Chapter 1

The entrance to St. Jude’s Elite was a wall of muscle and malice.

The male wolves from the neighboring combat camp were already there, their predatory grins flashing under the midday sun. They didn’t see a fellow student; they saw a toy. A notch to be carved into their belts.

"Look at that. The Lumarian stray is back for more," someone whistled, the sound sharp and grating.

"I heard she’ll roll over for any Alpha who barks loud enough. Pure human desperation."

I kept my chin tucked, my eyes fixed on the cracked pavement. As the only Lumarian human exchange student in a sea of purebred werewolves, I was a glitch in their perfect, violent system. My very existence was an insult to their bloodlines.

"Hey, Lumarian doll."

Killian Blackwood, a high-ranking Alpha, didn't just walk into me—he slammed his shoulder into mine with the force of a moving truck. I stumbled, my books scattering. Before I could move, he was in my space. He leaned down, his nose grazing the sensitive skin of my throat, and took a long, exaggerated sniff.

"Tsk. Not even that cheap vanilla perfume can hide the stench of the gutter on you, Seraphina."

A roar of guttural laughter erupted. The air grew thick with their pheromones—a deliberate wave of Alpha dominance meant to make my human knees buckle.

I curled my fingers into my palms, my nails drawing blood.

Don't show them, Seraphina. Don't reveal who you are. My older brother, Alaric Vane, had been clear. This was a test of endurance, a way to see the world from the bottom. But as Killian’s foul breath fanned my ear, the urge to tear his throat out was a heartbeat away.

I shoved past him, ignoring the taunts, and sprinted into the dormitory.

Behind me, Genevieve’s shrill, melodic laugh cut through the air like a blade. "Run along, little pet! And leave your door unlocked tonight—my hound is in heat and he needs a place to dump his trash."

I didn't stop until I reached the third floor. My lungs burned, but my heart stopped the moment I saw my room.

The heavy oak door had been shredded. Deep, jagged claw marks had gouged the wood, and the lock was a twisted mess of bent steel.

I pushed it open. The stench hit me first—the copper tang of blood and the rot of a thousand deaths.

My bed was gone. In its place was a mountain of blackened, fly-blown meat and dripping entrails. Gutted rats had been pinned to my pillow like macabre decorations. A foul, yellow fluid—wolf urine—soaked the floor, seeping into the very rug I’d saved for months to buy.

The walls were worse. Scrawled in violent red lipstick were the words: HARLOT. TART. FREE BREEDING GROUND.

My roommate's side of the room was pristine, save for a note pinned to her empty mattress: I don't sleep with sub-human filth. Don't let your STDs touch my shadow.

A slow, rhythmic clapping came from the doorway.

Genevieve leaned there, her phone held high, the camera lens drinking in my ruin.

"Smile for the Gram, Seraphina. This is the 'Lumarian Suite,' isn't it?" she sneered, her eyes glittering with venom. "A garbage dump for a garbage girl. It suits you."

"Get out!" I lunged to slam the door, but Genevieve didn't even flinch. She pressed one hand against the wood, her werewolf strength making it as immovable as a mountain.

"Careful, Seraphina Vane," she whispered, leaning in so close I could see the golden flecks in her pupils. "Stay away from Killian. You’re a human insect. If I find out you’ve been looking at him again, I won’t just ruin your bed. I’ll make sure you don't sleep at all."

Her voice dropped to a chilling, predatory silk. "Because Alphas in heat... they don't like it when their prey plays hard to get."

She turned on her heel, leaving me shivering in the center of the rot.

My phone vibrated. A text from Alaric.

[GPS shows you’re in the slums. That area is for stray dogs, Seraphina. Come home, or I’ll burn that sector to the ground and fetch you myself.]

I stared at the screen, tears of rage blurring the letters. He thought I was in the slums. He had no idea the real monsters lived in the 'Cradle of Nobility.'

I typed back with trembling fingers: [Just experiencing life, Alaric. It’s fine.]

I turned off the phone. I spent the next four hours stuffing rotting flesh and silk shards into black trash bags, my stomach churning with every heave.

Midnight came, silent and suffocating. I curled up on the bare metal frame of the bed, a small fruit knife clutched against my chest.

Then, I heard it.

The sound of sharp claws scratching against the hallway floor. Scritch. Scritch.

A heavy, wet breathing began to seep through the gap beneath my door. The doorknob rattled once, twice—and then the sound of the broken lock being forced open echoed like a gunshot in the dark.