Page 1 of The Werewolf’s Study Date

CHAPTER 1

MAISIE POPE

Professor Perkowinski hands my paper back facedown, which should’ve been my first clue that things were about to go to shit. I wait until she moves on to the desk beside mine before flipping it over.

Forty-six.

I stare at it. I actually check the top of the page to see if maybe there’s another Maisie Pope in Creature Biology and Heritage who also has terrible luck and no clue what she’s doing.

Nope. It’s mine. Forty-six out of a hundred, in red ink, circled twice.

“Jesus Christ,” I mutter.

I spent hours on this thing. I read the chapters twice, went to the library, checked out extra books, and made actual flashcards, which is embarrassing to admit because I’m trying to maintain at least some dignity. I did the work. So either I’m missing something huge, or Perkowinski has it out for me three weeks into the semester.

Creature Bio isn’t even supposed to be my hard class. Anatomy is. Anatomy makes sense—bones are bones, muscles attach where they attach. A golden retriever and a Great Dane look completely different, but they’re both still dogs, and I understand the basics of what I’m looking at. Slap “heritage” onto the title, though, and suddenly it’s political history, magical bloodlines, pack structures, and mating bonds I definitely didn’t learn about growing up in suburban Ohio.

I flip to her comments.

Compare dominant and recessive lineage traits in shifter packs versus solitary shifter bloodlines. Your response addresses only surface-level inheritance and does not engage with the actual mechanism of trait expression across generational bonding.

“Okay, but what the fuck does that mean?” I mutter.

The girl two seats over glances at me.

“Sorry,” I whisper.

I wrote three pages. I used the textbook vocabulary. I even cited the supplementary reading, which cost me eleven dollars I didn’t have because the bookstore was sold out. I paid eleven dollars to fail more thoroughly.

Around me, everyone starts packing up.

“Mr. Alvarez, retract your wings from the aisle, please. People are trying to walk,” Professor Perkowinski calls from the podium without looking up.

A guy two rows ahead mutters an apology and pulls a pair of leathery wings tight against his back so the girl beside him can squeeze past. She shoves her paper into her bag so fast I don't catch the grade, but her face goes completely blank the way people's do right before they cry.

I scan the room. A shifter near the front is taking notes with actual claws out, which should shred a laptop keyboard but somehow doesn't. A vampire girl two rows down never blinks—I noticed in week two and now I can't stop checking. Then there's the handful of humans like me, looking stressed and lost whenever someone mentions something the creature students learned before kindergarten.

I came to Creature University for veterinary medicine. Four years here, vet school after that, then my own clinic somewhere quiet where I can work with animals and never think about tuition again. CU has the best creature-inclusive vet program in the country. Regular vet schools don't teach you what to do when a shifter changes form while holding a terrified cat, or when a dragon-kin family's pet needs different meds because their house is kept ten degrees hotter than normal.

I'm curvy—the kind of curvy that means I'm always stealing Delilah's oversized sweaters—and my long, curly auburn hair has a mind of its own, perpetually half-up and half-down because I don't have time to style it properly between classes. It's practical. I'm practical. That's the whole point of being here.

That's why I applied here instead of a normal state school. Well. That and the money.

The Human Heritage Scholarship covers my tuition, most of my housing, and a chunk of my books. My family doesn't have college money, but my Genetic Heritage Screening flagged positive senior year for trace creature blood. Nobody knows who or what species, but it qualified me. My roommate is a witch who's threatened to curse me twice—both times I probably deserved it—so I'm fine with creature life.

The problem is the rule attached to the scholarship. I have to keep at least a C average, every semester, no exceptions. If I lose this scholarship, I can't ask my parents to cover the difference. There is no difference. I go home.

A forty-six isn't just a bad grade. It's a threat to my entire life.

I pack up slowly and head down to the front desk once the room clears.

"Professor?" I ask. "Can I ask about my paper?"

She looks up from her notes. "Ms. Pope. Yes. I was hoping you'd come by."

"I know the grade is awful," I say, setting it on her desk. "I'm just not sure what I'm doing wrong."

"Your writing isn't the problem," she says. "Your grammar is fine, your organization is fine. The issue is depth. You're describing what happens, but not why it happens biologically."