Chapter 9

The cafeteria was loud enough to drown out most conversations — for humans, anyway. I didn't need to hear everything to know what was going on. Bella, however, seemed determined to keep her eyes glued to the far corner of the room.

"Subtle," I murmured, peeling the label off my water bottle.

"I'm not staring," she said, her tone way too defensive to be convincing.

"You are. And just so you know, they can hear everything we're saying."

She blinked. "What?"

"Super ears," I said, deadpan. "Like bats, but prettier. They probably know you've been mentally writing wedding vows for Edward over there."

Her face flushed, and she swatted my arm. "Shut up."

I smirked and leaned back in my chair. "Relax, I'm joking."

Bella shook her head, muttering something about me being weird, and went back to poking at her sandwich. But across the room, I caught it — a fractional stillness from the Cullens' table. Edward's eyes narrowed just slightly, like he was recalculating something. Rosalie's gaze slid over me, unreadable but sharp. Even Alice's smile had the faintest edge to it.

They hadn't expected me to say that. Interesting.

I didn't look again. Let them wonder.

⸻

The bell rang, breaking the moment. Bella gathered her things for biology, and I headed the opposite direction for art. The walk was short, the hallways smelling faintly of wet jackets and old textbooks. Art was one of the few rooms that didn't feel suffocating — shelves lined with projects in varying stages of success, sunlight pushing through the big windows, dust motes catching in the beams.

I dropped into my usual seat along the side wall, unpacking my sketchbook. A moment later, someone slid into the chair next to mine. When I glanced over, I found myself looking at short, perfectly styled dark hair and warm amber eyes.

"Hi," she said with a voice like a friendly summer breeze. "You're Aspen."

"Guilty," I replied, studying her. Alice Cullen. Up close, she radiated that same supernatural stillness as the others, but hers was lighter, more open — the kind that didn't immediately push people away.

"I've been meaning to talk to you," she said.

"Meaning to," I repeated, "or planning to?"

Her grin widened like she'd been caught. "Both."

Before I could ask why, Mr. Clark clapped his hands and announced the day's assignment — contour line drawings of the still life set up in the center of each table group. Alice and I shared a page and a set of pencils. Her hand moved in quick, confident strokes, each line purposeful.

"You're good at this," she said after a while, glancing at my half-finished sketch.

"Comes with the territory," I said.

"What territory is that?"

"The kind where you notice details. Lines, shapes, weak points."

She tilted her head slightly, curious but not pushing. "Sounds like it could be... useful."

"Depends what you're using it for," I said with a faint smirk.

Her eyes lingered on mine for a beat longer than necessary before she went back to her drawing.

We worked in silence after that, but it wasn't awkward. Alice had a way of making stillness feel comfortable, like a held breath that you didn't need to release just yet.

When class wrapped, she handed me my pencil. "We should talk again."

"Sure," I said, and meant it.

⸻

The last two classes blurred together — a lecture-heavy history period followed by the slow crawl of chemistry. By the time the final bell rang, my body was itching for movement. Bella was already by the truck, arms folded, her bag at her feet.

"Ready?" she asked.

"Yeah," I said, tossing my bag in the bed and climbing in.

The ride home was quiet except for the hum of the old engine and the occasional sigh from Bella. She looked tired, the kind of tired that sank into your shoulders.

When we pulled into the driveway, Charlie's cruiser was absent. Bella headed inside with her books, muttering about homework. I watched her disappear inside, then glanced toward the tree line.

A run would do me good.

⸻

The shift came as easily as breathing. One moment I was upright in denim and boots, the next I was fur and muscle, my body built for silence and speed. My panthera form stretched luxuriously before I bolted into the woods.

The air was cool and rich with scent — cedar, wet earth, the faint musk of deer far ahead. The rhythm of my stride smoothed out the day's static, each bound eating the distance between me and the river.

When I reached the water, I slowed, padding into the current until it reached my chest. The shock of the cold bit deep, but it was grounding. I stood there for a while, letting the water push against me, before moving downstream at a lazy pace.

That's when it hit me — faint, far off, but distinct. Not deer. Not wolf. Definitely not vampire.

Bear. More than one. Moving together.

They were far enough to be no immediate concern, but close enough to be new. I filed it away, keeping my pace steady. If they were a threat, I'd know before they got too close.

For now, they were just another variable.

⸻

By the time I reached the house again, the sky had deepened to that soft blue-gray before full dark. I shifted back, skin prickling in the cool air, and slipped through the back door.

Charlie's cruiser was in the driveway now, engine ticking as it cooled. The smell of dinner drifted from the kitchen.

I let the warmth of the house wrap around me, the quiet domesticity settling into my bones like something I'd almost forgotten I liked.