II

Jake Tanner was human, and it was written in every sharp, calculated movement he made. At 5’10”, he was lean, all wiry muscle and rigid posture, his dark blond hair always cut too short, too neat, like he needed control over everything, even that. Jake played the game like it was a math problem, analyzing, calculating, hesitating just long enough to be a second too late. When he dodged, it was never instinct—it was planned. But planned moves were predictable, and predictable got you hit. His pale blue eyes were too focused, too locked in, always watching angles, distances, trajectories, but never feeling the rhythm of the game. Humans moved in straight lines. Werewolves moved like water. I had sat next to Jake in class before, worked on projects together, exchanged the kind of easy conversation that never went beyond surface level. He was the type of guy who always had the answer before the teacher even finished asking the question, the type who never fumbled, never let anyone see him get something wrong. But here, in this game, against wolves, he was always a step behind.

Jace Lawson was different. He was a wolf, but not just any wolf. A predator. At 6’1”, he had a presence that made space around him feel smaller, more dangerous. Everything about him was sharp, the line of his jaw, the cut of his dark brows, the way his gray eyes never looked at someone without seeing right through them. His black hair was perpetually tousled like he never cared enough to fix it, but it didn’t matter. He didn’t need to try. Jace was the kind of guy who made people nervous without saying a word. In dodgeball, he didn’t just play, he hunted. He was always two steps ahead, always in control. He never threw the ball too soon, never wasted a shot. He waited, tracking his target, watching the way they moved, the way they breathed, then struck when they least expected it. I had grown up with him in the pack, but Jace had never looked at me the way he looked at the others. There was no challenge in his eyes when they met mine. No acknowledgment. I wasn’t worth playing with. I wasn’t a wolf, and to him, that meant I wasn’t anything at all.

The difference between humans and werewolves—Me.

I was supposed to be keeping up. I was supposed to be moving. But I wasn’t. My head felt too full, my body too slow. My breath was too loud in my ears, like I was underwater, drowning in the sounds of my own pulse. The sky outside was turning darker, the clouds pressing down like they were alive, thick with a storm that hadn’t broken yet. A low rumble crawled through the air, vibrating in my bones, warning of rain. My stomach turned at the thought of it. If we stepped put of the gym room under the rain. Wet werewolves. The scent of damp fur and raw earth. It would cling to everything, settle in the air like smoke, impossible to escape.

“Feyre!”

Coach Calloway’s voice barely registered. It was distant, muffled, like I was listening through a thick wall. I could feel his eyes on me, sharp and impatient, but I couldn’t force myself to focus. My head kept drifting, my eyes moving from one face to the next, picking them apart, categorizing them, sorting them into human and wolf, over and over, as if my brain couldn’t stop.

Another rumble. Closer this time. The gym lights flickered. My breath hitched.

Then—

Pain.

A shove, hard and brutal, slamming into my ribs with the force of a truck. My feet tangled, my balance tipping, and for a split second, I braced for impact. The hard gym floor was rushing up fast, my arms too slow to catch me, but before I could hit the ground, a hand snagged my wrist, yanking me back with a grip so strong it made my bones jolt. My breath hitched. My head snapped up.

Leah Carter.

Of all people, it was Leah who had barreled into me, her golden-brown eyes wide, her fingers clenched tight around my arm like she wasn’t sure if she was holding me up or keeping herself steady. She never lost control. She was too fast, too precise, too aware of every inch of space around her. But now? Now she looked rattled.

And then I saw it. The phone in her other hand, gripped so tight her knuckles were pale.

Something was wrong.

The realization slotted into place as my gaze flicked across the gym. The game hadn’t stopped, not fully, but something had shifted. The humans kept playing, oblivious, but the werewolves… They had gone still. Their movements had lost their ease, their coordination disrupted, as if they were listening to something I couldn’t hear. The coach’s whistle blasted, sharp and insistent, but no one answered. None of the wolves turned. None of them reacted.

Werewolves were creatures of instinct, of fluid motion, of unspoken synchronization. They always moved together, like a pack even when they weren’t one. But now, that coordination was gone.

Something had happened.

I turned back to Leah, my stomach twisting, my pulse thrumming at the look on her face. "What?" I demanded, my voice quieter than I meant it to be. "What happened?"

She hesitated. Just for a second. But it was enough.

Leah Carter never hesitated.

A wince flickered across her face, like the weight of what she was about to say was pressing against her ribs, like just saying it out loud might break something inside her. And then, finally, she spoke.

"The Alpha," she said, voice tight. "Tobias Hale. He’s dead."