Rafael's Point of View
I am halfway down the stairs from my dorm when my phone buzzes. It is a message from my father: “Meet me outside. Now.”
My stomach knots instantly. That tone, short, clipped, unforgiving, never means anything good. I shove the phone back into my pocket and push through the doors into the crisp morning air. His truck is parked at the curb, black as the mood radiating from him as he leans against it, his arms folded over his chest.
“Father,” I start, but the look he levels at me freezes the rest of the words in my throat.
“I heard,” Dorian says, his voice low and sharp as a blade, “from Jordan Fray, Jordan, not you, that the schools patrol was attacked last night. That wolves laced with wolfsbane put one of your classmates in the infirmary.”
Heat prickles the back
