Unworthy

Satisfied that we had somehow managed to fit everything into the car, I slam the boot shut on the SUV my parents bought me over the summer. The sound is too sharp in the quiet. A year ago, I would not have needed it. None of us would. A year ago, I would not have needed the car. None of us would. Before New Year, travel had been easier for my family. Easier than roads, traffic, luggage space, and three fourteen-year-old girls arguing over music before we had even left the drive. The trees had worked then. Now they didn’t. Not properly. So, I had a car. It was useful. I knew that. It would get us to Exton safely, and there were worse things than being trusted with an expensive SUV and my sisters’ lives. Still, every time I looked at it, I thought about how simple things used to be. How I used to be. The car is useful. I know that. It will get us to Exton safely, and there are worse things than being trusted with an expensive SUV and my sisters’ lives. Still, every time I look at it, I think about how simple things used to be. How I used to be. Gonna need a van to haul all this crap back at the end of the year, I mutter to Calix. Prepare for shifting better and you would not need so many clothes, he replies. True. In that regard, I probably took after Dad more than I liked to admit. "Take good care of the car," Dad says behind me. He means the car. Mostly. With Dad, practical instructions have a habit of carrying more than they should. Look after the car. Look after your sisters. Look after yourself. Try not to come back from Exton wearing the same hollow expression you left with. Or perhaps I am adding that last one. I glance back at my parents, standing shoulder to shoulder outside the front of the pack house. It is good of them to do this, to see us off properly. They are both busy enough that even half an hour like this means something. I know that. I feel it too. Somewhere. "I will," I say. "And I’ll watch out for the three of them." As if summoned by the threat of responsibility, my fourteen-year-old sisters spill through the front door, already grinning. Triplets, but not identical. Sage had inherited the Lycan side of the family. Olive and Fern had inherited Mum’s fae blood instead, which meant two-thirds of the chaos in this family came with an alarming lack of survival instinct. "Finally," Sage says, dragging her case over the gravel. "Were you planning to brood here all day?" "I wasn’t brooding." Olive looks me over. "You were absolutely brooding." Fern nods. "With shoulders." "I always have shoulders." "Not like that," Fern says. "Those were emotional shoulders." Mum hides a smile badly. Dad does not bother hiding his at all. Brilliant. "Get in the car," I tell them. "See?" Olive says. "Grumpy." They hug our parents quickly, more excited about getting back to school than sentimental about leaving, then pile into the car. Two in the back, one in the passenger seat. No one looks back with dread. Lucky them. Mum steps closer and reaches for my face. I almost pull back. Not quickly enough for anyone else to notice, perhaps, but she does. Of course she does. Her fingers brush my cheek, and her expression tightens. She knows. She always knows. That is one of the complications of having a faerie for a mother. She would never read my aura without permission, but she rarely needed to. Not with us. Not when something was sitting this close to the surface. "Josh," she says softly. The softness irritates me. I hate that it does. A few months ago, I would have leaned into it without thinking. A year ago, maybe. Before everything became sharp and wrong. Before she looked at what I had become and decided a hex was the answer. I know why she did it. That does not mean I have forgiven her for it. "I’ll be fine," I say. The lie feels flat in my mouth. Her sadness deepens, and for one awful second I want to snap at her not to look at me like that. As if I am damaged. As if she can see every ugly thing I have done and every empty place it left behind. Instead, I stand there. Because she is still my mother. Because I am still angry. Because both things can be true, and I hate that. She pulls me into a hug, holding on for longer than usual. I let her. I do not quite hug her back. Dad takes his turn after her, all solid arms and firm claps to the back. "Ollie will be there most days," Dad says. "But if you need us, call. We’ll come as soon as we can." "I hope I won’t have to," I mutter. It is not that I doubt them. That is the problem, really. If any of us needed them, they would drop everything. My mother could be halfway through running the largest pharmaceutical company in the world, or dealing with whatever latest crisis came with owning a university, and she would still come. My father could be managing the biggest pack in the country or sitting in some emergency Supernatural Council meeting, and he would still come. They were extraordinary like that. Extraordinary in most ways, actually. The sort of people everyone knew. Everyone respected. Everyone expected things from. And then there was me. Not a big deal. Not even close. According to nature, at least. Six months ago, my older sister had formally renounced her place as Dad’s heir. She did not want the title, the pressure, or the power that came with it. Normally, when an heir stepped down, the next worthy Lycan in line would feel the change in their blood within days. Six months later, neither Sage nor I had felt anything. Maybe she did not want it. Maybe I did. Maybe wanting it was not enough. The triplets chatter as I drive through our pack’s forest, but I barely hear them. My mind is still somewhere in last year, circling everything I would rather leave buried. The training I let slip. The girls whose names blur too easily. The fights I picked because anger was simpler than thought. And Grey. That memory is sharper than the rest. Her arm locked around mine. Bone giving way. Humiliation roaring up so fast it drowned everything else out. I remember the anger most. Not because anger is unusual for me. I am an alpha; rank comes with teeth. But that anger had not felt like mine. It had been too black. Too eager. Then my foot was in her ribs. I knew the rules. I knew the match was over. I knew better. Still, I did it. My hands tighten on the wheel. Grey is aggravating. She was aggravating then, and she will probably be aggravating again within thirty seconds of being in the same room as me. That does not make what I did feel any more like me. There are plenty of reasons nature might have looked at me and found nothing worth choosing. It had been a strange year. Although, to be fair, any alpha could have said the same. The Goddess had revoked mate bonds twenty years ago, and without something destined to steady us, too many alphas had started looking for power instead. Rank. Influence. Stronger partners. Claiming what had no wish to be claimed. It had damaged people. Packs. Families. My parents had spent most of my life dealing with the fallout, so when I started becoming someone they did not recognise, of course they noticed. "Are you hopeful, Josh?" Sage asks suddenly. "Hopeful?" "About finding your mate, obviously." Her green eyes are bright with it. Sage has always been better at expecting good things than I am. I look back at the road, my stomach twisting. Every Lycan is hopeful now. How could we not be? The Goddess had given back something most of us had only heard about in stories. "She’s probably not at Exton," I say. I am not due to turn eighteen until the end of January, but as an alpha, I might sense her early if she is close enough. The thought should be exciting. Mostly, it makes me feel exposed. "Saffron thinks it’ll be the making of you," Sage whispers, quietly enough that only another Lycan would catch it. The making of me. As though I am unfinished. Or something that has gone wrong and needs correcting. Maybe I am. Her words stay with me all the way to Exton, leaving one stubborn thread of hope I cannot quite cut loose. Could my mate change things? Could she make me worthy? I hate that I think it. But I do. My sisters waste no time grabbing their things the moment I park. By the time I have locked the car, they are already halfway to the entrance, bright with the sort of excitement I cannot seem to reach. No goodbyes. No lingering. I will see them around. The finality of that should make this easier. It does not. The atrium is almost empty when I walk in, my suitcase wheels sounding too loud against the floor. Dinner is close; I can smell it from here, which means we are probably among the last to arrive. Slightly embarrassing, really, when the school is one of the family businesses. Another thing with our name on it. Another thing I am supposed to fit. "Good evening," I say, aiming for polite as I approach reception. The woman behind the desk looks up. She is definitely not Lynda. "Landry, Joshua," she sighs. "The last student to check in." "I had precious cargo in the car," I say, taking the envelope and keycard from her. "Couldn’t exactly speed." She does not look especially moved. Fair. I glance down at the envelope. Then frown. There must be some mistake. "This isn’t my room number," I say, turning back to her. "The headmaster changed it," she says with a shrug, sliding the screen across the desk opening in a clear signal that the conversation is over. Probably a downgrade after your behaviour last year, Calix remarks. Our behaviour, I snap back. Unless you’ve forgotten the second-floor cupboard and the wood-nymph. I remember your hands being involved. My jaw tightens. I also remember not feeling entirely in charge of them. Calix goes quiet. That is the worst part, really. Not that I did things I regret. Plenty of people do that. It is the fact some of last year sits in my memory like someone else wore my skin badly and left me to deal with the consequences. I shove the thought down and head for a corridor I have no reason to take. Then another. By the time I reach the lifts, irritation has settled back into something easier to hold. My old room had been in the original part of the building. Familiar. Solid. Mine, more or less. This keycard sends me three floors up, to the newer section at the top of the boys’ block. Brilliant. New room. New year. Same mess. The room is not a downgrade. That is the first problem. I step into a reception room far larger than any standard dorm should be, with two sofas, a coffee table, armchairs and a fridge tucked against one wall. Beyond it, the bedroom is larger too. Heir quarters, Calix murmurs. Interesting. Or cruel. You are only seventeen. I’m aware. Then try patience. I almost laugh. These rooms are designed for future pack leaders. Private meetings, extra lessons, students coming to ask for guidance from someone already marked by nature as worthy. No pressure, then. A wardrobe door closes in the bedroom, and I assume Archer must already have settled in. "Enjoying the new room, Arch?" I call, dragging my suitcase through. The wardrobe door swings shut properly, revealing someone who is definitely not Archer. I stop. "You’re not Archer." Not my finest observation. The guy nods, amused. "No, I am not." "Who are you?" I ask, tossing my car keys onto what is apparently now my bed. His mouth twitches. "Owen Montgomery. Beta. Golden Lycans." He pauses, then adds, helpfully, "Your pack." I stare at him. The Golden Lycans are the biggest pack in the country, but still. Not recognising one of our own betas while standing in heir quarters is not exactly ideal. "Right," I say. "Where’s Archer?" "I was asked to room with you this year." "Asked by who?" "Your father." The words land with all the subtlety of a punch. Owen goes back to stacking jumpers as though he has not just rearranged my entire final year. I lower myself onto the edge of my bed. He is tall, broad-shouldered, and solid in the way betas often are, but there is something steadier about him than most. Less performance. Less noise. Light brown hair, calm hands, easy posture. The sort of person who looks like he knows exactly where he belongs. Which is irritating, given that I currently do not. Archer, by contrast, was another alpha from a pack about eighty miles away. Like me, he was not the eldest in his family. "All the strength and prestige without the responsibility," he used to say. Except I had wanted the responsibility. I had always wanted to succeed my father. Archer had mostly wanted a good time. "He didn’t think I could choose my own beta?" I ask. Owen shuts the wardrobe and sits on the edge of his bed. "I’m not surprised you don’t recognise me," he says. That lands badly. "You could end up heir to our pack without knowing half your betas," he continues. "But I know you, Josh. We sparred a few times last year." I do not recognise this guy at all, I tell Calix. He has raised an important point. Great. So I haven’t been paying attention? Not to the right things. Irritation rises first, because it is easier than embarrassment. Dad had interfered. Again. But given recent evidence, he probably had his reasons. I stand and hold my hand out. "Right," I say, standing and holding out my hand. "Then I should probably know you." Owen stands too, shaking my hand. "Owen Montgomery," I say, committing the name to memory this time. "Sorry I didn’t before." "Last year was a lot," he says. That is generous. We are about the same height, though he carries himself differently. Solid. Steady. Broad in the way betas often are, but without the usual edge of performance. There is something about him that feels less beta than most. Maybe that is the point. He releases my hand, then says, with absolutely no warning, "Is it true your mum hexed you?" I stare at him. He looks as though he has been holding the question in since I walked through the door. "Yes." "Wow." "That your entire response?" "I’m trying to be respectful." "Try harder." "What does it do?" *He may as well know,* Calix says. I let out a breath and turn away, dragging a hand through my hair. "I couldn’t do anything," I say. Owen waits. I glance back at him. "Anyone." His brows lift slightly. "Ah." "It was meant to wear off when I came back to Exton." "And has it?" I hesitate. Because yes. I think so. The absence that had been sitting under my skin for months is not quite as blank now. Something has shifted. Returned. Not cleanly. Not comfortably. But enough to make me aware of everything I had not been aware of before. Which is, frankly, worse. "I think so," I mutter. Owen studies me for a second. "That explains some of the mood." "I don’t have a mood." "You absolutely have a mood." "I’m not angry," I snap. The silence that follows is deeply unflattering. Owen’s mouth twitches. "Right," he says. "Good to know." Owen almost laughs. I tip my head back and exhale. "Fine. I’m angry. Mostly frustrated. A few things last year were out of my control." "I heard," Owen says. "I take chemistry and biology. I could explain some of it, if you want." Of course. Dad had assigned me the male version of Mum in the hope he would become my second-hand brain. "Maybe another time," I say. "Right now, I’d rather eat." At the mention of food, Owen is on his feet immediately. "Oh, I am always up for dinner." Maybe a mix of your mum and your uncle Ollie, Calix says, sounding amused. This could work. He might be right. Which is irritating. "Alright," I say, reaching for my keycard. "You can tell me more about yourself. And your wolf." "Damon," Owen says, pulling on his trainers. Means loyal friend, Calix tells me. I glance at Owen again. Solid. Unbothered. Already here, whether I wanted him or not. Maybe Dad had not assigned me a punishment. Maybe he had assigned me a chance. I am not ready to be grateful for that. But as we head down to dinner, I do feel something loosen by a fraction. Owen finds us a free table, and I head towards the servery, only to spot Archer sitting with a group of betas from his pack. Relief hits first. Stupidly. "Arch," I say, catching his eye. "Can you believe my dad switched you out?" Archer’s expression changes at once. Not surprise. Awkwardness. My stomach drops before he even stands. "Yeah," he says, rubbing the back of his neck. "About that. I actually asked to move." For a second, I do not understand him. Then I do. My gaze drops to the table of betas watching us with far too much interest. Heat crawls up my neck. "Right," I say. Archer leans closer, lowering his voice. "You were fun before, Josh. Midnight swims, parties, girls, stupid ideas that somehow worked." He gives an uncomfortable shrug. "Then you just... weren’t. You got weird. Angry. Withdrawn. Honestly, I wanted a final year that didn’t feel like sitting beside someone else’s bad mood." I stare at him. There is probably something to say to that. Something sharp. Something careless. Something that would land badly enough to make him regret saying it. Last year, I would have found it easily. Now, nothing comes. Archer sits back down. Worse, he turns away first. I walk towards the food with anger rising hot and useful under my skin. How dare he, I mutter to Calix. All the fun we had was down to me. Who got him anywhere with Bethany? Interesting defence, Calix says. It is not a defence. No? I pick up a tray harder than necessary. He liked me better when I was unbearable. Calix says nothing. Which is probably wise. Because that is the part I do not know what to do with. A floral scent cuts through my temper. Not perfume. Something cleaner. Wilder. It drags me out of Archer, out of the heat still crawling under my skin, and back into the queue. I am standing behind a girl with long dark hair falling down her back. A fitted jade jumper. Slim waist. Jeans that fit well enough for my thoughts to go somewhere they have not gone properly in months. Which should probably be good news. It does not feel like good news. It feels more like being shoved awake. Wow, I mutter to Calix. Whoever she is, she definitely squats. The girl stiffens almost at once, shoulders pulling tight as the queue shuffles forwards. I still. Not because she could have heard me. She could not have. Because I know that reaction. The bracing. The way her body prepares for a fight before she has even turned around. Then she turns her head slightly, just enough for me to catch her profile. Of course. Grey. The scent, the hair, the body I have just assessed like an i***t, all of it rearranges itself into the one person in this school I least want to notice. Lyra Grey. The gamma who broke my arm in two places. The girl who made me look weak in front of half our year. The girl whose ribs I kicked after the match was already over. My jaw tightens. I should feel worse about that than I do in this exact second. I do feel worse. Just not enough to stop being annoyed. "Typical," I mutter under my breath.