Rory’s POV

Morning comes too fast after too many memories I can’t unsee.

I lie still in the unfamiliar bed, staring at the ceiling through the faint beams of sunlight cutting across the floor. The sheets are too soft. The pillows too perfect. Everything smells like polished wood and faint lavender instead of home.

But I’m not at home. I’m in a mansion full of leather jackets and secrets. And last night, I watched a man scream as he lost three fingers.

What exactly are they? I wrap my arms tighter around myself. There’s a knock.

Soft. Measured. I don’t answer right away, so the door cracks open. A maid peeks in, young, dark-haired, wearing the same silver brooch as the others.

“Miss Vale,” she says gently, “your mother has instructed that you take your bath and come downstairs for breakfast.”

I blink at her. It takes me a second to remember what a normal morning is supposed to feel like.

Then I shrug. “Alright.” She gives a tight smile and disappears just as quietly as she entered.

I sit up slowly, dragging my legs over the edge of the bed. My chest is heavy. Not from grief exactly, grief is sharper, louder. This is something else. A quiet kind of emptiness. Like a hole was torn through me and the wind won’t stop slipping through.

I think about her. Celeste. My mother. I remember her laugh. I remember the smell of her shampoo when I was a child, how she used to hum under her breath while folding laundry. And then I remember how she vanished. No note. No phone call. Ten years of silence, and now she wants me to sit down for breakfast like we’re the freaking Brady Bunch.

I scoff under my breath. Mother. It’s almost funny. Almost.

I drag myself into the bathroom. The tub is claw-footed and enormous, like something ripped from a royal suite. I fill it with hot water, sink into it slowly, and let my head fall back against the porcelain.

The silence presses in again. But now, under it all, there’s a noise. A memory.

The crunch of bone. The wet sound of a knife splitting skin. Screams. I squeeze my eyes shut.

The man begged. I saw his face. I saw the blood. I dunk my head underwater just to make it stop.

When I finally come downstairs, my hair is still damp and clinging to my neck. I wear a simple black dress that fits like a second skin, one of the few clean pieces my mother packed for me. It’s plain but decent.

The heels clack against the marble stairs, and the sound makes my stomach turn.

They’re all already there. The dining table is long. Like everything else in this house, it feels excessive and cold. My mother sits at the head like a queen. Her husband, the tattooed man sits silently beside her. Jaxon slouches lazily in a chair halfway down the table, twirling a fork between his fingers, and Damien…

Damien sits across from an empty seat. My seat. I walk in without saying a word.

No “good morning.” No fake smiles. I just pull the chair back and sink into it, folding my arms on the table like I’m bracing for something.

I feel their eyes on me. My mother clears her throat. “Aurora.”

I raise an eyebrow but don’t look up. “Is something wrong?” She asks.

That makes me laugh. Not a real laugh. It was bitter and sharp. “Since when do you care if something’s wrong?”

She opens her mouth. Closes it. I see her fingers twitch on her crystal glass. “I’m trying,” she says quietly.

“Try harder.” I say then I pick up my cutlery and start eating.

There’s food already laid out, too much of it. Eggs. Sausages. Pastries. Things I’d never buy for myself. I stab a piece of fruit with my fork and focus on chewing so I don’t say more than I should.

That’s when I notice her. The maid. She’s tall. Blond. Pretty in that obvious, low-effort way. She’s pouring juice into glasses with too much sway in her hips. Her lashes flutter like she’s in a shampoo commercial. And the whole time, her eyes are locked on Damien.

Damien doesn’t even look at her. He just eats, methodically, precisely. Not a word, not a flicker of emotion.

Still, she hovers longer by his side. Reaches for his glass even though it’s full. Offers a folded napkin with an unnecessary little smile.

I blink. Is she serious? I look around. No one else seems to be noticing except Jaxon.

He catches me watching. Then her. Then Damien. His lips twitch into something that isn’t quite a smile. It’s more like... entertainment. Like he’s watching a show only he understands.

I shoot him a glare. He raises his brows innocently, like What?

I grit my teeth and stab another slice of melon.

“Darling,” my mother says suddenly, her voice snapping me out of it, “you’ll be starting college at Crescent Hills tomorrow. We’ve arranged everything.”

I choke on my food. “Tomorrow?” I cough, grabbing my water. “Are you—are you serious?”

She blinks. “Yes.”

“So you drag me across the country after my father dies, toss me into a mansion full of murder and matching leather jackets, and now you want me in class by Monday? Jesus.”

“It’s Thursday.”

“That’s not the point.” I openly oppose.

“You’ll be safer there.”

I slam my fork down this time, highly annoyed. “Safer than where? What kind of people chop fingers off in the guest lounge?”

Her jaw tightens. So does her husband’s. A pulse twitches in his temple, but he says nothing.

“I know this is hard for you,” she says calmly, “but this is what’s best.”

“You don’t get to decide what’s best. You forfeited that right ten years ago.”

Jaxon whistles low. “Yikes.”

I shoot him a glare too. That’s when the maid *Miss Flirty Sway Queen* returns again. Still trailing like a perfume ad, still pretending not to ogle Damien. She places a dish in front of him with a little unnecessary bow and what she must think is a sexy smile.

That's it! I've had enough of the rubbish. I straighten up slowly and wipe the corners of my mouth gently with the napkin before glancing at her

"What's your name?" I ask her casually.

Her face instantly lit up, as if she's just been handed a golden ticket.

"Indi," she replied while tilting her head.

I give her a curt nod. "Nice."

"Thank y-" she beams and is about to thank me when I cut her off.

"Tell me, Miss Indi... are you serving food, " I pause and give her a condescending look, "or are you serving your boobs?"

The room felt silent momentarily before someone choked on their drink and started coughing.

Jaxon sputtered whatever in his mouth and stared at me wide-eyed as if I had grown four heads.

Even Celeste couldn't help but blink rapidly at me.

Damien, on the other hand, freezes midway through his chew as if my words had put a pause on his movements.

Indi turns red. Not blush red, fire alarm red. Her mouth opens but no words come out.

Jaxon leans back, grinning. “Damn. Savage.”

Celeste clears her throat. “Aurora.”

“What?” I shrug. “Isn't she practically serving. I’m just trying to understand the service hierarchy here.”

“I’m so sorry,” Indi mutters, bowing her head before rushing out of the room, her face aflame.

Jaxon gives me a slow clap. Damien picks up his glass again like nothing happened. As if he didn’t just become the unwilling center of a food-fueled war.

“You’re welcome,” I mutter to him. He doesn’t say a word. Of course he doesn’t. After breakfast, I go back to my room. I don’t talk to anyone. I don’t try to make sense of anything.

But I feel better a little maybe. I stare out the window, my heart still pounding a bit too fast. This place, it’s a box of secrets. I don’t know where I fit. I don’t even know who I am anymore.

But I know one thing: If this is war, I’m not going down quietly.

Rory's POV

I can’t sleep. I don’t even try anymore. I just lie here, curled on top of the silk sheets that don’t feel like mine, in a room that echoes too much like a museum. My thoughts feel like static, humming against the walls of my skull. Every time I close my eyes, I see blood. The silver flash of a knife. The haunting stillness on Damien’s face.

And then, right after that, Indi’s flushed cheeks. Jaxon’s smirk. Damien’s silence.

Everything in this house is cold. Not just the air. The people. Even my own mother feels like she was sculpted from glass.

My hands tighten around the pillow I’ve been hugging for the past hour. My legs are tucked underneath me, one knee slightly sticking out from the oversized hoodie I threw on after the bizarre-like breakfast. The hoodie doesn’t even smell like me. It smells like detergent and unfamiliar drawers.

I hate it here. I hate how I feel in this place. Powerless. Watched. Too visible and yet invisible all at once.

I exhale. Then the door swings open with no knock nor hesitation.

I jolt upright like someone lit a match under my spine. My pulse skitters before I even see him.

Jaxon. Of course.

He walks in like he owns the place because he probably does. Hands in his pockets. Shoulders relaxed. That same damn half-smirk on his face like he’s perpetually in on a joke I’m not allowed to hear.

“What the hell?” I snap, instantly sitting straighter, my voice cracking the silence. “Do you not know how to knock?”

He shrugs, strolling closer without apology. “Doors are symbolic around here, they're not barriers.”

“Translation, you’re rude.” I say back back to him, obviously annoyed.

“Or maybe just curious.”

I narrow my eyes. “Curious about what?”

He doesn’t answer right away but just stares. And that’s somehow worse. The silence stretches between us, slow and deliberate.

Then he says, “You’ve got a sharp tongue.”

I arch a brow. “Gee. Thanks.”

“That’s not a compliment,” he says, grinning now. “It could get you killed.”

I blink. “What?”

He leans against the edge of my dresser like he’s giving me a casual lecture and not issuing a freaking death warning. “Crescent Hills isn’t like your world. You’re not in Kansas anymore, Aurora. Some of the wolves at the academy won’t take kindly to your little attitude. You’re human. You’ve got no strength. So maybe don’t go around slicing people raw with your words.”

He pauses. His gaze flickers, his tone sharpening slightly.

“And maybe don’t be too curious either,” he adds, his eyes locking on mine now. “Yesterday... if Damien hadn’t been there, things might’ve ended differently for you.”

“What does that mean?” I ask slowly, my chest tightening.

He exhales through his nose. “It means my father’s men wouldn’t have recognized you. They’d have seen a human sneaking around a restricted part of the house, probably assumed you were spying. And they don’t ask questions when they think someone’s a threat.”

I blink. “So they just kill people? Innocent ones? Butcher them like that?”

He doesn’t flinch. “If they have to then yes.”

A hollow feeling spreads in my chest, slow and sour. “That’s what you all do here?”

He tilts his head. “This isn’t your little safe world, Rory. People don’t play by your rules here. So if you want to survive it... you better learn ours.”

I shake my head. “You’re insane.”

“Maybe,” he says, grinning again. “But I’m not wrong.”

My jaw clenches. “Why do you even care?”

“Who said I do?”

He pushes off the dresser and takes a step toward me.

My breath falters. “Am I affecting you, Jaxon?” I ask, half-mocking, half-nervous.

His smirk deepens. “Absolutely.”

He closes the gap between us slowly, like a predator who enjoys the chase more than the kill. He stops at the edge of the bed, his shadow casting over my lap.

“What are you doing?” I ask. My voice has lost its edge.

He leans down, his hands still in his pockets, his eyes burning with something dangerous. “You actually have no idea how hot you are, do you?”

His eyes flicker down. Down to my bare thighs, the oversized hoodie bunched just above my knees. His gaze lingers slow and unashamed.

I shift, suddenly aware of everything, my breath, the heat crawling up my neck, the wrongness of how close he is and how little I want him to move away.

I reach up to push him, but he’s faster.

He grabs my wrists gently but firm and pins them to the bed beside my head.

My heart stutters. Hard. His face is inches from mine now. I can feel the heat radiating off him. Smell the leather, mint with cigarettes, wood smoke, the hint of something wild underneath it all.

My chest rises and falls too fast. “Jaxon—” I call, suddenly not knowing what I was going to say.

He tilts his head, eyes dark and glittering. “Forbidden fruits always taste better, dear sis.”

My stomach knots. It’s the way he says it, low, slow, dangerous. Not mocking, not even flirtatious. Just… real. Like he means it.

Our eyes lock and my breath hitches again, and I hate the way my skin reacts. Goosebumps. A deep, pulling ache low in my belly. Something I don’t want. Something I don’t understand.

This isn’t normal. This isn’t okay. And yet, I don’t move.

He studies me for another long second, then releases my wrists with a soft laugh, stepping back as if nothing happened.

“Goodnight, Rory,” he says smoothly, already turning toward the door.

I sit there, my pulse screaming, his wrists still tingling where his fingers were.

When the door closes, I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding.

My whole body is buzzing. Confused. Angry. And worst of all… curious.

I bury my face in my pillow and scream. The silence returns like a tide after a storm.

But I’m not the same girl from an hour ago. Something in me has changed. Hormones? Whatever it was sure wasn't something I liked but found myself wanting.

I feel watched. I feel peeled back like he saw something I’ve spent years hiding behind sarcasm and bitterness.

And I don’t know what scares me more, what he said. Or the part of me that liked hearing it.

Another early morning comes today, I sit up slowly, my hair a mess, my hoodie still slightly damp from the shower I took hours ago after Jaxon left. I don’t even remember falling asleep. My limbs feel stiff like I had been holding tension all night, and my eyes sting from dreams I don’t want to remember.

At first, I think I’m dreaming again because standing in front of me are five women.

Maid uniforms. Perfect posture. Each of them holding something, uniforms, shoes, undergarments, even a goddamn bracelet. All arranged like I’m some dress-up doll.

I blink.

They speak in practiced harmony, their voices gentle but unnervingly robotic.

“Good morning, Miss Aurora. We’ve been instructed to bathe and prepare you for Crescent Hills.”

“Excuse me?” I croak, my voice barely waking with the rest of me.

Before I can process what’s happening, one of them steps forward, her fingers already moving to the hem of my cloth.

“No—what the hell?!” I scramble backward on the bed like it’s a lifeboat. “If any of you dare lay a finger on me, I swear I’ll slice your fingers off.”

It’s not a threat. It’s a promise. My voice is raw and mean and maybe too loud, but I don’t care.

They freeze. All five of them. As if some code in their heads short-circuited at the disobedience.

The one with the bra clutches it to her chest, stepping back half a foot.

“I can bathe myself,” I snap.

Silence. Then, slowly, they bow their heads, still reluctant and step aside. They don’t leave though. Just stand there like porcelain statues.

I sigh and grab a towel from the wardrobe. I don’t trust them enough to use whatever they brought. I head into the bathroom, locking the door with shaking fingers. The sound of the latch sliding into place is the first bit of peace I’ve felt all morning.

The water scalds me but I don’t mind. It reminds me I still have a body. That I’m still me. That I still have choices, even if they’re small ones like soap and shampoo and how hard I scrub the memory of Jaxon’s breath against my face from my skin.

I come out wrapped in my towel, hair dripping.

They’re still there.“Seriously?” I mutter, glaring.

None of them move.

“Get out. I’ll dress myself.”

They hesitate. I see a flicker of protest in one girl’s eyes. But they drop everything folded neatly and file out without another word.

I lock the door behind them and dry off and look at the outfit on the bed. It's a fitted dark green blazer with a black skirt just above the knees, a white collared shirt beneath it, and a maroon tie with the school’s strange crest—a crescent moon shaped in claws The bracelet is silver and heavy. There’s even matching socks and polished leather shoes. The bra is... honestly too fancy for a school day.

I dress slowly, every movement a statement. They won’t strip me of this small dignity too.

When I’m done, I stare at myself in the mirror. I don’t look like me.

I look like a girl with a role to play in a script she never agreed to.

I pull my hair into a low ponytail and sigh. It’s starting.

School. Crescent Hills. The wolves. I step out of the room. Down the winding stairs.

Everyone’s already gathered.

A grand table of polished black wood, full of food that smells too rich and too expensive. My mother Celeste looks up the moment she sees me, that saccharine smile stretching her lips.

“There’s my beautiful girl,” she coos, rising like she wants to come to me.

I step sideways. One deliberate inch. “I can walk by myself, Celeste,” I say, voice cold.

Her smile falters, just for a second. Then she sits.

I take my seat wordlessly. The air around us buzzes with things unspoken.

The twins are at the far end—Damien sitting like a statue, silent as always. Jaxon relaxed, one arm slung over the back of his chair like he’s at a beachside brunch instead of this coffin of tension.

I don’t greet them. They don’t greet me.

I reach for a glass of water, sipping slowly, just to give my hands something to do.

Celeste speaks again, casually. “You’ll be starting Crescent Hills today, Aurora. The principal has already been informed.”

I choke on plain water and wipe my mouth and glare. “Are you serious? You couldn't even give me a few days to rest before throwing me into your freak school?”

She blinks, unbothered. “It’s not my decision. Your presence there is expected. You’ll adapt.”

“Expected?” I scoff. “You make it sound like I’m a soldier being deployed.”

“In a way, you are,” Jaxon mutters from his corner, amusement in his tone.

I shoot him a look and Celeste clears her throat, pretending this isn’t happening.

“Your things have already been sent ahead. And you’ll be escorted—”

Before she finishes, Damien and Jaxon’s father, enters the room, his presence chilling and commanding.

“Boys,” he says. “Drive Aurora to Crescent Hills. Make sure she settles in.”

Jaxon stretches lazily, then stands. Damien doesn’t even move.

“Did you hear me?” the Alpha says again, firmer now.

Damien pushes out his chair slowly, silently, and walks out just like that.

Celeste looks down at her plate. The Alpha doesn’t call after him.

Jaxon shrugs and throws me a wink. “Guess it’s just you and me, darling. Come on.”

I stand slowly, clutching my bag tighter.

“I don’t need you to call me darling,” I say, voice like steel.

He grins wider. “Noted.”

As we walk toward the front door, I can feel all their eyes on me—like I’m being measured, weighed, studied. I hate it. Every step feels like I'm walking deeper into some pit I won’t crawl out of.

Outside, the air is crisp. The car sleek and black.Jaxon opens the passenger door for me, mock bowing.

“After you, princess.”

I roll my eyes but get in. The door shuts as the engine hums. We drive.

And I feel it again—that tightening in my chest. That strange, crawling fear that nothing about this life is mine anymore. I stare out the window as the mansion fades from view, wondering what Crescent Hills will be like.

Wondering if I’ll even make it out whole.