I grin.
Then her expression sobers again.
“But you should be ready,” she says. “Because the bond changed things. For you. For Bolton. You’re not just a girl from nowhere anymore. You’re someone the rogues might come for.”
I swallow hard. “Because of who my dad was?”
“And because of who you are now,” she says. “Mated. Shifted. Pack-adjacent. There’s power in that. And power draws enemies.”
My throat is dry.
“But you’re not alone,” she adds. “And the council knows that now.”
She pulls her sunglasses back on, like the conversation didn’t just wedge a dozen new fears into my chest.
“C’mon. Let’s get back before Rick eats your pasta.”
I blink. “How did you know I had pasta?”
She smirks. “Wolves have excellent noses.”
I raise an eyebrow. “So what—you could smell the marinara and cafeteria mystery meat from across campus?”
She shrugs like it’s obvious. “Among other things.”
I narrow my eyes at her, but she just flashes me a sharp smile and starts walking without waiting for a response. The sun glints off her sunglasses as she slips back through the double doors, head high, like she’s never been wrong and doesn’t plan to start now.
I follow Lila back into the noise and heat of the building, the hallway feels sharper. Brighter. Like I’ve peeled off a layer of static I didn’t know I was wearing.
I catch a few more stares. Hear a whisper or two that cuts off when I pass.
It doesn’t rattle me like it would’ve a week ago.
Because now I know who I am.
Or at least, I’m starting to find out.
Chapter 18
Bolton
Ican smell her before I see her.
It’s not just the vanilla and honey shampoo she always uses, or the soft, earthy scent that clings to her skin since her first shift. It’s her. Her presence. Her heartbeat. That quiet pulse I’ve been tuned into since the moment my wolf locked on to hers.
I lean against the row of lockers outside her last class, arms crossed, trying to look casual. Like I didn’t just finish an advanced sparring session with Dax and then jog all the way across campus just so I could see her for five minutes before she heads home.
The bell rings. Doors open. Students spill out like water from a cracked dam. I scan the crowd, ignoring the low murmurs and darted glances. Half of them still trying to figure out what, exactly, I am to Maya Ortiz now.
Then I see her.
She’s at the back of the class, slipping her notebook into her backpack, her braid laced over one shoulder and a pencil tucked behind her ear like she forgot it was there. She’s not trying to stand out. Never does. But she still draws every eye in the hallway. Including mine.
She looks up and our eyes lock.
And seriously, it hits me every time like that first breath after you’ve been underwater too long.
She walks straight toward me, and I don’t even try to hide my smile.
