A gentle breeze caresses my face, carrying the crisp scent of fallen leaves as they drift lazily through the warm afternoon air. The satisfying crunch of dried foliage greets my every step, a rhythmic soundtrack accompanying my footfalls as several amber and crimson leaves spiral down onto the track field, scattering like shattered stained glass across the rubber surface. This moment is one of the rare pockets of peace I can truly savor. No one speaks to me, no one spares me a glance—it is simply me and my decidedly not-child-friendly audiobooks, their scandalous whispers filtering through my earbuds. The hushed promises of passionate nights and forbidden encounters keep me company, filling the void where human connection should reside, compensating for every kind word and gentle touch I desperately crave but never receive. I run alone, pushing my legs until they burn and tremble, until my lungs scream for mercy, or at least until I am forced to pass the other runners who occupy this track. They ignore me for the most part, which suits me perfectly. If I move quickly enough, I can almost pretend I am invisible, a ghost haunting the edges of their world. Unfortunately, Michael has other plans entirely.
Just as I surge past him, a leg suddenly connects with mine like a boulder hurled into a car engine, sending a violent shockwave up my limbs. The dirt rushes up to meet me, embracing my body with a jarring, unforgiving kiss. Warmth floods down my cheeks, sticky and metallic, as crimson drips from my throbbing nose. The pain explodes through my face a moment later, a delayed but intense eruption of agony, yet it is entirely expected and far from unfamiliar.
"Goodness, Elian. Too pathetic to stay upright?" Michael mocks, skidding to a halt beside me with that insufferable, crooked grin plastered across his annoyingly handsome face. He looks like he belongs on the cover of a magazine, all sharp angles and perfect symmetry, which only makes his cruelty more infuriating. I bite my tongue, resisting the urge to comment on how the stable horse possesses more brain cells than he does. "Are you just going to keep staring at me like a kicked mutt?"
My arms push against the ground, hoisting me upward, and my trembling hand instinctively flies to my stinging cheek, as if my palm can somehow assess the damage beneath the dirt and blood. "Only if you quit being a buzzing mosquito," I whisper under my breath, the words barely audible. Sadly, Michael possesses functioning ears, and as a token of gratitude for my insolence, his shoe collides with my stomach with brutal precision. A fresh wave of agony explodes through my abdomen, radiating outward like wildfire, but I refuse to show it. His ego is already swollen enough to rival a vampire's centuries-old arrogance, and showing pain would only inflate it further.
"I won't let an omega slut insult me of all people," he spits bitterly, his voice dripping with venom. I spot the coach approaching from the corner of my eye, his bulky frame lumbering across the field, yet he never intervenes in these situations. He never does. "We both know if it weren't for track, you wouldn't even be here. I hardly think it's why you're—"
My teeth sink into my lower lip, biting down hard to suppress the primal urge to punch his smug face. I know I would lose—he is stronger, faster, and higher on the social hierarchy—but the temptation burns hot in my chest. My fingers dig into the loose dirt, claws threatening to extend, a low growl rumbling in my throat, but before I can release it, someone yanks me upward by the back of my t-shirt, the fabric straining against my shoulders.
"Elian! What is going on? You were supposed to complete fifteen laps!" the coach hisses, his face flushed with annoyance, his beady eyes glaring at me as if I am somehow the instigator, the problem, the one at fault. He has the audacity to lecture me about laps while his enormous belly practically rests on the ground the moment he sits down, but I cannot voice that observation if I value my precarious place on this team. Instead, I lower my head, my gaze fixed on the dirt-stained track, and frantically swipe at the mud caked across my legs. "Sorry, sir. It won't happen again."
"Damn right it won't! Now, what exactly happened?" his voice roars, echoing across the empty field, but his eyes slide past me and land on Michael, searching for answers that my account will never provide. Mine does not matter.
Michael grins like a child on Christmas morning, his face alight with sadistic glee, and swings his arm around my shoulder in a mockery of camaraderie. "Dear Eli just tripped, Coach. No harm done."
"Fine. Michael, I do not recall you completing your seven laps—get moving. And Elian, report to the infirmary. I do not want any trouble from your father over a slight scratch," the coach orders, his tone dismissive, already turning away as if I have already ceased to exist.
Without a single word, I fall into line, trudging off the field with my head bowed, ignoring the stares and whispered taunts that trail behind me like a noose. I switch off my earbuds and shove them into my pants pocket, knowing they are technically forbidden during club practice—not that anyone truly cares—but it is safer if the nurse does not instruct me to turn the volume down. If word ever spread about me listening to explicit audio scenes, my social standing would plummet even further. Either someone would physically destroy me, or being labeled a pervert would be permanently etched onto my ever-growing list of so-called "crimes."
As I push open the door to the medical office, I immediately notice something out of place. Or rather, someone. He stands approximately six-foot-three, yet another towering figure to loom over my insignificant frame, I suppose. His face, however, is what completely catches me off guard. It appears as though the gods themselves meticulously sculpted every feature—a sharp, chiseled jawline that could cut glass, lips the color of crushed berries with a slightly fuller top lip that looks impossibly soft, and eyes the shade of burning crimson that seem to hold ancient knowledge and dark secrets within their depths. His jet-black hair is styled with deliberate care, framing his angular face in a way that accentuates his ethereal beauty. There is no doubt he is a vampire, and therefore someone I should absolutely avoid engaging with. I attempt to sidestep around him, since he is quite literally blocking the narrow doorway, but my plan fails spectacularly.
He does not move an inch, remaining firmly planted in my path, and reaches out to grasp my chin, tilting my head upward until my eyes are forced to meet his hypnotic crimson gaze. I try to yank my head free, but as punishment for my defiance, his finger presses firmly against my stinging cheek, aggravating the burning wound beneath his touch.
A soft whimper escapes my lips before I can stop it. I hate myself for that pathetic display of weakness. This is where everything descends into chaos, I am certain. He will end up being another Michael, and I will soon have a fresh scratch on the side of my face to complement the torn flesh already decorating my body.
"This looks quite painful. Who did this to you?" his voice echoes through the small office, sending an involuntary shiver down my spine, making my entire body tingle with an unsettling sensation. I blame this entirely on his British accent, which makes him sound like displaced royalty, a prince slumming among commoners. That is the only reason my eyes finally lock onto his.
"No one... I fell," I whisper, only now realizing just how close we are standing, our bodies mere inches apart. His finger continues its gentle, almost tender stroking against my cheek, soothing the throbbing ache as if by magic. The bleeding stopped some time ago, but the dirt clings stubbornly to my torn skin.
"Ah, you fell. You know, beginning any friendship with lies is hardly a promising foundation," he finally pulls back, his hand dropping to his side, though his intense gaze never wavers.
"Friends?" I look at him skeptically, my brow furrowing in confusion. "Why would you possibly want to be friends with a complete stranger?"
His lips curl into a slow, deliberate grin, and his eyes gleam with a mischievous light—but not the playful kind. No, this is the dangerous kind, the sort of look a predator wears while toying with its prey. "I suppose you are right. I am Nikolai. There—now we are no longer strangers."
I side-eye him, uncertain whether I should direct him toward the nearest insane asylum or if I should be the one booking a reservation for my own impending madness. "Okay... well, as you can clearly see, I am a werewolf, and it does not exactly seem like I rank very high on the hierarchy. So why, out of everyone here, would you want to be my friend?"
A chuckle begins deep in his throat, rumbling like distant thunder, before it erupts into a full-blown laugh as he throws his head back, the sound rich and genuine. He wipes an imaginary tear from the corner of his eye, but his amusement appears entirely authentic. "Oh, my dear. Why not? I know absolutely no one here, and we are sharing a dormitory. You are Elian, correct?"
My eyes widen to a degree I did not think physically possible. I currently live in the dorms, but it is a single-bedroom unit—my one and only safe space, the solitary sanctuary where I can be completely myself, where I do not have to hide, where I can let my guard down and exist without constant fear. It also contains my bed, and only my bed, with no room for a second. How in the world am I going to share it with him?!
