Emily At An All Boys Werewolf Academy!

sculpted face

Emily's pov

“Your highness,” I started, a little more breathless than I would have liked. The last thing I wanted was for him to misinterpret my labored breathing, which was solely a result of the run.

“Drop the formalities, Emily. What on earth are you wearing? And why are you running around the academy looking like that?” he demanded, his face already twisted in disapproval.

I sighed internally, bracing myself for the inevitable earful. Though I disliked Damien for a myriad of reasons—chief among them the arranged marriage he kept pushing—I had to admit he had mastered the art of forcing himself into my life. Five years of his relentless attempts to court me, and yet he had failed to learn a single thing about my likes or dislikes.

Honestly, if he had paid attention to what I hated most, he’d know better than to show his face to me. Meanwhile, I, cursed with brilliant observational skills, knew far more about him than I cared to admit.

“This is an all-boys school, Emily. For heaven’s sake, you shouldn’t be out here dressed like that,” he scolded, as though I hadn’t already considered the implications.

I bit back an eye roll. That was precisely why I had opted for modest clothes, even if they did resemble my brother’s oversized cast-offs. Clearly, these people just wanted an excuse to pick at me.

“Last I checked, there was no law prohibiting women from physical training or wearing shorts. So, what exactly is bothering you?” I replied flatly.

“Sassy! Just my type,” someone from the gaggle of 150 heads I’d counted earlier shouted.

Damien’s face turned an impressive shade of red at the comment, but to my surprise, he didn’t retaliate. Odd. For someone who never missed an opportunity to flex his rank, his silence was uncharacteristic. Perhaps in this school, ranks mattered less than I’d assumed.

“See? Do you see what I’m talking about? You’re making a complete fool of yourself, Emily. I don’t know what Father was thinking, approving this nonsense,” Damien snapped, his tone dripping with exasperation.

Oh, I could have given him a brutally honest answer right then and there. You wouldn’t know because, out of all his kids, you’re the only one who didn’t inherit his scheming brain. That’s why you’re so slow—too slow to even hide your frequent visits to brothels.

But, of course, I held my tongue. It wouldn’t matter that my statement was true—publicly accusing Damien of his "extracurricular activities" would only land me in trouble for defamation. So, I let him ramble on, tuning him out as he rattled off his complaints like a broken record.

Five minutes into his nagging, something—or rather, someone—broke through my annoyance.

He appeared, striding into view with an air of quiet authority. His dark black hair was perfectly tousled, his jawline sharp enough to cut glass. A seamless, effortless smile played on his lips, and his piercing black eyes, tinged with a faint sliver of silver, locked onto me.

For the first time in my 17 years of life—and a few extra days, not that I was counting—my heart skipped a beat.

But it wasn’t his sculpted face or his disarming smile that caused the reaction.

It was the overwhelming sense of danger radiating from him—a danger so palpable, so intense, it made the hair on my arms stand on end.