Prologue
Patricia
Fourteen Years old.
No-no-no! I'm late for class again! There is drool on my cheek, and I'm running in my freaking pajamas.
I kept pressing snooze on my phone alarm until I jerked awake with the insight I probably overslept. I barely even looked in the mirror before rushing out of the house.
As I pass the windows of a dark classroom, I regret my decision to not even brush my hair—I resemble Hermione Granger in the first Harry Potter movie, with a bird's nest for hair. Mine is darker, though. I was born with the complex of a ghost and black hair to match.
I'm a mess.
Grumbling to myself over my hairstyle, I sneak closer to a door by the end of the corridor. It leads to the back of our classroom. Mrs. Bridget, the elderly lady who is my history teacher, can barely see anything and won't notice me taking a seat twenty minutes too late.
I enter the classroom and tiptoe with my eyes locked on an empty bench and chair. My bag slips down from my shoulder to the floor, and then my gaze land on Dior sitting above me. He narrows those piercing, cold eyes on my attire, and I growl warningly at him.
My voice is low and threatening. "Not a word."
His lips twitch into a smile far too wolfish to be considered friendly, and I inhale slowly—Dior is like a blister inside my butt. We are in the same pack, and while the guy might grow up to become the alpha of Winterbite, he is a nasty know-it-all.
"Okay, I won't, for your sake."
Suspicion churns in my belly. "That's new... You're never nice to me unless there is something to gain from it, Lavigne."
The boy smiles. "You wound me. There are times when I can be nice."
Somehow, I doubt his words.
Dior was born without a filter, and his whole purpose for existing seems to be making my life a living hell. The idiot doesn't act his age. He is a child prodigy, a genius, and an egoistic self-loving jerk.
Dior brags about his IQ whenever he can. He even called me stupid straight to my face the last time I failed a math test. Seriously, the mere sight of him makes my insides boil like a volcano.
Dior and I get along like snow and salt.
Not that I have many friends in the first place. I'm only friends with a human girl, Tiffany, but it's enough to keep me sane. Humans do not know supernatural creatures exist, and I love that about Tiffany. She doesn't treat me differently because I'm the omega in my pack.
"Right..." I mutter.
I move again, and when I'm standing right by my seat, Dior glances at me with ill intent written all over his face. Brown hair is falling into his blue, angelic eyes wasted on a devil.
"What is it now?" I hiss.
Dior's lips curl into a malicious smirk that plays over his lips. His arms are crossed over his chest, and he is balancing in his chair with pure amusement radiating from him.
'You're late again, Goldheart. And you seem tired. Why don't you take a seat? Relax those legs.'
Ugh, sometimes I hate the mind-link. It's a werewolf thing. And since we are in the same pack, Dior uses it to broadcast his thoughts whenever he feels like it.
I'm also terrible at keeping things private and unconsciously leak my emotions into the mind-link. Of course, Dior bullies me for it—he found out about my crush on William and wouldn't keep quiet about it for two weeks.
'Yeah, something came in the way.' I reply and take a seat, only to get drenched in water.