Chapter 8
The hall buzzed with low growls and gasps. The scent of wolves rolled over me from every direction, charged with tension, excitement, and a hint of malice.
Footsteps rushed toward me. The scent arrived first: cedar, cold iron, and a faint undercurrent of anger. Then a hand gripped my upper arm, pulling me upright. Rowan.
“Your wolf blood is surging backward. Did you skip your lunar supplement?” His voice was low, audible only to me. His fingers dug into my arm, claws nearly piercing my skin.
“You’re running laps in this state? Do you want to lose control in front of half the grade? Where did you fall? I’m taking you back to the den.”
He spoke close to my ear, fast and insistent. My chest felt heavy from the surging wolf blood, and the humiliation of falling made it churn angrily inside me. The smells around me only sharpened my teeth.
“I can walk. Let go,” I said, trying to shake off his hand.
A low growl rumbled from his throat.
“You challenging me now? Smell yourself. Your blood is hot. I’ll get you to the med den and leave you there. What else do you need from me?”
“You don’t get it. Blood surging backward isn’t a medical emergency. A shaded spot and a few minutes is enough to stabilize it. Do you think I’m dying? I don’t need an escort.”
Rowan’s jaw tightened. His golden eyes narrowed, burning like crushed embers. After a long pause, he let a few words slip through clenched teeth.
“Do you really have to be this stubborn with me?”
I met his gaze evenly.
“If that’s how you see it, there’s nothing I can do.”
He let go sharply, as if flinging off something burning. His tail bristled, his back hairs standing on end, and he strode away.
The med den was quiet. Only one person sat on a stone cot-Caelus.
His scent hit me before his eyes did: ozone before a storm, damp moss, and fresh blood, iron-tinged.
He looked up and caught my gaze. His smile loosened, like a wolf pup basking in the moonlit forest.


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