The morning sun rolled lazily over Blackstone, drenching the rooftops in soft gold, but the Cross Estate sat higher than all of it, perched on the hill like a king watching over his kingdom. From its wide glass windows, the town stretched out small and neat below, unaware of the chaos that lurked in its shadows.
Inside, the house was quiet. Almost too quiet, the kind that only followed a night drenched in violence.
Logan was still out cold upstairs, his body trying to mend from the toll of the full moon. His room smelled of wolf and iron, the sheets tangled from his restless half-sleep.
Damien padded into the kitchen barefoot, wearing a black t-shirt that clung to his shoulders, white joggers, his dark hair damp from a quick shower. The cuts and bruises from last night had already started to fade—perks of being what he was. His expression, though, carried the exhaustion he could never heal.
Lucien stood by the counter, his broad frame commanding even in something as mundane as morning light. His salt-and-pepper hair was brushed back, his shirt sleeves rolled to the elbows, and in his hand, a steaming mug of coffee. The bitter scent filled the kitchen.
He glanced over his shoulder, his sharp eyes softening when they landed on Damien.
"You're up earlier than I expected."
Damien opened a cabinet, retrieved a mug, and poured himself coffee from the pot. He didn't bother with cream or sugar—just black, the way he always took it. He leaned against the counter, blew on the surface, then took a long sip.
"No point sleeping when the taste of wolf breath still lingers in the room," he muttered, his voice low and edged with that familiar sarcasm. "Trust me, I'll pass on the nightmares."
Lucien's mouth twitched, something between amusement and worry. He set his own mug down, turning slightly.
"How's Logan?"
Damien smirked, tired but unbothered. "Alive. Which, after last night, I'd say is a miracle. We managed to survive another full moon without him trying to redecorate the cave with my intestines. That's good news, right?"
Lucien chuckled under his breath, shaking his head. "You make light of it, but you know it's not easy for him. That boy's carrying more anger than most men three times his age."
"And I'm the lucky idiot who gets to chain him down every month," Damien quipped, lifting his mug in mock-toast. "Father of the year move, letting me babysit a rabid wolf."
"Don't talk like that," Lucien said, his tone gentle but firm. "You know he looks up to you. You're not just… managing him, Damien. You're keeping him alive. He wouldn't make it without you."
Damien's smirk softened for a flicker of a second. He hid it quickly behind another sip of coffee, the bitterness grounding him.
"Yeah, well. He owes me dinner at least."
The silence stretched, comfortable, broken only by the ticking of the clock on the wall. Outside, birds stirred, the town below waking to its normal, oblivious day.
Lucien leaned against the counter beside him, sipping his own coffee. His eyes, sharp and watchful as always, narrowed slightly.
"School resumes today."
Damien groaned audibly. "Don't remind me."
"You're a senior now."
"Which means I'm one year closer to never sitting in that godforsaken building again." He let his head fall back, eyes closing as though the thought alone drained him. "You know, Dad, some people actually enjoy high school. Then there's me—forced to sit in classrooms, pretending I don't already know half the syllabus. Absolute torture."
Lucien chuckled. "Endure it. Humor them. It's part of the balance we keep, Damien. Normal life keeps suspicion away."
"Normal life is overrated." Damien muttered. His jaw tightened, though, and he muttered almost under his breath, "I'll go. Doesn't mean I like it."
Lucien gave him a look, one that managed to be both stern and amused all at once. "That's all I ask."
Damien rolled his eyes, but for the first time since stepping into the kitchen, a faint smile tugged at his lips. He raised his mug again, voice dripping with sarcasm.
"Cheers to another thrilling year of pretending to be normal."
Lucien clinked his mug against Damien's, a rare moment of lightness between them.
"Thrilling indeed."
**********************
The mirror in the upstairs hallway didn't lie.
June tilted her head, tugging once at the hem of the cropped black top that ended just above the waist of her dark jeans. The loose jacket sweater draped over her shoulders gave her a softer edge, but nothing could really hide what the mirror reflected back: a girl who didn't belong here.
In Bel-Air, she would've walked out of the house draped in polished brands, every detail thought through by stylists or whispered opinions. Here in Blackstone, all she had was herself—and for the first time in a long time, that felt like enough.
Her long black hair fell in smooth, straight sheets down her back, glossy under the morning light. Her face carried the kind of beauty that didn't need decoration—high cheekbones, a soft curve to her jaw, lips that looked naturally tinted as if kissed by color. Her body, though slender, carried balance in all the right places—curves that drew the eye, lines that whispered femininity without effort. She wasn't tall; her height only added to the graceful proportion of it all.
Ordinary clothes, yes. But on her, they weren't ordinary at all.
"June!" Grace's voice exploded from downstairs, full of sunshine and impatience. "Let's gooo! We're gonna be late!"
June exhaled, a small smile tugging at her lips. Grace had enough energy for both of them.
She grabbed her backpack and descended the stairs. Grace was at the bottom waiting, her curly brown hair pulled into a high puff, her pull over slightly crooked as if she'd put it on in a rush. She grinned when she saw June.
"See? I told you—you look like a goddess. Blackstone High won't know what hit them."
June smiled, "It's just school, Grace."
The kitchen smelled faintly of coffee. Evelyn was already gone for her shift, a note left by the fruit bowl: Breakfast is in the oven. Be safe. Love you both.
They didn't linger. Grace had other plans.
Out in the yard, two bicycles leaned against the fence—well-loved, slightly squeaky, but reliable. Grace handed June the one with the faded pink frame.
"No cars, no chauffeur, no limo—welcome to real life," Grace said with a grin. "And don't worry, it's downhill most of the way."
June swung her leg over the bike, steady and confident, though the small-town simplicity of it all made her laugh under her breath. "This is different."
"Differently good," Grace corrected, already pushing off.
They rode side by side down the slope, the wind tugging at June's hair, the town spreading out below them like a picture. From up on the hill, she could see Blackstone in full—the diner, the narrow streets, the school brick-red against the gray morning sky.
Her chest tightened. This was her life now. No glittering Bel-Air parties. No long rows of palm trees. Just Blackstone.
But she wasn't afraid. She'd face it head-on, the way she always did.
Blackstone High was alive by the time June and Grace wheeled their bikes into the rack out front. The air carried a mix of chatter, laughter, and the metallic slam of locker doors from the open hallways.
Everyone knew everyone. That was the Blackstone rule. Last names carried weight here, faces were familiar, and stories—whether whispered or shouted—ran through the town like wildfire.
Which was why, when June Callaway stepped onto school grounds for the first time, she might as well have walked onto a stage.
Heads turned.
Not subtly, either. Conversations faltered mid-sentence, whispers sparked, and more than a few pairs of eyes followed the sway of her dark hair and the easy stride of her slender legs. She wasn't dressed like the others. No cheer-bright sweaters, no Blackstone Wolves team colors. Just dark jeans, a cropped black top under her loose jacket, casual and effortless—but on her, it felt out of place in the best way.
Grace noticed immediately and grinned with pride, looping her arm through June's as though to say, Yes, this pretty lady is with me.
The first voice came from somewhere near the steps.
"Who's that?" a boy whispered loudly enough for it to be heard.
"New girl," another answered.
"Figures. Never seen her face before."
June felt the weight of it—the stares, the curiosity, the judgment—but she didn't flinch. She didn't lower her gaze or fold inward. Instead, she lifted her chin and kept walking beside Grace, her eyes scanning the unfamiliar halls with quiet calculation.
Grace leaned close, whispering, "Told you. Instant celebrity. This is Blackstone—we feed on new faces."
A group of cheerleaders, perched like queens at the front steps, gave June a once-over, lips pursed. One whispered something to another, and they both giggled, but it wasn't the kind of giggle that made June flinch—it was the kind that made her smirk slightly, as though daring them to say it louder.
Inside, the hallways were narrow and buzzing with life. Posters of the Wolves' upcoming basketball game plastered the walls. Students stood in clumps by lockers, tossing books, sharing gossip. But wherever June walked, space seemed to clear around her.
Grace was the one talking, filling the air with chatter to cover the silence others left behind. "That's the science wing—don't bother, the teacher is a fossil. Cafeteria's straight ahead, food tastes like cardboard, but fries are decent. Oh, and—don't ever borrow pens from Riley. He'll charge you interest."
June smiled faintly, her attention flicking from face to face. She caught a couple of curious stares that lingered too long, a few approving nods, and one bold guy who winked at her before his friend smacked him on the arm.
They stopped at Grace's locker. Grace started swapping out books while June leaned against the cool metal beside her.
Grace shut her locker with a loud clang. "Don't let them scare you. They'll get over it. Tomorrow, somebody else will do something dumb and they'll all forget about you."
June tilted her head, "But today…?"
Grace smirked. "Today you're the main character."
The bell rang overhead, loud and jarring, and the current of students surged forward. Grace tugged at June's wrist, pulling her into the flow of bodies moving toward their first class.