shirt, slicking into my lap. Gasps ricochet off tile. For half a second, time unspools slow enough to watch the droplets bead on my skin like tiny mirrors catching a storm. The bench jerks. Kai stands up so fast the table shakes.