BOUND TO THE BULLIES

Darcy Invisibility. That is my superpower. Or at least, I pray to the Moon Goddess every single morning that it is. I keep my head down, my chin tucked into the frayed collar of my oversized sweater. It smells like stale laundry detergent, a stark contrast to the scent of the hallway: expensive leather, designer perfume, and the overwhelming, arrogant musk of Alphas. Blackwood Academy. A playground for the rich, the powerful, and the cruel. And I am Darcy Allen. The scholarship case. The Omega with no pack, no money, and no future. "One more week," I whisper to myself, gripping my plastic lunch tray so hard my knuckles turn white. "Just get through the ceremony, get the diploma, and run." The cafeteria is a minefield. I navigate the space between tables, eyes glued to the scuffed linoleum floor. If I don't look at them, maybe they won't see me. Maybe today, just today, they will find someone else to torture. But luck has never been on my side. A heavy boot slams down in front of me. I try to stop, but momentum is a b***h. I stumble. My tray flies out of my hands. CRASH. The sound echoes like a gunshot. The chatter in the cafeteria dies instantly. Silence. Heavy, suffocating silence. I don't need to look up to know who stopped me. The air suddenly tastes like ozone and gunpowder. Damon Blackstone. "Oops," a deep, mocking voice rumbles from above. "Clumsy little stray, aren't you?" My heart hammers against my ribs like a trapped bird. I squeeze my eyes shut for a second, inhaling a shaky breath, before looking up. There they are. The four heirs. The kings of this hellhole. Damon stands right in front of me, a cruel smirk playing on his lips, his electric blue eyes dancing with malice. Behind him, leaning against a pillar like a silent statue, is Amos Caine. He doesn’t smile. He just watches me with those dark, unreadable eyes, his massive arms crossed over his chest. Sitting at the nearest table, Alastair Lockwood adjusts his glasses. He looks like an angel, but I know better. "She's making a mess again, Ronan," Alastair says smoothly, his voice dripping with fake concern. "It’s unsanitary." And then, I feel him. The temperature in the room seems to drop ten degrees. Ronan Thornfield. The Alpha of Alphas. The King. He sits at the head of the table, not even bothering to look at me initially. He takes a slow sip of his water, places the glass down, and finally turns his golden gaze my way. It feels like being dissected. "Well?" Ronan says, his voice low and commanding. It sends a shiver of fear—and something else I refuse to name—down my spine. "You heard Alastair. It's unsanitary, Darcy." He points a finger at the spilled mystery meat and mashed potatoes on the floor. Near his polished Italian leather shoes. "Clean it up." The command hangs in the air. "I... I'll get a mop," I stammer, starting to back away. Damon steps into my path, blocking me. He towers over me, radiating heat and aggression. "No, no. Mops are for the cleaning staff. You’re lower than them, remember? Use your hands." Laughter ripples through the cafeteria. The other students are watching the show, waiting for the Omega to break. I look at Amos, hoping for a flicker of mercy. He looks away, jaw clenched. No help there. My hands shake. I hate them. I hate them with every fiber of my being. I want to scream, to throw the food in their perfect faces, to burn this school to the ground. But I can’t. I am powerless. Slowly, painfully, I crouch down. I grab a handful of the cold, gross mash. "Good girl," Damon whispers, leaning down so his lips brush my ear. "Know your place." I hold back tears. I will not cry. I will not give them the satisfaction. Suddenly, the PA system crackles to life, saving me from total destruction. "Attention students. The Red Moon Ceremony will begin in ten minutes in the Great Hall. Attendance is mandatory." Damon groans, stepping back. "Show's over, boys. Time to go howl at the moon." Ronan stands up, buttoning his suit jacket. He steps over the mess I made, pausing just for a second. He looks down at me, crouched on the floor with food in my hands. "You smell particularly pathetic today, Allen," he sneers coldly. "Try not to embarrass the Academy during the ceremony." They walk away, a phalanx of power and arrogance. I scramble up, wiping my hands on my skirt, ignoring the stains. I rush to the bathroom to wash up, my hands trembling violently under the cold water. I hate them. I hate them. I stare at my reflection in the cracked mirror. My face is pale, my eyes wide and frightened. "Just the ceremony," I tell my reflection. "Then it’s over." But as I step out of the bathroom and head toward the Great Hall, a sudden wave of dizziness hits me. It’s not fear. It’s heat. A scorching, liquid fire ignites in my lower belly. My knees buckle. I gasp, clutching the wall for support. My scent... it’s changing. The soft vanilla is spiking, becoming sweeter, heavier. More potent. What is happening? I stumble toward the double doors of the Great Hall. The air inside is thick with the scent of hundreds of wolves. But the moment I push the doors open, the fire in my veins explodes. It feels like a hook has been sunk into my navel, pulling me forward. And across the crowded room, four heads snap toward me in perfect unison. Ronan. Damon. Alastair. Amos. Their eyes aren't human anymore. They are glowing. And they are looking straight at me.