InkHeartAria.
Camille’s campaign is one of a thousand tiny cuts. My history textbook goes missing right before a quiz. A bottle of cloyingly sweet perfume is “accidentally” spilled all over my pillow, forcing me to sleep on the floor. Brina trips me in the dining hall, and no one helps me up.
I’m hiding in our room, skipping dinner, when Milla comes in. She sets a plate of food on my small desk.
“You can’t stay locked in here forever,” she says gently.
“I can try,” I mutter, staring at the wall. “It’s safer in here.”
“No, it’s not.” She sits on the edge of my bed, her expression serious. “They smell fear, Aria. Hiding makes you look like wounded prey. It makes them want to chase you.”
I just shake my head. “There’s nothing I can do.”
“Yes, there is,” she insists. “You can show up. The First Moon Party is tonight. Everyone will be there.”
I let out a harsh laugh. “Are you crazy? A party? In the woods with all of them? No, thank you.”
“You have to go,” Milla says, her voice firm. “If you don’t, you’re basically telling everyone that they’ve won. That you’re scared enough to lock yourself away.”
“I am scared,” I whisper.
“I know.” Her voice softens again. “But you can’t let them see it. We’ll go together. You’ll stick with me, and we’ll just be there. We’ll be seen, and then we can leave.”
I look at her, at the genuine concern in her eyes. She’s the only person here who has shown me any kindness.
“Why are you helping me?” I ask.
She gives me a small, sad smile. “Because I know what it’s like to be on the bottom of the food chain. Now, are you coming or not?”
I let out a long, slow breath. She’s right. Hiding is an invitation for a hunt.
“Fine,” I say. “But we leave the second it gets weird.”
“Deal,” she says, her smile brightening. “It’s always weird, so we can leave whenever we want.”
The party isn’t a party. It’s a gathering of predators. A massive bonfire crackles in a clearing deep within the academy’s woods, spitting embers into the damp night air. The scent of pine is thick, mixed with rain-soaked earth and the overwhelming musk of werewolves letting their wilder sides loose.
Music thumps from hidden speakers, a primal beat that seems to sync with my pounding heart. Students are gathered in tight-knit groups, their laughter sharp and cruel. I feel a hundred pairs of eyes on me as Milla leads me closer to the fire.
“Just act natural,” Milla says, her voice raised to be heard over the noise.
“Natural for who?” I ask. “The sheep or the wolves?”
She grabs two cups of some dark liquid from a makeshift bar. “Just drink this and try to blend in.”
The drink is bitter and strong, burning a path down my throat. It does little to calm my frayed nerves. I stay so close to Milla that our shoulders are constantly brushing.
“See that group over there?” she murmurs, nodding toward a cluster of hulking upperclassmen. “They’re the enforcers for the council. Stay away from them.”
“Noted,” I say, taking another swallow of my drink. “Stay away from everyone. Got it.”
“I’m just trying to help you learn the landscape,” she says. “Look, there’s Camille. Of course.”
I follow her gaze. Camille is standing near the very center of the clearing, practically holding court. She’s laughing, a hand placed possessively on the arm of the man standing beside her.
Prince Ronin.
He looks even more imposing out here, away from the structured halls of the academy. He’s dressed in black, the firelight catching the sharp planes of his face. He looks bored, his eyes scanning the crowd with a detached arrogance, like a king surveying peasants.
I quickly look away, my stomach twisting into a tight knot. “Okay, I’ve been seen. Can we go now?”
“Not yet,” Milla says. “We have to stay for at least an hour. Anything less looks like you’re running.”
An hour feels like a lifetime. We make small talk, but I can’t focus. My senses are on high alert, overwhelmed by the noise, the scents, the sheer oppressive power of everyone around me. I feel a strange pull, a prickling on the back of my neck, like I’m being watched.
I try to ignore it. I focus on Milla, on the drink in my hand, on the flames of the bonfire. But the feeling intensifies, a magnetic tug that I can’t fight.
Slowly, against my better judgment, I lift my head and scan the crowd again. My eyes search past the laughing faces, the dancing bodies, the political posturing.
They land on him.
Ronin is no longer looking bored. His conversation with Camille has stopped. He’s staring directly at me.
His eyes, which I thought were frozen lakes, are now dark, turbulent oceans. The world around me falls away. The music fades to a dull throb, the chatter of the crowd becomes a distant buzz, the heat of the fire on my skin disappears.
There is only him.
Something snaps between us. It’s not a sound, but a feeling. A visceral, soul-deep crack that echoes through every fiber of my being. It’s like a taut cord that has connected us across the clearing has just been pulled impossibly tight, vibrating with an ancient, undeniable power.
A single word explodes in my mind, a primal declaration that is not my own thought but a fundamental truth I suddenly know in my bones.
*Mate.*
The breath is stolen from my lungs. The ground seems to tilt beneath my feet. I see the shock of it hit him, too. His body goes rigid, his knuckles white where he grips his cup.
For a split second, I see raw, unguarded surprise on his face. A flicker of something wild and untamed.
Then it’s gone.
His expression shifts, morphing into something that shatters the fragile connection into a million pieces. It’s not joy. It’s not recognition. It’s not even acceptance.
It’s pure, undiluted horror.
His lip curls in a silent snarl. His eyes, now locked on mine, burn with a look of utter disgust, as if he just found something foul and rotten stuck to the bottom of his shoe.
And that something is me.