Because I've survived alone for years instead of finding Alphas to claim me.
Because the universe has decided, once again, that Seraphine Eastman doesn't get to have nice things.
I fold the letter carefully—two folds, not three, never three—and hand it back to Professor Harrington.
"Thank you," I say, and my voice comes out perfectly composed. Perfectly controlled. Perfectly dead. "For telling me in person."
She looks like she wants to say something else.
Something comforting, maybe. Something about hope, or other opportunities, or the way things might change if I just wait long enough.
But she doesn't.
Because we both know those words would be lies.
And whatever else Professor Harrington is, she's not a liar.
I turn and walk out of the classroom.
The campus is grey.
It's always grey—concrete and steel and the permanent overcast sky that hangs over Ruthless Academy like a physical manifestation of institutional despair. But today it feels greyer than usual. Heavier. Like the atmosphere itself is pressing down on my shoulders, trying to grind me into dust.
My feet carry me toward the forest.
I don't decide to go there. Don't consciously choose to walk this path, past the administrative buildings and the combat rings and the fountain where they sometimes hang bodies as warnings.
My body just... moves.
Following some instinct I don't understand toward a destination I'm not ready to name.
Why do I really have to rely on men to prove she can dance?
The thought surfaces unbidden, bitter and burning.
That I’m gifted.
That I’m worthy of freedom.
In an environment that's constantly testing and attempting to be rid of me.
I've killed sixteen people.
Maybe seventeen.
I've survived things that should have destroyed me. Danced in blood. Written letters to a ghost for five years just to prove I wasn't completely alone.
And none of it matters.
None of it counts for anything because I don't have an Alpha's bite mark on my neck and a pack bond humming beneath my skin.
Except...
My hand drifts to my hip, where a new awareness pulses beneath the surface.
Sage.
The sensation of our bond is there—faint but undeniable, a connection that isn't quite mine. I can feel him somewhere in the distance, a low thrum of concern and frustration and something that might be affection bleeding through the connection.
