“Amelia?”

Luke stood there, the sunlight behind him creating a chasm I could never cross. He held two books, like a messenger from another world.

“Jim probably told you.” He slid one across the table. The initials embossed on the cover stung my eyes. “My copy of *Much Ado About Nothing*. Maybe… it’ll help.”

The worn edges of the book documented a life I wasn’t fit to touch.

“I don’t need it,” I said, my voice as dry as autumn leaves.

He sat down opposite me, the table suddenly feeling far too small. “Heard you were… intense in English today.”

“At least I didn’t pick *Romeo and Juliet*,” I said. Those two fools who died for love—sounded too much like our possible future.

He laughed, the warmth in his voice sending a chill through me. “True. So, what do you think about Beatrice and Benedick?”

“Two cowards hiding their fear behind sharp tongues,” I said, then realized I was describing myself.

“Agreed.” The light in his eyes was too bright, bright enough to make me want to run. “They were afraid to admit what they really wanted.”

Our gazes locked, like two people about to drown. *Time to go, Amelia. Now, while you still can.*

I stood up abruptly, my chair screeching against the floor.

“Wait.” His hand landed on my shoulder.

And then, the curse struck.

Blue sparks erupted between us, the air crackling with omen. An electric current shot through my veins, and my wolf-spirit howled in the depths. Luke jerked his hand back, staring at his fingertips in disbelief.

His pupils dilated—the instinctive reaction of a werewolf sensing his fated mate, and the beginning of our tragedy.

I turned and fled, leaving his calls and that copy of *Much Ado About Nothing* behind me forever. Some stories shouldn't begin. Some flames are destined only to burn those who get too close.

I ran all the way home, my heart hammering against my ribs like a mad thing. He knew. He must have smelled the truth.

But the nightmare at home was always punctual. Mom blocked the doorway, the empty liquor bottle in her hand as drained as her life. Her gaze could flay a person alive.

"You reek of werewolf," she rasped, her voice like rusty blades. "You've seen them, haven't you?"

"I haven't—"

The bottle shattered against the wall beside my cheek, the fragments as sharp as her words. The smell of blood bloomed in the air, turning my stomach.

"These disgusting green eyes," she advanced on me, her breath foul with decay. "Just like your bastard father! He ruined me, and now you're following in his footsteps?"

I curled into the corner, letting her insults corrode me like acid rain. After all these years, I was used to it. A werewolf's healing could make flesh wounds vanish in moments, but the ones inside? Those just festered.

Late at night, I locked my bedroom door and pulled the small knife from beneath my pillow. The metal's coolness against my skin was the only tenderness in this house. As the blade traced a line down my arm, I fantasized about another life—a normal family, a version of me brave enough to walk up to Luke, a girl who could say, "Yes, we are fated mates."

But reality was, I couldn't even scrape together the courage to admit it.

The next day at school, I carefully covered all my scars with foundation. But a werewolf's sense of smell never lies. Luke and his pack brothers noticed the anomaly immediately.

"You're hurt," Luke blocked my path, his voice a low rumble like thunder before a storm. "Who did it?"

"None of your business." I tried to slip past him, but his arm was an iron bar in my way.

Jim stood behind him, his expression unreadable. William—the pack Delta—closed in too.

"Move," I said.

"No." Luke's eyes began to glow with gold, the precursor to a wolf losing control. "Tell me, who hurt my—"

His words hung in the air. We both felt the weight of that unspoken word, a noose suspended between us.

*Fated mate.*

A word that should have been beautiful felt instead like a life sentence.

"Your *what*?" I challenged, my heart drumming a frantic, caged rhythm against my ribs.

Luke didn't answer, but his eyes said everything—truths I wasn't yet brave enough to face. Just then, Tabitha fluttered over like a carefully dressed butterflies, leaping lightly onto Luke's back.

"Sweetie! What's so serious?"

In that moment, I saw Luke's body go rigid. Tabitha's touch sparked nothing—no electricity, no whispered promises of fate. My heart sank into some dark abyss, yet in its fall, I tasted a bitter sliver of vindication.

"Sorry," I murmured, the words light as a confession, and seized the chance to slip away from the suffocating space.

In English class, when Mr. Harris announced the project requirements, Luke did something that made the entire class gasp. He picked up his bag and walked directly to the empty seat beside me, sitting down as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

"Tabitha and I broke up," he said under his breath, his tone flat, like he was discussing the weather.

I nearly choked on air. The teacher's voice at the front of the room became distant: "...need to demonstrate the complexity of interpersonal relationships, but integrate Shakespearean elements…"

I couldn't hear a word. Luke's presence was too close, like a dream I couldn't wake from.

"So," he turned to me, his eyes holding something I couldn't decipher, "when do we start?"

"Start what?"

"Dating." The corner of his mouth quirked up. Then, as my eyes widened, he added softly, "Kidding. I meant the project."