"I'm just choosing to take my time."
The sound she makes is somewhere between a growl and a screech.
Satisfying.
I reach for my shirt.
Button it up.
One-two-three-four.
Four buttons on each side.
Even number.
Safe.
The tie comes next—looped around my collar, crossed, pulled through, adjusted until it sits exactly right.
Only then do I turn around.
"Okay." I lean against my locker, arms crossed over my chest, expression perfectly composed. "I'm dressed. What do you want?"
"Break up with the pack."
The demand is immediate.
Breathless.
Like she's been holding it in this whole time, waiting for the moment she could finally say it.
I blink.
"Which pack?"
Her face goes red.
"Obviously the pack withLawsonin it!" She takes a step forward, and her friends move with her—a unified front of jealousy and entitlement. "Do you evenknowwho those men are?"
"I know they're my pack."
"They're known in theblack market." Her voice rises, taking on the particular shrillness of someone who's convinced they're sharing earth-shattering information. "They're connected to actualcrime families. They're filthy rich and dangerous and you—" she gestures at me like I'm a particularly disappointing piece of furniture, "—you'renothing. You're the crazy bitch everyone avoids. You're notdeservingof them."
Deserving.
The word lands weird.
Not because it hurts—it doesn't, not really, not anymore—but because it's such a strange framework to apply to this situation.
Deserving.
Like pack bonds are prizes awarded to the most worthy. Like love and loyalty and connection are things youearnthrough being sufficiently normal, sufficiently sane, sufficientlyacceptableto people who never wanted you in the first place.
I shrug.
"This has nothing to do with deserving."
"Then what?—"
