Elenora
If someone had told me that my life would change on a Tuesday afternoon, somewhere between unpacking my overly polished school shoes and Edward lecturing me about "proper Alpha posture," I would have laughed. Loudly. The kind of laugh that would earn me a disapproving eyebrow from my twin brother—he has perfected that expression, I swear.
But there I was, thirteen years old, freshly arrived at the Lycan Elite Academy, the most prestigious werewolf boarding school in Europe. It was the sort of place where portraits of dead Alphas glared at you from the walls, as if silently judging whether your wolf was strong enough, pure enough, worthy enough.
The Lycan Elite Academy stood atop a windswept ridge like a monument carved out of time itself—a colossal 14th-century fortress whose very walls seemed to hum with ancient wolf magic. Built long before the age of comfort or refinement, it had the stark, commanding beauty of something created to endure… and to intimidate.
Its outer walls, thick and timeworn, were made from rough-hewn grey stone speckled with lichen and softened by centuries of rain. Vines of deep emerald ivy clung to the façade, winding up toward the massive turrets that pierced the sky. Each tower was crowned with a slate roof the color of storm clouds, while narrow arrow slits—now fitted with enchanted glass—glowed faintly at night, giving the impression that the Academy itself kept watch over everyone within.
The Academy was exclusively for children of Alpha lineage.Only Alphas.Only the elite.And—if Edward had his way—only the ones who remembered to tuck their shirts in.
I was still rolling my eyes at him when the doors to the Great Hall opened for orientation. And that was when I saw him.
Marcello.
Even his name sounded like a warm breeze drifting in from an Italian vineyard.
He stood with a group of older students, tall for his age, dark curls falling into his eyes—the kind of eyes that were so bright and gold-tinged, they looked like someone had trapped the moonlight inside them. He laughed at something one of the boys said, and half the room turned to look. He radiated confidence, strength, ease.
And me? Well… I walked straight into a pillar.
"Smooth, Nora," Edward muttered, grabbing my elbow before I could slide to the floor. "First day and you've already declared war on architecture."
"Shut up," I hissed, cheeks blazing.
When I looked up again, Marcello was staring at me.
Staring.At me.
And then—he smiled.
Dear Goddess.I forgot how to breathe for a solid five seconds.
We were assigned to the same combat theory class. Which, of course, meant I had to act natural. Calm. Unbothered. Like my stomach wasn't doing acrobatics every time he looked in my general direction.
I took a seat in the middle row, next to the window. A moment later, someone slid into the seat beside me.
"Is this taken?"
The voice was warm, smooth, slightly accented—the kind of voice that made me sit up straighter on my chair.
I turned.And there he was.
Marcello.
Up close, he was even more ridiculously perfect. His scent—fresh pine, warm spice, and something distinctly wolfish—curled through the air, and I had to remind myself not to lean closer like some deranged scent addict.
"No," I managed. "I mean—yes. I mean—no, it's not taken. You can. Sit. Here. Yes."
Brilliant, Elenora. Truly eloquent.
He chuckled, and the sound danced down my spine.
"I'm Marcello," he said.
"I know," I blurted.
His eyebrows rose, amused.
"I mean—of course I don't know know, I just—Edward told me. My brother. He knows everyone. Not that he knows everyone, he just… keeps track. Alpha stuff. Never mind." I buried my face in my hands. "I'm Elenora."
Marcello laughed again, soft and warm.
"I like your honesty," he said.
Honesty.Right. That's what we were calling this humiliation.
Over the next weeks, something strange happened.
Marcello—popular, powerful, effortlessly gifted Marcello—kept choosing me.
Me, Elenora Whitmore, second born dautghter of the Alpha of the Whitmore Pack, overshadowed twin of a future Alpha, professional tripper-over-her-own-feet.
He sat with me at meals.Trained with me in sparring sessions.Walked with me to class.Shared jokes that made me snort-laugh in the library (which the librarian did not appreciate).
People whispered.
"Why's Marcello always with her?""She's just Edward's sister. That's all."
But Marcello never seemed to care. When others glared, he shrugged and he growled—actually growled—low and dangerous enough to silence them.
As for me?
I pretended not to notice that my heart did strange things whenever he was near. Like skipping beats. Or trying to leap out of my chest. Or composing sonnets. Honestly, I couldn't tell.
One evening, after a grueling tracking lesson, we were sitting on the steps outside the dormitories, watching the moon rise.
"You're different," Marcello said suddenly.
I stiffened. "Is that your way of saying I'm weird?"
He smiled. "Different is good. Everyone here pretends. You don't."
"Oh, I pretend plenty," I said lightly. "I pretend I'm not terrified of failing all the time. I pretend Edward's constant nagging doesn't drive me mad. And I pretend I'm not socially… awkward."
He nudged me with his shoulder. "I like all those things about you."
I looked at him sharply.
There was something in his gaze—warmth, affection, a spark of something deeper. Something that made heat curl low in my stomach.
My heart thudded traitorously.
And then he said it, quietly, like a confession:
"I'm glad I met you, Elenora."
Just like that, my world tilted.
He looked away, suddenly shy—shy, the strongest boy in school, imagine that—and something inside me softened.
I touched his hand.Only for a second. But it was enough.
His blue eyes found mine, steady and unguarded, and something inside me melted. It wasn't the usual confident stare he showed the world. This one was different—gentler, deeper, filled with emotions he normally kept locked away behind strength and duty.
He took a small step closer. My heart responded by performing a series of acrobatics that really shouldn't have been physically possible.
His fingers curled around mine.
And in that moment, with the moon shining silver over the Academy and in quiet harmony, I knew two things with absolute certainty:
Marcello wasn't just going to be my friend.