They are gone.
You are alone.
You survived.
My legs feel suddenly weak, the adrenaline that has been carrying me all day finally draining away. I stumble to the couch, collapsing onto the cushions that still smell faintly of Cal's cinnamon roll scent. My hands are shaking, I realize. Have been shaking this whole time, hidden by crossed arms and clenched fists and sheer force of will.
You kicked Rafe in the balls. You established rules with three Alphas. You got asked on a Valentine's Day date by a man who writes stories and looks at you like you matter.
What is happening? What is your life right now?
I tilt my head back against the couch cushions, staring at the ceiling. The dorm is quiet now, filled only with the mingled scents of my new roommates and the distant sounds of campus life outside the windows.
Six weeks.
Six weeks to figure out my life. To escape my mother's plans. To find out who Mabeline Mae Rose actually is when she is not running or hiding or trying to survive.
Six weeks of living with three Alphas who used to be my tormentors and might possibly be something else now. Something I do not have a name for yet.
This is insane. This whole situation is completely, utterly insane.
But for the first time in a very long time, I do not feel like running.
I look around the living room, taking in the mismatched furniture and the hockey memorabilia on the walls and the pile of textbooks on the coffee table. Taking in the scents that are slowly becoming familiar instead of overwhelming. Taking in the space that is, somehow, inexplicably, mine now.
I take a deep breath.
Let it out slowly.
And smile.
"Here is my new home," I whisper to the empty room. "At least for the next six weeks."
CHAPTER 8
Coffee And Complications
~MABELINE~
I can barely open my eyes.
My body shuffles out of what I have affectionately started calling my closet space, moving on pure muscle memory and spite. My alarm has been snoozed at least ten times. Maybe eleven. Maybe fifteen. I genuinely lost count somewhere around the fifth desperate slap at my ancient phone screen, when Beatrice the Second gave me what felt like a judgmental buzz in response.
Early mornings are not my thing.
They have never been my thing.
They will never be my thing, not in this lifetime or any other.
And yet here I am, dragging myself into consciousness at an ungodly hour because some sadistic administrator at Valenridge Academy decided that eight AM classes are not only acceptable but necessary for proper academic development.
Why? What possible educational benefit is there to torturing students before the sun has even fully committed to being in the sky? What monster looked at a schedule and thought yes, let us make these young people suffer before they have had time to become human?
I shuffle toward the kitchen, my bare feet slapping against the cold hardwood floor with each reluctant step. The temperature is not helping my situation. The floor feels like ice against my skin, sending little shocks of discomfort up through my legs with every footfall.
My hair is a rat's nest of tangles and yesterday's stress. I can feel it brushing against my shoulders in matted clumps that have achieved sentience overnight and are now staging a rebellion against all known laws of physics and haircare. I probably look like a shapeshifter caught mid-transformation, stuck somewhere between human and swamp creature.
Cute. Very cute. Definitely the impression you want to make on your new roommates. Looking like a creature from the depths of a horror movie first thing in the morning.
