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.