Not a nice smile.
The kind of smile that shows teeth.
A few of them take half-steps backward, instinctively creating distance. The ringleader—a tall blonde with perfectly styled hair and an expression like she's smelling something unpleasant—holds her ground, chin lifted in challenge.
"Seraphine." She says my name like it's a diagnosis. "How...surprisingto see you in PA. I thought packless Omegas weren't allowed in co-ed classes."
"I'm not packless."
The words come out flat.
Final.
Her expression flickers—surprise, jealousy, something darker underneath—before smoothing back into condescension.
"Right. The Lawson pack." She laughs, and the sound is sharp enough to cut. "I'm surethat'sgoing to last. What did you do, threaten them? Or are they just into charity cases now?"
A giggle escapes.
High.
Bright.
Just unhinged enough to make her take that half-step backward despite herself.
"Maybe both," I say sweetly. "I'm very versatile."
I don't wait for her response.
Just brush past her—close enough that my shoulder bumps hers, hard enough to make a point—and continue down the hallway toward the gymnasium.
One-two-three-four.
My toe taps against the floor with each step.
One-two-three-four.
The rhythm helps.
Keeps me grounded.
Keeps the chaos contained while I navigate a situation I've never been in before—walking into a room full of Alphas and Omegas as someone whobelongs, instead of someone who's merely tolerated.
The gymnasium is massive.
High ceilings, polished hardwood floors, the smell of industrial cleaner and old sweat and something sharper underneath—the particular scent of competition and violence that permeates everything in Ruthless Academy. Natural light filters through high windows, casting long rectangles of sunshine across the space.
Volleyball nets are set up in neat rows.
Three courts, spaced evenly apart, with equipment scattered around the edges—balls, boundary markers, the general detritus of organized athletics.
Students are already gathering.
Alphas on one side of the gymnasium, clustered in groups that speak to existing pack dynamics and social hierarchies. They're all wearing similar sportswear—shorts and t-shirts in dark colors, muscles on casual display, the particular confidence that comes from knowing you're at the top of the food chain.
Omegas on the other side, forming their own clusters.
Smaller.
