Elara hated mornings. And not in the cute, relatable "ugh coffee first" kind of way that people posted on Instagram with sleepy selfies. No. She hated mornings because they meant stepping out of the safe cocoon of her room and walking into a building where every corner seemed designed to remind her she didn't fit.
That morning was no different.
The bus had rattled to a stop in front of Ashwick High, and Elara had clutched her backpack straps like they were the only things keeping her upright. The doors hissed open, letting in a cold gust of late autumn air. She stepped off, immediately greeted by the chaos of the front steps. Someone had dropped a soda can, and it fizzed against the concrete. A group of boys were laughing too loud, their voices echoing across the brick walls. And Vivienne. Always Vivienne—standing like she owned the steps, her perfect hair catching the early light like a halo.
Elara ducked her head, pretending to scroll her phone. Maybe if she looked small enough, invisible enough—
"Morning, Elara!" The voice was too bright, too eager. And too familiar.
Jessa, her silly friend. The one who couldn't keep her mouth shut even when silence would've been smarter. Jessa bounded up, her oversized hoodie dragging along one wrist because she always forgot to tie the strings. She had a grin wide enough to split her face in half, and Cheeto dust already smeared on her fingers.
Behind her lumbered Maxine—the "fat" one, though Elara hated thinking of her that way. Maxine was always chewing something. Today it was a granola bar, crumbs trailing down her front like some Hansel-and-Gretel breadcrumb path. She waved with her free hand, cheeks stuffed, like a chipmunk caught mid-heist.
And trailing them, of course, was Kyra. The wayward one. Headphones half-tucked under her tangled hair, eyeliner smudged like she'd slept in it, and a look that screamed she'd rather be anywhere else. She flicked a cigarette butt to the ground, stomping it out before a teacher could see.
Birds of a feather, right? Except not. They were the most mismatched flock in existence. If anything, they proved the saying wrong: opposites didn't just attract, they clung together out of sheer stubbornness.
"Elara, wait up!" Jessa called, skipping the last step and almost tripping over her shoelace. "You walk too fast. Like, geez, what's the rush? Did somebody put a fire under your butt?"
Maxine snorted, choking on a mouthful of granola. "Don't—don't say butt when I'm eating."
"Everything makes you choke," Kyra muttered, rolling her eyes. She adjusted her backpack strap with one hand, the other already fishing for gum.
Elara forced a smile, because that was what she always did. Smile, nod, let them fill the silence so she wouldn't have to.
Inside, the halls smelled of bleach and pencil shavings. Lockers slammed like gunshots. Elara moved through it all like a ghost, her friends orbiting her in their messy, chaotic ways.
First period was history. Mr. Caldwell droned at the front, his monotone voice battling the sound of someone tapping a pencil three rows back. Elara sat by the window, her notebook open, doodles sprawling in the margins. She should've been writing notes about the Treaty of Versailles, but instead she was sketching little wolves in the corners. Teeth bared. Eyes hollow. She didn't even realize she was doing it until Jessa leaned over and whispered, "Whoa, that's creepy but kinda cool. Are you, like, lowkey emo?"
Elara flushed, snapping the notebook shut.
The door banged open mid-lecture, and in swept Vivienne with her entourage. Of course. Late but untouchable. She didn't even apologize, just flashed that smile—the one that made teachers melt and boys trip over themselves.
Her eyes landed on Elara almost instantly. Like she had some radar for weakness.
"Elara Rivers," Vivienne purred, loud enough for the class to hear. "Still hiding by the window, huh? Afraid the sun might melt you?"
A ripple of laughter spread. Mr. Caldwell cleared his throat but didn't actually stop her. He never did.
Elara's face burned. She stared down at her desk, knuckles white around her pencil.
Maxine muttered under her breath, "Ignore her. She's just bitter she doesn't get first lunch."
But Vivienne wasn't done. She strolled past, her perfume cloud trailing behind, and "accidentally" knocked Elara's notebook off the desk. It landed with a slap, pages fanning open. Right on the wolf sketches.
Vivienne bent, scooping it up, flipping through the pages with exaggerated curiosity. "What's this? Oh my god, is this… fanfiction art? Are you writing, like, werewolf Twilight knock-offs?"
The class snickered.
Elara wanted the floor to open up and swallow her whole.
"She's obsessed," Vivienne announced, holding the notebook aloft. "Careful, guys, she might bite!"
More laughter.
Rowan was watching.
From outside the window, beyond the glass and the glare of sunlight, Rowan leaned against a tree. He couldn't hear every word, not exactly, but he didn't need to. He could feel it. The way Elara's shoulders hunched. The way her breath hitched. He knew humiliation when he saw it, and something hot and dangerous stirred in his chest.
He should've left. He had no business lingering near the school grounds. His pack would've ripped into him if they knew. But there he was, hidden by branches, eyes locked on the girl with the frayed backpack and the too-big hoodie.
His wolf snarled, low and restless. Protect her. Tear them apart.
Rowan clenched his fists, forcing the instinct down. Not yet.
Inside, Elara's day dragged on.
Second period: math. Numbers blurred together, her brain sluggish from the sting of humiliation. Jessa tried whispering jokes, but they fell flat. Maxine offered her half a cookie, which left grease marks on Elara's worksheet. Kyra skipped entirely, probably smoking behind the gym.
Third period: English. The teacher asked for volunteers to read their essays aloud. Elara prayed not to be called, but of course her name was pulled. She stumbled through her words, voice shaking, until someone—Vivienne, obviously—coughed "loser" under their breath. Laughter again.
By lunch, she was a hollow shell.
The cafeteria buzzed with noise. Elara and her friends claimed their usual table in the corner, near the vending machines that sometimes ate your dollar and never gave it back. Maxine piled her tray high—burgers, fries, two chocolate milks. Jessa talked with her mouth full, words tripping over each other. Kyra scrolled her phone, ignoring them all.
And Elara just… sat. Picking at her sandwich. Pretending not to notice Vivienne across the room, pointing and whispering with her perfect little clique.
Rowan watched from the bleachers of the football field, just beyond the cafeteria's glass wall. He could see her even here. The way she folded into herself, small and invisible. It made something inside him ache.
He shouldn't care. He didn't care. Or so he told himself. But then he heard it—the faintest sound carried on the wind. Vivienne's voice, cruel and sharp:
"Honestly, she's like a charity case. Who even hangs out with her? That freakshow squad? Pathetic."
Rowan's jaw tightened. His wolf surged, claws scratching beneath his skin.
Not yet.
But soon.
---
Lunch was a battlefield, but not the kind with swords or guns—worse. A social battlefield. One wrong step and you got torn to pieces with laughter instead of bullets.
Elara tried to disappear into her sandwich, chewing slowly, staring at the crumbs on the table like they were fascinating. Jessa was rambling about some TikTok trend where people pretended to faint in public for views (and of course she wanted to try it in the hall later), Maxine was midway through her second milk carton, and Kyra was drawing little skulls in Sharpie on the table.
Normal. Chaotic, but normal.
And then Vivienne swooped in like a hawk spotting prey.
She sashayed past their table with her little gang, tray perfectly balanced, not a hair out of place. And she smiled. Not the nice kind. The smile of a cat who just saw the canary trip.
"Oh, careful, Elara," Vivienne cooed, voice dripping with false concern. "Don't spill your food again like last week. Maybe tie your shoelaces this time?"
Elara froze. She hadn't tripped last week. She hadn't. But Vivienne was rewriting reality, like she always did, and everyone nodded along because her word was gospel in this stupid school.
Jessa muttered, "She's such a cow." Too loud.
Vivienne's eyes flicked to Jessa. Then back to Elara. Her smile sharpened. "At least I'm not hanging out with the Island of Misfit Toys. Honestly, what even is this little group? Snack bar, clown, delinquent, and… oh right. You. The quiet one."
Maxine bristled. "Excuse me? Snack bar? At least I don't starve myself like you."
Vivienne's girls gasped. Drama fuel. Perfect.
"Oh, sweetie," Vivienne said, tilting her head, "you don't starve—you just… store." She made a puffed-cheek gesture, and the table behind her burst into laughter.
Elara wanted to scream. She wanted to stand, flip the tray, dump Vivienne's perfect lunch all over her perfect blouse. But her body betrayed her. She sat there, nails digging into her palms, burning silently.
Jessa slammed her soda can shut. "You're disgusting."
Vivienne didn't even blink. "And you're irrelevant."
The cafeteria roared. Phones came out. Someone was recording. Elara saw the little red dot of a Snapchat video and wanted to vanish.
Her heart pounded. Her friends were fighting her battles, but somehow it just made her look weaker. Like she couldn't even defend herself, needed her "loser army" to do it for her.
Then Vivienne reached out—snatched Elara's sandwich right off the tray.
"Ew, what even is this? Turkey? So… basic." She wrinkled her nose, then tossed it back onto the tray, meat sliding out, bread hitting the edge with a wet slap. "Enjoy, freak."
The whole cafeteria howled.
Elara's throat closed. The humiliation crawled up her skin like fire ants. She pushed her tray away, unable to eat.
Rowan saw it all.
From the football bleachers, beyond the glass, he watched her shrink smaller and smaller while laughter filled the air. His nails dug into his palms until they drew blood. His wolf begged, now, now, now. To storm in. To rip Vivienne's cruel little smile right off her face.
But Rowan held still. Because storms didn't hit when you expected. They built. They gathered. And when they finally broke, they left nothing standing.
He'd wait.
---
The rest of the day blurred for Elara.
By last period, her legs felt like lead. She was sure everyone had seen. Everyone had laughed. By tomorrow, the video would be on every phone. She could almost hear it already: whispers in the hall, "Did you see the freak's lunch?"
She walked home alone, earbuds in but no music playing, just static silence. The streets were lined with bare trees, branches rattling in the cold wind.
Halfway down the block, she felt it.
That sensation again. The weight. The prickling at the back of her neck.
Someone watching.
She spun, but the street was empty. Just shadows and leaves skittering.
Her breath quickened. She pulled her hoodie tighter, forcing herself forward.
At the edge of the forest, something shifted. Not loud. Just a crunch of leaves. She froze.
And then, for a split second, she swore she saw him.
A figure between the trees. Dark hair. Broad shoulders. Eyes glowing faintly in the dusk.
Rowan.
No—couldn't be. Just her mind. Just exhaustion.
She blinked, and the figure was gone.
But the feeling lingered all the way home.
---
Elara's house wasn't safe. Not really. Her dad's snores rumbled from the couch, beer bottles on the floor. The TV played some game show no one was watching. Her mom wasn't home, again. Out working—or pretending to.
Elara slipped upstairs without a word, into her room, locking the door.
Only then did she let the tears come. Quiet ones, because crying loud felt like announcing weakness to the walls. She buried her face in her pillow, heart aching with something too heavy for words.
She wanted to be stronger. Wanted to be the girl who snapped back, who didn't care, who laughed in Vivienne's face. But she wasn't. She was the girl who sketched wolves in notebooks and prayed no one noticed.
And maybe that was why she saw him again.
From her window. Standing at the tree line. Not moving. Just watching.
Rowan.
And this time, she didn't look away.
---