The Slime and the Savior

Iris

I wish I belonged here.

The heavy bass of the music thumps hard against my ribs, rattling the floorboards beneath my cheap sneakers. Declan’s house is a sprawling, sweaty madhouse of laughing teenagers and red plastic cups, and I am drowning in the chaos of it. While other people will look back on these high school parties as their golden years, I already know I will spend the rest of my life trying to forget this night.

The music is deafening. The vibrations make my heart pound a frantic rhythm against my breastbone. Everywhere I look, people are making out. I spot a couple tangled together on the living room couch. A girl sits straddling a guy’s lap—I think it is Zane—and she thrusts her tongue into his mouth while her hands roam boldly over his chest.

Scandalous.

Yet, a bitter knot of envy tightens in my stomach. I am not jealous of her being with Zane. I am jealous of the experience. I write romance. I read romance. But I have never actually lived it.

I pull at the hem of my tight sweater. It hugs my thin frame and is the only halfway decent piece of clothing I own. Coming here was a mistake. Stepping into this party is not going to magically change my social standing. I look like a nervous nerd, a walking target for the school’s predators. My mascara clumps together like spider legs, and my untamed red hair falls in a frizzy mess around my shoulders. I just wanted to catch a glimpse of Lucien tonight. I wanted to see if he might look back at me the way he did in the cafeteria. But this environment is suffocating. I feel like an imposter crashing a world I have no right to enter. We were not even invited.

"Don’t look so gloom!"

Isla slaps a hand onto my back. The impact is so sudden and forceful I nearly pitch forward into the refreshment table. She is already grinning, a plastic cup in her hand, radiating the effortless confidence of someone who belongs anywhere she goes.

"I… I’m sorry," I stammer, trying to regain my balance. "I just thought…"

I let the sentence die. I do not even know what I thought.

"Just relax," Isla drawls. She leans down and catches the plastic straw of her drink between her lips. She sucks, swallows, and flashes a wicked grin. "No one is going to throw us out. People are way too busy focusing on their own agendas." She tips her head toward the far side of the room. "Look. Even Trenton is keeping his mouth shut, and he has been staring at us for the last ten minutes."

He has?

I turn my head, scanning the crowded room until my eyes land on Trenton. Isla and I stand near the punch bowl, and he sits in a plush armchair just a few yards away. He rests his chin in his palm, his fingers casually masking his lips, but his piercing blue eyes are fixed squarely in our direction.

"Quite a looker with his styled hair and those eyes, isn’t he?" Isla mumbles over the rim of her cup.

"Pity his heart isn’t as pretty," I whisper back.

A hot blush creeps up my neck from Trenton’s unwavering attention. He keeps staring, his gaze heavy and assessing, until he finally blinks and shifts his eyes to the floor. He almost looks like he is blushing, too.

"Mhm. His ugly heart is the only reason I don’t feel bad for the guy," Isla replies.

I furrow my brow and turn back to her. "Why would you feel bad for him in the first place?"

"Because his family is forcing him to marry Sloane against his will." Isla waves her hand dismissively. "I thought you knew it was a strict arrangement. After they marry, their families will just need to track down an omega to carry their babies. Sloane isn't his true mate, so she won't be the breeder."

"I see…"

The revelation hits me hard. I had no idea Trenton did not actually love Sloane. They constantly put on a show in the school corridors, making out against the lockers for everyone to see. I always look away when I catch Sloane glued to Trenton’s tall, muscular body. I always feel a flush of deep embarrassment when she runs her hands over him. I have never even held a boy’s hand, let alone engaged in that kind of public display. To learn it is all a hollow performance for an arranged marriage makes the whole spectacle feel strange and cold.

"Come on," Isla says, interrupting my thoughts. "Let’s go do something actually fun!"

She grabs my wrist and drags me toward the poolhouse in the backyard. The air outside is crisp, offering a brief respite from the stifling heat of the main house. We step into the poolhouse, where several pack members are gathered around a billiards table. Isla’s older brothers, Wyatt and Levi, are in the middle of a heated game. Isla immediately leans against the wall and starts cheering them on. Wyatt gives her a playful nudge on the head, and for a fleeting moment, a genuine smile touches my lips. I start to feel a little more at ease.

Then the cheap alcohol I drank earlier decides to make itself known. My bladder tightens.

"I will be right back!" I call out.

Isla does not even look up from the pool table. She is deep in an animated argument with Levi about a foul shot. She probably will not even notice I am gone.

I promise myself I will be quick. I slip out of the poolhouse and head back toward the main building. The ground sways slightly beneath my sneakers. I am a notorious lightweight, and I consider it a minor miracle that I navigate the crowded hallways and actually find the downstairs bathroom without tripping over my own feet.

The bathroom offers a quiet sanctuary. I do my business, wash my hands, and lean close to the mirror. I sniff my wrist, grimace, and steal a quick spritz of expensive perfume from a glass bottle sitting on the cabinet.

Taking a deep breath, I reach for the doorknob and pull the door open.

A heavy bucket plummets from the top of the doorframe.

It crashes down onto the crown of my head. A thick, freezing wave of toxic green slime cascades over me. The heavy bucket clatters loudly onto the tile floor. I wince, my hands flying up to cover my face.

Harsh, cruel laughter erupts in the hallway. Sloane and her clique of friends stand in a tight half-circle, blocking my path.

The green slime coats my hair, soaking instantly into my cheap, thin sweater. It drips down my forehead and seeps past my eyelids. A sharp, stinging pain flares in my eyes. The chemical burn is instant. Is this some kind of industrial cleaner? The icy sludge oozes down my neck, sending shivers wracking through my spine.

"Oops!" Sloane’s venomous voice cuts through the ringing in my ears. "Looks like Imp needed a beauty treatment for that pizza face!"

I cannot open my eyes through the stinging goop, but the rapid, blinding flashes of phone cameras pierce through my eyelids. Click. Flash. Click. Each burst of white light feels like another nail being hammered into my social coffin. I scrub frantically at my eyes with my slime-soaked sleeve, trying to clear my vision.

"Seriously, we did her a favor," Blair chimes in, her tone dripping with fake sympathy. "At least now people will be looking at the slime instead of her disgusting skin."

I hate this. I hate them. I genuinely thought tonight might be different. I thought I could just blend into the background and survive. Hot tears prickle behind my stinging eyelashes. Just fuck my life. I refuse to cry in front of them. I bite the inside of my cheek hard enough to taste copper. I can hold it in. I have survived far worse than a bucket of slime. My own mother does not even love me. This is nothing.

I tell my brain to walk away. I tell my legs to move, to push past them and run out the front door.

But my legs refuse to obey. I am frozen in place on the damp tile. The girls keep snapping pictures. The mean, echoing laughter bounces off the hallway walls, growing louder and louder until it sounds like a roar.

"Is she crying?" one of the minions asks.

"Looks like it," Blair sneers.

"Such a sensitive little omega."

That is the breaking point. The flashing lights, the stinging slime, the suffocating humiliation—it all crashes down on my chest like an anvil. I spin around, retreat back inside the bathroom, and slam the door shut.

My trembling fingers fumble with the lock. I twist it until it clicks into place.

I press my back against the heavy wood, but the room immediately starts to spin. The tiled floor tilts beneath my feet. I cannot draw a full breath. The air feels too thick, too thin, all at once. The loud pulse pounding in my ears drowns out the music from the party.

Is this a panic attack?

I stumble away from the door and grip the edges of the porcelain sink. My knuckles turn stark white. The green slime drips steadily from my chin, splashing onto the pristine white basin and ruining my only nice sweater. Outside the door, Sloane and her friends are still cackling.

"Come out, come out, little Imp!" Sloane singsongs, her fist rattling the locked doorknob violently.

I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to block out her taunts. I blindly grab a handful of rough paper towels and scrub at the sticky goop covering my cheeks. My shoe, now stained bright green, presses down on the pedal of the waste bin. The lid pops open.

How am I going to explain this mess to my mother? She will not care that I was bullied. She will only scream at me for ruining my clothes.

"Is this the bathroom line?"

The voice cuts through the hallway like a sharp blade. It is low, smooth, and undeniably sensual.

Lucien.

The taunting and laughter outside snap into instant silence.

"Yes," Sloane lies smoothly, her vicious tone instantly replaced by a sickeningly sweet purr. "We are just waiting for the bathroom."

"With your phones out, recording the door?" Lucien’s voice remains cool, calm, and laced with quiet authority. "Interesting way to wait."

I hear the nervous shuffle of sneakers against the floorboards. The pack dynamics shift instantly in his presence.

"Look," Sloane stammers, losing her confident edge. "We’re just having some innocent fun. The girl in there is—"

"Leave."

Just one word. A command.

I do not expect Sloane to actually listen. She and her friends sit at the very top of the school’s brutal food chain. But a heavy, oppressive silence falls over the hallway. Footsteps retreat quickly down the corridor, fading into the thumping bass of the party.

I freeze in front of the mirror. I hold my breath, my chest tight.

The bathroom doorknob turns.

The door swings open.

Panic spikes through my veins. Did I forget to lock it? No. I specifically remember twisting the lock. Sloane was rattling the handle just seconds ago, and it held firm. Yet, the door opens with effortless ease.

Lucien steps into the frame.

He stands in the doorway, staring right at me. Looking at him makes the entire world grind to a halt. My frantic heartbeat, the trembling in my knees, the spinning room—everything just stops. The harsh fluorescent light of the bathroom catches the raven-feather black of his hair. His intense, dark eyes lock onto mine. He is breathtakingly gorgeous.

But there is something inherently wrong about him.

The second he steps closer, a sharp, throbbing ache blooms behind my temples. It is a physical pressure, an invisible weight pressing down on my skull just from being in his proximity. I cringe, pressing my fingers to my forehead. His seductive eyes twinkle with a dark, knowing amusement. He knows exactly what his aura is doing to me. He knows he is the cause of this sudden headache.

What the hell is he?

He cannot be a werewolf. The pressure is too distinct, too alien.

A vampire? No. Trenton’s powerful family runs this territory. They would never allow a vampire to attend a pack party.

I just stand there, clutching my slime-stained sweater, staring at him in mute shock. I know I should thank him. I should express my gratitude for chasing Sloane and her vicious crew away. But my throat is clamped tight. My vocal cords refuse to work.

A slow, half-smile plays on his perfect lips. "Do you want me to drive you home?"

My heart thuds into a chaotic sprint. I never expected him to help me, let alone offer me a ride. His mere presence makes my nerves fray, yet a desperate part of me craves the escape he is offering. But I cannot get into his car looking like a swamp monster.

"I... I’m a bit of a mess..." I gesture helplessly at my ruined, slime-coated clothes. I brace myself, fully expecting him to laugh at my pathetic state.

He does not laugh.

Lucien steps inside and closes the door behind him. The click of the lock echoes loudly. "I have a jacket in my car," he says. His voice drops into a low, sensual register, vibrating in the small space like a lover’s purr.

My pulse hammers wildly against my throat. The tension in the tiny bathroom skyrockets when he moves. He is the exact opposite of me: elegant, flawlessly collected, and terrifyingly beautiful. Even the simple act of him reaching for a fresh towel is a study in grace. He moves like water flowing over smooth stones. He runs the thick cloth under the warm water of the sink, wrings it out, and holds it out to me.

"Thanks," I mumble, my voice cracking. I take the warm towel with shaking fingers.

I press the damp cloth against my face, dabbing at my stinging eyes. I am painfully, acutely aware of his gaze tracking every micro-movement I make. The green slime is stubborn. It clings to my red hair and pale skin like a toxic parasite, refusing to wipe away clean.

"You know," Lucien murmurs. He leans back against the doorframe with casual elegance, crossing his arms over his chest. "Green isn’t your color."

A short, surprised laugh escapes my throat. It sounds dangerously close to an ungraceful snort. "A-are you saying some other color of humiliation would suit me better?"

The corner of his mouth quirks upward. The playful amusement fades from his features, replaced by a striking, intense sincerity. "I’m saying humiliation doesn’t suit you at all."

The raw earnestness in his tone makes me freeze. My hand stops mid-pat, the warm towel smushed awkwardly against my cheek. I look up.

Our eyes lock in the reflection of the bathroom mirror.

For one breathless, reality-bending split second, I swear I see it. His irises do not look brown. They flash a bright, glowing violet. It is a brilliant, unnatural light that pierces straight through the mirror and anchors itself deep in my soul. I blink hard. When I open my eyes, his irises are normal again. Dark, fathomless brown.

Lucien straightens up from the doorframe. He does not look away. His steady gaze pulls at a heavy, magnetic weight buried deep inside my chest, leaving me utterly captivated.

"Is your place far from here?"