AmiTy the PiTy Vance

The stinging cold of the bare concrete floor seeped directly through the thin, worn-out soles of my hand-me-down socks, but I didn't dare stop moving. The sun hadn't even thought about breaching the snow-covered horizon yet, leaving the massive, sprawling kitchen of the Frostlune Pack house bathed in the harsh, artificial glare of the fluorescent overhead lights. Outside, the world was a frozen, unforgiving tundra, a relentless blanket of pure white snow that sparkled deceptively in the early morning darkness. We were situated so far north, so close to the pole, that freezing temperatures and knee-deep snow were just mundane facts of daily existence.

I stood in front of the colossal, industrial-sized stove, the heat from the six massive burners radiating against my face, a stark contrast to the drafty chill creeping in from the kitchen windows. Tomorrow was November eleventh. Tomorrow was my eighteenth birthday. It was a monumental, life-altering milestone for any werewolf. Eighteen was the age of the first shift, the moment a wolf finally broke free from its human shell to connect with the moon, the age when the devastatingly powerful pull of the mate bond could finally be felt.

But within the cold, oppressive walls of the Frostlune Pack house, the atmosphere was entirely, aggressively devoid of a single ounce of celebration for me. No one cared. No one even remembered. Because tomorrow was also the day the Draken Triplets—the pride, the joy, and the absolute terror of the Frostlune Pack—turned twenty-one.

In some packs across the country, an Alpha ascended to their rightful position at eighteen, right after their first shift. But here, in our pack, the sacred age for ascension was twenty-one. And tomorrow, Kellan, Zander, and Corbin Draken would officially take over the pack from their father. The entire pack house, and the surrounding territory, was buzzing with a feverish, intoxicating anticipation. They were the sons of Alpha Ragnar Draken. They were filthy rich, devilishly handsome, blessed with genetics that made them look like Greek gods sculpted from marble, and they were, without a single shred of doubt, the most disgustingly arrogant creatures to ever walk the earth. Every young she-wolf in the territory adored them wholeheartedly, stroking their already inflated egos on a daily basis, dreaming of being the one chosen to warm their beds.

And I was cursed to share a birthday, and a roof, with them.

My hands moved mechanically, flipping a dozen thick slices of bacon on the sizzling cast-iron griddle. The popping grease bit into the skin of my wrists, leaving tiny, angry red welts, but I didn't flinch. Pain was just another part of the daily routine. My life had essentially ended at the tender age of nine. That was the year my parents, completely out of nowhere, went rogue. They abandoned the pack, abandoned their lives, and most devastatingly, they abandoned me. They vanished into the wilderness without a trace, leaving behind no instructions, no forwarding address, and no final wishes for their only daughter.

Instead, they left behind a massive, insurmountable mountain of financial debt.

Because of that debt, I was taken into the pack house under the so-called "generous" care of Alpha Ragnar and his wife, Luna Vera. But it wasn't a rescue. It was an indentured servitude. The pack leadership made it abundantly clear that I owed them for every single breath I took. They subtracted the cost of my food, the roof over my head, and the ragged, second-hand clothes on my back from the staggering total my parents owed. They also conveniently subtracted my "wages" for the endless chores I performed, meaning I never saw a single dime. I was an unpaid servant, trapped in a gilded cage.

I cracked six eggs into a massive glass bowl, the rhythmic whisking sound echoing in the empty kitchen. My parents had named me Amity. It was a beautiful name, meaning friendship and peace. But I hadn't heard that name spoken out loud in nearly a decade. Everyone in the pack, from the lowest-ranking omega to the Alpha himself, called me "Pity."

It was a cruel, twisted moniker invented by the triplets when we were children, a mocking play on my real name and my pathetic, abandoned status. They said it so often, and with such vicious amusement, that the name infected the entire pack like a virus. Even the decent members of the pack genuinely thought my name was Pity. When I was a terrified, traumatized nine-year-old girl, I was too scared to correct them. Now, it was just my reality. My true identity had been entirely erased.

My singular, desperate goal—the only thing that kept me from walking out into the freezing tundra and letting the snow consume me—was tomorrow. Tomorrow I would turn eighteen. I would finally experience my first shift, come of age, graduate high school in seven months, and legally be allowed to leave this living hell behind forever. That was the deal I had struck. At eighteen and with a high school diploma, whatever fraction of the debt I had paid off would have to be enough. Alpha Ragnar seemed to think he was acting like a benevolent god by granting me this future freedom.

I poured the golden waffle batter into the dual, heavy-duty iron presses, the sweet scent of vanilla and sugar filling the air. I had been awake since four in the morning. Despite the gargantuan size of the pack house, with its sprawling, luxurious bedroom suites and marble bathrooms, I was confined to a tiny, windowless storage room on the ground floor. It held a narrow, creaky cot, a small shelf for the few second-hand books I had managed to salvage, and a single wooden dresser. One drawer held my pathetic wardrobe; the others were stuffed with bleach, floor wax, and extra cleaning rags. I was not just the cook; I was the entire housekeeping staff. The Drakens used to employ a proper maid and a head cook, with me as their overworked assistant. But they had fired both of them just last month after a series of explosive conflicts between the staff and the hopelessly spoiled triplets. Now, I was drowning in an impossible ocean of manual labor while simultaneously trying to survive my final year of high school.

I reached up with a flour-dusted hand to check the massive, tight bun resting on the top of my head. I had painstakingly detangled my waist-length, dark blonde curls this morning, twisting them up and securing them with my second-to-last elastic hair tie. I never wore my hair down. Never. Whenever my curls were loose, the triplets would find infinite joy in grabbing, pulling, and yanking them. It was a sadistic habit they had formed when we were little children, and they had absolutely not grown out of it in adulthood.

I caught my reflection in the dark, unlit glass of the oven door. Dark, bruised-looking circles were permanently etched under my large, round brown eyes. My light brown skin, which used to glow, now looked sallow and exhausted. I was wearing a long-sleeved, oversized white babydoll top that hung loosely over my frame, barely covering my behind, paired with a faded, threadbare pair of black leggings. It was the warmest outfit I owned.

I quickly plated the staggering amount of food I had prepared. Waffles, towering stacks of pancakes, crispy bacon, fluffy scrambled eggs, and thick, greasy sausages. Because it was the triplets' "birthday week," every single meal was demanded to be a royal feast. I set the heavy plates on a rolling metal cart, adding a large glass pitcher of fresh orange juice, a block of imported butter, and a giant jug of warm maple syrup. I poured myself a small, chipped mug of cheap coffee, flooding it with milk and sugar just to get some fast calories into my trembling system, and chugged it while pushing the cart through the swinging doors into the grand dining room.

The dining room was a testament to the Draken family's exorbitant wealth. A long, dark mahogany table dominated the space, surrounded by plush, high-backed leather chairs. A massive crystal chandelier hung from the vaulted ceiling, casting a warm, expensive glow over the room. I quickly and efficiently set the table, placing the sterling silver cutlery perfectly parallel to the fine china plates.

"The table looks nice."

I stiffened, my spine snapping straight as I turned around. Luna Vera was standing in the doorway, her sharp, calculating green eyes slowly sweeping over my handiwork. She was a tall, imposing woman, with pin-straight, dark brown hair that fell perfectly down her back, and pale, flawless skin.

"Thank you, Luna," I murmured, keeping my gaze respectfully lowered. It was an incredibly rare compliment.

"But have you washed all the preparation wares?" she added immediately, her tone hardening into a sharp command. "Wash them all before you eat a single bite. I want the kitchen completely spotless. With the party tomorrow, we cannot afford any messes."

"Yes, Luna," I replied softly, bowing my head.

Alpha Ragnar sauntered into the dining room right behind her. He was a massive wall of muscle, radiating an overwhelming, suffocating Alpha aura that made my wolf-less human instincts want to drop to my knees and bare my neck. He gently kissed his mate on the cheek and looked over the sprawling breakfast spread, giving a slow, approving nod. I offered him a feeble, exhausted smile, but he didn't even look at me. To him, I was part of the furniture.

Then, the heavy, thundering sound of massive footsteps echoed down the grand oak staircase in the foyer.

My heart instantly plummeted into my stomach, my pulse kicking into a frantic, terrified rhythm. The Triplet Terrors were coming.

They burst into the dining room like a hurricane of testosterone and raw, unbridled werewolf energy. They were absolute giants, towering over my petite frame at exactly six feet and four inches each—a full foot taller than me. They were the spitting image of their father, possessing the same thick, shiny black hair that brushed their broad shoulders, the same impossibly sharp, chiseled jawlines, identical deep chin-clefts, and piercing baby-blue eyes that could freeze water. Because they possessed Alpha blood, their bodies were heavily muscled, completely built out with broad shoulders and thick chests, possessing super speed and brute strength that far exceeded even the extraordinary standards of normal werewolves.

They were perfectly, terrifyingly identical. And they were perfectly, heinously cruel. At least, they were to me.

Their deep, booming voices filled the dining room as they shouted over each other, aggressively shoving and punching each other's massive shoulders playfully. They were literally turning twenty-one tomorrow, mere hours away from ruling an entire pack, yet they still roughhoused like they were overgrown, violent twelve-year-olds.

Kellan was the eldest by exactly three minutes. He was the most severe, the most serious of the three. His blue eyes were always cold and calculating. Everyone knew he would rule the pack with an iron fist and a completely surly demeanor. Zander was the middle triplet, the classic attention-seeker. He thrived on having all eyes on him, constantly firing off wise-cracks, sarcastic jokes, and cruel quips at the expense of others. And the youngest, Corbin, was the charmer. He was a professional sweet-talker, incredibly manipulative, and undeniably Mommy’s absolute favorite. Out of the three of them, Corbin almost treated me like I was an actual human being—almost.

"Did you make all of this, Pity?" Corbin’s deep voice suddenly boomed right next to my ear.

Before I could even process his sudden proximity, his massive hand shot out with terrifying, blurred speed. His thick fingers ruthlessly grabbed the tight bun at the top of my head, yanking my hair backward.

A sharp gasp tore from my throat as the pain flared across my scalp. I scrambled backward, my worn socks slipping frantically against the polished hardwood floor, desperately trying to dodge his punishing grasp.

"Yes," I choked out, my voice trembling.

But as I stumbled backward to escape Corbin, my back collided violently with a solid, unyielding wall of muscle. A pair of strong hands clamped down on my shoulders, holding me perfectly still.

I looked up in pure horror to see Zander smirking down at me. His baby-blue eyes gleamed with deep, malicious amusement. Before I could pull away, his long fingers expertly and swiftly dug into my hair, finding the cheap elastic band holding my bun together. With a harsh, deliberate tug, he snapped the hair tie right off my wrist.

My heavy, dark blonde curls instantly tumbled down in a messy, chaotic cascade, spilling over my shoulders and hiding my face.

Zander and Corbin erupted into booming, cruel laughter, the sound bouncing off the crystal chandelier above us.

"Stop!" I implored them, my voice cracking under the weight of years of suppressed, agonizing frustration. I spun around, desperately reaching up to grab my only hair tie from Zander's massive hand.

Zander just barked out a harsh laugh, easily holding his arm high above his head, keeping the little black elastic completely out of my reach. I jumped, my fingers brushing the cuff of his expensive flannel shirt, but it was useless. He was simply too tall.

With a wicked grin, Zander suddenly snapped his wrist, tossing my hair tie across the length of the dining room. It sailed through the air in a high arc straight toward Kellan. Kellan, who hadn't even looked up from piling six pieces of bacon onto his plate, effortlessly reached out with one hand and caught it mid-air without breaking eye contact with his food. Nonchalantly, as if he were pocketing a stray coin, he shoved my hair tie deep into the pocket of his dark denim jeans.

I let out a frustrated breath and instinctively lunged toward Kellan, my hands outstretched, begging for it back.

But before I could take two steps, Zander's hand clamped down on the back of my oversized white shirt, jerking me backward. I stumbled, only to be shoved forward by Corbin. They started violently pushing me back and forth between their massive chests, treating my body like a ragdoll in a sickening game of keep-away. My head spun, my curls whipping against my face as their giant hands shoved my shoulders, my back, spinning me around.

"I give up! I give up!" I cried out, my breathing ragged, my hands coming up to shield my face.

The three of them snickered, a low, predatory sound that sent shivers of pure ice down my spine.

"All right, cut it out," Corbin finally said, his voice laced with a condescending, mocking tone. He waved a dismissive hand at me. "Let her go wash the wares. Mom wants the place kept as clean as possible so there'll be less for the miserable little servant to do tomorrow."

Zander gave me one final, hard shove that nearly sent me sprawling onto the floor. I caught my balance on the edge of the dining table, my chest heaving. The elder two completely relinquished their attention, instantly pivoting to the mountain of food I had slaved over for hours.

I didn't wait for another invitation. I turned and practically ran back through the swinging double doors into the kitchen. My heart was racing frantically against my ribs, a loud, panicked drumbeat in my ears. I squeezed my eyes shut for a brief second, forcing the terror down, before turning on the hot water in the massive stainless steel sink. I threw myself into scrubbing the greasy frying pans and the heavy batter bowls, letting the scalding water burn my hands, desperate to focus on the physical pain rather than the utter humiliation crushing my chest.

By the time I finally finished scrubbing the last cast-iron skillet, drying it, and putting it away in the lower cabinets, the kitchen was spotless. My stomach gave a loud, painful rumble. I hadn't eaten anything since dinner the night before, which had consisted of a single bruised apple and a piece of stale bread.

I wiped my wet hands on my leggings and pushed the swinging door open, stepping quietly back into the dining room.

The family of five hungry werewolves—four of them possessing the ravenous, high-metabolism bloodline of Alpha stock—had completely decimated the table. Every single platter was scraped clean. The towering stacks of waffles were gone. The mountain of scrambled eggs had vanished. The pounds of bacon and sausages were nothing but grease stains on the china. The chairs were all pushed back and empty; the Drakens had already left the room to prepare for their day.

I walked over to the table, my eyes frantically scanning the wreckage. There, sitting alone on a silver platter near the far end of the table, was a single, lonely pancake.

Relief flooded my system. It wasn't much, but it was enough calories to get me through the first few periods of high school. I quickly reached out, my fingers inches from the golden-brown crust.

Suddenly, a massive blur of movement rushed into the room.

Zander's hand shot out with terrifying, completely unfair werewolf speed. He zoomed in out of absolutely nowhere—moving as fast as a hunting cheetah, yet as completely silent as a ghost. His large hand clamped over the single pancake, snatching it right out from under my fingertips.

I froze, my hand hovering awkwardly in the empty air. I slowly looked up. Zander was standing right in front of me, his massive frame blocking the light from the chandelier.

"I haven't eaten anything," I told him. My voice was a desperate, breathy whisper. My large brown eyes went wide, staring at the pancake in his fist. I couldn't hide the absolute disbelief and the gnawing hunger written all over my face.

Zander slowly lowered his head, his blue eyes sweeping over my body. His gaze dragged from my messy, untamed curls, down the oversized white shirt that hung off my frame, to my worn-out leggings. His lip curled upward into a sneer of utter, unfiltered disgust.

"Good," Zander sneered, his deep voice dripping with pure venom. "You're fat enough as it is."

The words hit me like a physical blow to the sternum.

He didn't even look away from my eyes as he casually lifted the pancake to his mouth and devoured the entire thing in two massive, arrogant bites. He chewed slowly, swallowing loudly, before turning his back on me and sauntering out of the dining room without another word.

I stood there in the empty, silent dining room, staring at the empty silver platter. I violently bit the inside of my cheek until the sharp, metallic taste of copper flooded my mouth. I forcefully swallowed the massive, suffocating lump of pure agony forming in my throat. I squeezed my eyes shut, my fists clenching so hard my ragged fingernails dug half-moons into my palms.

I refused to cry.

I had not shed a single tear in front of those monsters since the very first year of my torment, back when I was a terrified nine-year-old orphan. My tenth birthday had marked a very important, sacred vow I had made to myself in the pitch-black darkness of my storage room after spending an entire year crying every single day. The vow was simple: I would never, under any circumstances, let the Triplet Terrors make me cry ever again. I would be a fortress of stone. I would be strong. Tomorrow would mark exactly eight years of successfully keeping that vow, and I was not about to break it today over a stolen pancake and a cruel insult.

But the comment still stung. It sliced deep into my fragile self-esteem. The Triplets were universally worshipped, widely regarded as the most handsome, desirable, eligible bachelors in the entire Frostlune Pack. And they constantly, relentlessly attacked my physical appearance, specifically targeting my weight. I knew objectively that I wasn't overweight. I had a naturally curvy, hourglass figure. My waist was incredibly slender, and I wore about a size four in the few clothes I actually owned. In my opinion, that was small enough. But all three of the Triplets exclusively dated and flaunted stick-thin, size zero girlfriends who looked like they lived on a diet of celery and air. Compared to them, in Zander's eyes, I was a massive, repulsive beast.

With a heavy, shuddering sigh, I began to clear the wreckage from the table.

***

An hour later, I was standing completely frozen on the side of the icy road, waiting for the public school bus. The biting wind whipped around my legs. I had thrown on a massive, heavy black men's winter coat over my white top and leggings. It was another hand-me-down from the lost and found box at the pack house, smelling faintly of old mothballs and damp wool. Before leaving, I had frantically rummaged through my tiny wooden drawer and miraculously managed to find one last, stretched-out elastic hair tie. I pulled my wild curls back into a tight, severe bun, praying it wouldn't snap. This was truly the absolute last one I owned.

The bus ride was a noisy, chaotic nightmare of pack teenagers screaming and gossiping, but I sat entirely alone in the back, staring blankly out the frosted window.

The local pack high school was aptly named Frostlune High. Naturally, our pack colors—and therefore the mandatory school colors—were white, deep blue, and shimmering silver. As I walked through the heavy double glass doors into the main hallway, I immediately felt a wave of sheer nausea wash over me.

The entire school looked like a circus exploded inside it. It was a suffocating shrine dedicated exclusively to the Draken Triplets. Every single inch of the massive hallway was plastered with elaborate decorations in celebration of the new, impending Alphas. Massive silver streamers hung from the ceiling tiles, hundreds of blue and white balloons were clustered in every corner, and gigantic, professionally printed banners hung over the lockers reading: *ALL HAIL OUR NEW ALPHAS: KELLAN, ZANDER, & CORBIN!*

I kept my head down, clutching my worn-out, taped-together backpack to my chest, completely desperate to reach my locker without drawing attention.

"You're so incredibly lucky, Pity."

I stopped dead in my tracks, letting out a silent, exhausted groan.

Standing directly in front of my battered, dented locker was Sloane Velez. Sloane was the undisputed queen bee of the senior class, the most popular, ruthless girl in Frostlune High. She aggressively tossed her long, silky dark hair over her shoulder and leaned forward, pursing her plump, heavily glossed red lips as she stared at her reflection in the small magnetic mirror hanging inside her open locker. Despite the fact that it was literally freezing outside, Sloane was wearing a tight, bubblegum pink skirt that was so outrageously short it legally qualified as a belt. Thank the Moon Goddess she at least had the decency to wear thick, opaque black tights underneath.

Sloane usually treated me like I was a highly infectious disease, completely ignoring my existence except for her occasional, completely delusional pronouncements about how "lucky" I was to live under the same roof as the triplets.

"Seriously," Sloane purred, licking her glossy lips as she reapplied a thick coat of red lipstick. "The absolutely filthy things I'd do to those Triplets if I lived in that house... God, it’s not fair."

"You'd have to drop out of school immediately!" squealed her absolute shadow and best friend, Tasha Grier, who was leaning against the locker next to Sloane's. Tasha was the second most popular girl in school. She possessed flawless, deep dark brown skin, gorgeous curly hair, and a tall, painfully thin, waif-like figure. Naturally, Tasha was wearing an identically short pink skirt with opaque black tights. Sloane and Tasha orchestrated their outfits every single day so they matched as perfectly as twins.

"Why would she have to drop out?" I muttered, genuinely confused for a second before I could stop myself.

Tasha smirked, her eyes gleaming with wicked humor. "Because you'd get pregnant the very first month living there, obviously."

Sloane threw her head back and let out a loud, breathless, uproarious cackle at Tasha's highly inappropriate joke, slapping the metal door of her locker. I just stood there, clutching my straps, feeling entirely out of place.

Sloane abruptly stopped laughing. She turned her head, her sharp eyes slowly dragging up and down my form, taking in my oversized men's coat, my worn leggings, and my severe, tight hair bun.

"You know, Pity," Sloane said suddenly, her tone shifting into something dangerously close to genuine observation. "You're not totally, completely hideous."

*Gee, thanks. A glowing endorsement.*

"Ok," I said flatly, pulling my heavy Math textbook out of my backpack and clutching it defensively against my chest. "Excuse me."

The two girls were practically forming a physical barricade in front of my locker, which, by some cruel twist of fate, was sandwiched directly between Sloane's and Tasha's. Lucky me, indeed.

"No, she's actually right," Tasha agreed, leaning closer, her perfectly manicured fingernail tapping her chin. "Your hair is actually really pretty when it’s not scraped back like a strict librarian. You're kind of like a biracial Goldilocks."

I blinked, thoroughly stunned. The harsh, fluorescent hallway lights buzzed above us. I forced a small, hesitant smile. It actually sounded like a real, unfiltered compliment. In the pack house, the only comments I ever received about my appearance were Zander's cruel insults about my weight.

"Thanks, Tasha," I said quietly.

"Ohhh! Wait!" Sloane suddenly shrieked, her eyes going wide with a manic, breathless realization. She grabbed Tasha's arm, completely ignoring my thanks. "If you're Goldilocks, then those Triplets are totally the three bears! Oh my god, yes! If I were their Goldilocks, I'd make absolutely sure everything was *just* right... if you get my drift." She offered a highly suggestive wink.

"Or too big," Tasha added smoothly, erupting into a fit of high-pitched giggles, fanning her face with her hand.

I stood there, trapped between their lockers, listening to them heavily romanticize and sexualize the very monsters who made my life a living hell. The sheer absurdity of it all finally cracked something inside me. A rare, completely unexpected moment of sarcasm suddenly slipped past my heavily guarded lips.

"Well," I added softly, my voice deadpan. "By that logic... that means one of the triplets has to be too small."

The hallway went completely, utterly silent.

I instantly froze in absolute panic. My heart slammed against my ribs. I had overstepped. I had insulted the Alphas-to-be in front of their biggest worshippers. They were going to destroy me.

Both Sloane and Tasha paused. Being werewolves, their enhanced hearing picked up my soft comment effortlessly. They stared at me for three agonizingly long seconds, processing the joke.

And then, to my absolute shock, they both burst into genuine, explosive, tear-inducing laughter. Tasha was literally clutching her stomach, leaning against the metal lockers for support, while Sloane was giggling so hard she had to wipe a tear from her heavily mascaraed eye. Wow. I was actually getting along with the popular girls for exactly five minutes. It felt like I had stepped into an alternate dimension.

"Oh my god," Tasha wheezed, catching her breath. "That was a good one, Pity. Highly surprising coming from you." She looked at me, her eyes sweeping over my face, looking at me as if she was actually seeing me as a real, living, breathing human being for the very first time, instead of just the pack's invisible servant.

"Yeah," Sloane agreed, finally catching her breath. She tilted her head, giving me that same strange, highly appraising look. Her eyes darted down to the visible, messy patch sewn into the knee of my leggings, and the frayed cuffs of my massive winter coat. "You know... if you actually had the money, imagine how cute you could look."

I fidgeted uncomfortably, suddenly becoming hyper-aware of every single ragged thread on my clothing, every stain, every patch. The illusion of camaraderie instantly shattered, reminding me exactly of my place at the absolute bottom of the pack's hierarchy.

Before I could respond, the loud, shrill bell rang, signaling the start of first period. Sloane and Tasha immediately flipped their hair, returning to their usual haughty demeanors, and strutted off down the hallway without another word, their heels clicking in perfect unison against the linoleum floor. I let out a long, shaky breath, hurriedly opened my locker, shoved my heavy coat inside, and grabbed the rest of the notebooks I needed for Math.

***

Math class was my only true sanctuary. It was the one place in the entire world where logic, rules, and absolute certainty reigned supreme. If you followed the formula, you got the right answer. There was no cruelty in numbers.

Mr. Gannon, our Math teacher, was also the head coach of the Frostlune High football team. He was a massive, imposing man with thick silver hair and shoulders as wide as a doorframe. He looked like he possessed enough raw physical power to be an Alpha himself. He was huge, highly intimidating to the opposing teams, and undeniably attractive for a teacher. He was happily married, however, to his fiercely protective fated mate, Mrs. Gannon, the school's eccentric Art teacher.

I sat quietly at my desk in the middle row, my hands neatly folded over my open textbook. Mr. Gannon was pacing the front of the room, handing out the heavily graded exams we had taken earlier that week. As he passed Sloane and Tasha's desks—who were currently leaning forward, making blatantly obvious, flirty, pouty faces at him—he didn't even break his stride. Those flirty faces were absolutely not doing them any good. As he dropped the papers onto their desks, I couldn't help but peek over.

Sloane had a massive, glaring red 'F' circled at the top of her paper.

Tasha had an 'F-minus'. I honestly didn't even know an F-minus mathematically existed before today, but Tasha had somehow managed to achieve it.

Mr. Gannon continued down the aisle until he reached my desk. The stern, highly professional mask he wore completely melted away. He smiled warmly down at me, his eyes crinkling at the corners, and offered a subtle, highly encouraging wink. He gently placed my exam face-up on my desk.

"A-plus as usual, Math champ," he boomed, his deep voice carrying easily over the chatter of the classroom.

My heart gave a tiny, happy flutter. A genuine smile broke across my face. Mr. Gannon was one of the very, very few people in my entire miserable life who treated me with an ounce of genuine respect. He never called me Pity. He always called me by my grades, or "champ".

As the bell finally rang to dismiss the class, the room erupted into chaos as students violently shoved their books into their bags.

"Sloane, Tasha. Do not pack up. See me at my desk immediately after class," Mr. Gannon called out firmly, crossing his massive arms over his chest.

I quickly and carefully organized my neatly written notes, sliding my perfect A-plus exam into the front pocket of my binder. I slung my backpack over my shoulder and stood up.

Suddenly, a massive, incredibly solid force slammed violently into my shoulder.

I stumbled backward, crying out in shock as the impact sent me spinning. The heavy binder flew from my grip. It hit the ground, popping completely open. Dozens of carefully organized homework assignments, graded papers, and blank loose-leaf sheets exploded into the air, fluttering down like a chaotic snowstorm onto the filthy, dirt-covered classroom floor.

I looked up, rubbing my aching shoulder. Declan Pratt, a tall, incredibly buff redhead who played starting defensive tackle for the football team and was universally well-liked by everyone in the pack, was standing there. He had intentionally, aggressively shoulder-checked me. He didn't even try to hide it. He was grinning down at me, a malicious, cruel light in his eyes.

"Oops. My bad, Pity," Declan mocked, his voice dripping with fake apology.

Mr. Gannon instantly spotted the commotion from his desk. His face flushed with sudden anger. "Hey! Pratt!" he boomed, his voice echoing like thunder. "Stay right there and help her pick every single one of those papers up, Declan, my boy. Now."

Declan’s grin instantly vanished. He dramatically rolled his eyes and let out a loud, exaggerated groan. "Aww, come on, Coach! I'll be late for football practice!" he whined, kicking the toe of his expensive sneaker against the floor.

"And we’ll be late for cheerleading practice!" Sloane and Tasha chimed in perfect unison from the front of the room, loudly pouting and crossing their arms.

"I am the head coach, Declan. Go ahead and be late. I authorize it. And I will personally call your cheerleading coach to explain, okay girls? Sit tight," Mr. Gannon commanded, leaving no room for argument.

Declan grumbled under his breath, glaring down at me with pure, unfiltered hatred, acting as if the fact that he intentionally assaulted me was somehow entirely my fault. I immediately dropped to my knees, my face burning with fresh, agonizing humiliation as the few remaining students snickered on their way out the door. I frantically started gathering my scattered papers, desperately trying to brush off the dirt and shoe prints.

Declan dropped into a harsh crouch beside me. Instead of actually helping, he maliciously employed his werewolf speed. He began aggressively snatching up papers so fast that his hands were literal blurs. The sudden, violent displacement of air from his supernatural speed created a localized gust of wind, causing the pile of papers I had already painstakingly gathered to blow out of my hands and scatter all over the classroom again.

I squeezed my eyes shut, taking a deep, shuddering breath, fighting the overwhelming urge to scream. I forcefully ignored him and crawled under a desk to retrieve my Math exam.

As I worked, I could clearly hear Mr. Gannon speaking to Sloane and Tasha at the front of the empty room. I quietly eavesdropped.

"Sloane, Tasha, listen to me," Mr. Gannon said, his tone deadly serious. "I am giving you both one final, massive homework assignment to make up for those abysmal grades. If you do not completely ace this assignment, you will fail my class for the semester. And if you fail Math, the school board rules dictate there won't be any cheerleading for either of you for the rest of the year. Period."

Both girls let out simultaneous, horrified gasps.

"I'm handing you each a stack of papers," Mr. Gannon continued firmly. "You can work on it together. And don't even think about trying to cheat. I set every single one of these complex equations myself. You will not find the answers online, no matter how hard you search. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Mr. Gannon," they squeaked in terrified unison.

I finally snatched up the absolute last stray paper from beneath the radiator. I stood up, my knees popping. Declan aggressively shoved a messy, crumpled stack of my papers directly into my chest, not even bothering to look me in the eye.

"Thanks," I said softly, refusing to let him see how much he had rattled me.

Declan glanced down at me, genuinely surprised by my polite thanks. For a brief, fleeting second, a flash of actual guilt crossed his handsome features. He shifted his weight uncomfortably.

At that exact moment, Mr. Gannon grabbed his briefcase and walked out of the classroom, leaving Sloane and Tasha standing at his desk looking utterly, completely dejected, staring at the thick packets of advanced algebra in their hands.

The second the teacher was out of the room, Declan's guilt instantly evaporated, replaced entirely by his need to maintain his cruel, popular persona. He took a sudden step forward. Before I could even react, his large hand shot out. He grabbed the cheap elastic hair tie securing my severe bun and violently yanked it downward.

My heavy curls came violently tumbling down around my face once again.

"Hey!" I shrieked, my hands flying up to my throbbing scalp. I was so unbelievably fed up. The sheer, relentless physical bullying was breaking my spirit.

Declan let out a loud, mocking laugh, tossing my final hair tie into the air, catching it, and immediately sprinting out of the classroom door, rushing down the hall toward football practice.

I stood completely frozen in the middle of the empty classroom, my fists clenched violently at my sides, my hair hanging in my face. There went my absolute last spare hair tie. I had nothing to hold my hair back now while I cooked and cleaned. And my birthday was tomorrow. The despair was heavy and suffocating.

I took a deep breath, trying to calm my racing heart, and slowly turned my head to look at the front of the room. Sloane and Tasha were still standing by the teacher's desk. They were staring down at the massive makeup assignment with expressions of pure, unadulterated horror, as if Mr. Gannon had just handed them a live, ticking bomb.

I slowly walked up to them, actually feeling a tiny, strange pang of pity for them. They had been sort of nice to me in the hallway earlier, even if it was just for five minutes.

"Aren't you going to cheerleading?" I asked quietly.

Sloane didn't even look up. "No," she whispered, her voice cracking.

"What's the use?" Tasha explained miserably, dropping her heavy packet onto the desk with a loud thud. She buried her face in her hands. "We'll never be able to ace this massive homework packet. It's practically written in an alien language. So we'll definitely fail the class, and we'll be permanently banned from the squad anyway. Our senior year is completely ruined."

I walked closer, stopping right beside Sloane. I casually looked down at the top page of the dreaded assignment. My eyes quickly scanned the complex equations, the variables, the advanced proofs.

I let out a soft, involuntary snort.

It was laughably easy. I could genuinely solve every single one of these equations and get a perfect 100% in my sleep. Math was entirely my domain. I was a massive nerd in general, and I was deeply proud of my brain, even though werewolves universally prized raw physical brawn and superficial beauty over intelligence any day of the week.

As I stared at the numbers, a sudden, wildly bold, incredibly risky idea struck me like a bolt of lightning. My heart started to race again, but this time, it wasn't from fear. It was from a spark of pure, rebellious hope.

I turned my body, fully facing the two despondent popular girls.

"Remember earlier in the hallway," I started, my voice completely steady, "how you girls said I had... potential?"

Sloane and Tasha finally looked up at me. They both offered highly unenthusiastic shrugs, their eyes dull with their impending doom.

I took a step closer, pointing a slender finger at the massive stack of papers. "I'll do the entire assignment for both of you," I offered smoothly. "I'll solve every single equation perfectly. All you have to do is take my answers, copy them over in your own handwritings so Gannon doesn't get suspicious, and you'll easily ace it. Your spots on the cheerleading squad will be perfectly safe."

For a second, there was total silence in the room.

Then, both girls let out ear-piercing squeals of pure, unfiltered delight. They literally jumped up into the air, throwing their arms around each other, before simultaneously lunging forward and wrapping their arms tightly around me in a suffocating, perfume-scented hug.

"Wait!" Sloane suddenly shrieked, violently pulling back. She threw her hands up, her perfectly sculpted eyebrows raising in deep suspicion.

"Yeah, what's the catch?" Tasha asked immediately, taking a deliberate step back, her dark eyes narrowing as she scrutinized my face. "Nobody just does a massive favor like that for free. What do you want? Money?"

I took a deep, shaky breath, letting my carefully constructed emotional walls drop for just a fraction of a second. I laid my absolute vulnerability bare right there in the middle of the classroom.

"I'm turning eighteen tomorrow, too," I said softly, my voice barely above a whisper.

Both girls gasped in unison, their hands flying to cover their perfectly glossed lips.

"You have the exact same birthday as the terrifying triplets?" Sloane asked, her eyes wide with shock.

"Wait..." Tasha said slowly, the pieces finally clicking together in her head. "That means... everyone in the entire pack completely ignores your birthday. Like, every single year."

It was my turn to offer a sad, exhausted shrug.

"And I know they will completely ignore it this year, too," I rambled, the words spilling out of me faster than I could stop them. "But... I at least want to feel... special. Just for once. Just for tomorrow night. I'm going to experience my very first shift at midnight, and who knows... I might even catch the scent of my fated mate at the massive party the pack is throwing... not that I actually care about finding a mate right now..." I trailed off, feeling the heat of absolute embarrassment flushing my cheeks.

Sloane's plump lips slowly curled upward into a highly knowing, absolutely wicked smirk. All the sadness and despair completely vanished from her beautiful face.

"Oh, I get it," Sloane said, placing her hands firmly on her hips. "You wanna look incredibly hot! Is that it?"

"Yeah," Tasha chimed in, a wide, genuine, completely predatory smile spreading across her flawless face as she looked me up and down with renewed, manic energy. "You want the two of us to give you a complete, top-to-bottom makeover for your birthday?"

I swallowed hard and simply nodded, sealing the deal.