Halfblooded Princess

Sloanne’s POV

"I can drive you."

My father's keys are already in his hand, along with that careful look on his face—the one he gets when he's trying to be present without acknowledging why presence matters.

"I'll take the bus."

"Sloane…"

"I need to do this alone." My fingers tighten on my bag strap until the leather bites into my palm.

What I mean is: I need to prove I can survive somewhere without you smoothing the path ahead of me.

What I also mean is: stop looking at me like I'm already failing.

He sets the keys down. Nods once and doesn't argue further.

He never actually argues. Not about my brother Grayson. Not about the way the pack whispers behind my back. Not about anything that might require him to actually fight for his halfblood daughter.

He just lets go. So I go.

The bus smells like diesel and someone's leftover breakfast. I press my forehead against the window and watch the suburbs thin into forest, ordinary giving way to ancient in forty-five minutes flat.

The orientation packet sits open on my lap—four faculties, four species groups, mine being Vampires and Werewolves. Most humans will never know Blackmoor exists. You only learn about it if you're born supernatural, married into it, or, in my mother's case, stumble into the arms of a werewolf and produce a halfblood daughter the pack would rather forget.

The iron gates of Blackmoor Academy swing open like they've been waiting for me, which they haven't. Nobody here has been waiting for me, and I prefer it that way.

The campus sprawls before me in Gothic grandeur—stone buildings draped in ivy, gargoyles perched on every corner like they're personally offended by my outfit choices.