For a moment, no one breathed.
The air in the south garden turned heavy—so heavy it felt like the sunlight dimmed around us. Leaves rustled softly above, but the space between Chandler and Horace was dead silent, stretched thin like a wire pulled to its breaking point.
Horace's eyes weren't cold this time.
They were sharp.
Focused.
Too focused.
Because he didn't ask Chandler—
"Who said you could use his name?"
He asked—
"Who said you could use her name?"
My name.
Elleanore.
Not Elliot.
My pulse climbed so high it hurt.
Chandler straightened slowly, planting himself between me and Horace with a casualness that didn't reach his eyes.
"Relax, Your Highness," Chandler said quietly. "You misheard."
"I didn't."
Horace's voice was calm—dangerously calm. "Say it again."
Chandler's jaw flexed.
"Don't," I whispered.
Too late.
Horace's attention snapped to me instantly—like a hawk catching movement in the corner of its vision.
"You," he said, stepping one measured step forward, "didn't react like someone correcting a simple mistake."
There was nowhere to run.
Nowhere to hide.
No breath left in my lungs.
Chandler reached out subtly, brushing the back of his hand against mine—shielding me without making it obvious.
Horace's eyes dropped to that touch.
His jaw tightened.
Before he could speak again, I forced myself to stand.
My legs shook.
My voice barely held.
"I haven't eaten today," I said, grabbing the first excuse I could. "My blood sugar is weird. Maybe I did react strangely."
Horace studied me for a long, tense moment—every tiny shift in my posture, every flicker of my breath, every twitch of my fingers.
"Is that so," he said softly—not believing me, but not challenging me yet.
"You're pale," he added. "You look unwell."
"Thanks," I muttered.
"You're deflecting."
"And you're overanalyzing."
Chandler exhaled sharply. "Can you two stop talking in riddles? You're stressing him out."
Horace's gaze whipped to Chandler again.
"Stay out of this," the prince said.
Chandler lifted his chin. "Make me."
The pressure around us thickened—Alpha dominance, scent, authority, instinct all tightening like coils.
My suppressor strained.
I felt it inside me—cold cracks spreading like spiderwebs through a fragile shield.
Stop.
Please stop.
"Guys," I whispered, "don't—"
Horace stepped forward the smallest degree, voice low and even.
"You called her by the wrong name."
Chandler stepped forward too, voice colder.
"No. I didn't."
My breath hitched.
This was spiraling.
Fast.
And if I didn't shut it down, Horace would push until he broke through the lie—until he smelled the truth.
I stepped between them.
Literally pushed myself into the tension.
"Enough," I snapped, more loudly than I intended.
Both pairs of eyes snapped to me.
I swallowed hard, fighting to keep my voice level.
"I told him," I said quickly, pointing at Chandler. "I told him something earlier—I wasn't thinking, and I meant to say Elliot, but he used the wrong name because of that."
Chandler blinked.
Horace blinked.
I pushed the lie harder, faster.
"I corrected him. It's fine. It was nothing. A slip."
Horace's gaze sharpened. "What name did you tell him?"
My heart lurched.
Chandler moved before I could answer.
"She," Chandler said flatly, "was talking about her sister."
My stomach dropped.
Sister.
Elleanore as someone else.
It was risky.
But not impossible.
Horace folded his arms slowly. "You told him you have a sister?"
"Everyone has a sister," Chandler said evenly. "Not a big deal."
Horace's stare cut to me again.
"Elliot," he said, "do you have a sister?"
I forced a nod. "Yes."
"What's her name?"
The world froze.
Chandler looked at me carefully.
Horace waited—silent, observant, lethal in his precision.
I opened my mouth—
—my heart punching hard against my ribs—
—and said the first name that wouldn't incriminate me:
"…Ella."
A beat of silence.
Horace's expression didn't shift.
Chandler didn't blink.
My pulse hammered so loudly I could barely hear.
"Ella," Horace repeated, voice unreadable.
"Yes," I said, throat dry. "Ella."
Another pause.
Then Horace said:
"I see."
It was impossible to tell if he believed me.
Impossible to tell if he had stored that lie away to dissect later.
But he finally stepped back.
The pressure in the air eased just a fraction.
Not gone.
Just… paused.
Chandler let out a quiet breath, barely visible, and stepped closer to me like he was shielding me from whatever Horace might say next.
Horace's gaze flicked to the movement.
"Why are you hovering?" he asked sharply.
"Why do you care?" Chandler shot back.
"Because he's my roommate."
"And he's my friend."
Silence.
Thick.
Tense.
Unyielding.
I spoke again quickly, trying to cut through the tension.
"I'm late for study period," I said—even though I had no idea what my schedule looked like for the afternoon. "I need to go."
Neither of them stepped aside.
I stepped backward anyway.
Horace's voice followed me.
"You should be careful here," he said quietly.
Chandler answered before I could.
"I'll take care of him."
Horace's eyes sharpened. "That's not your job."
"Funny," Chandler said. "Didn't realize it was yours."
Another surge of dominance burned between them.
I couldn't be here.
"I'll see you both later," I said, voice shaking.
I turned and walked away—fast.
Not running.
But close.
I didn't look back.
Not once.
The moment I was out of sight, I ducked behind the nearest corner and pressed my hand hard over my mouth.
My breath shook violently.
I felt faint.
The suppressor was barely holding—thin, stretched, near its limit. Horace's pressure, Chandler's defense, the confrontation—
It had all pushed me dangerously close.
If I had stayed one more minute…
If Horace had come one step closer…
He would've sensed everything.
The truth.
My scent.
Me.
I swallowed hard, blinking tears away.
"Get it together," I whispered. "Focus."
I had to find more clues about Elliot.
I had to replace the suppressor vial soon.
I had to maintain my façade.
And I had to handle two Alphas who were quickly becoming tangled in lies meant to protect me.
My hands trembled as I reached into my pocket and touched the torn paper I found in Elliot's locker.
If something happens, don't trust—
Was it Horace?
Cassian?
A professor?
A stranger?
Was Chandler involved?
He knew too much.
He noticed too quickly.
And he was here, at this school, for a reason he hadn't explained yet.
But Horace…
Horace noticed everything.
Every hesitation.
Every breath.
Every slip.
And he wasn't going to let it go.
Not now.
Not after this.
I closed my eyes, trying to calm my breathing.
You're Elliot.
You're Elliot.
You're Elliot.
But when I opened my eyes, the truth hit me like a quiet punch to the chest:
I didn't feel like Elliot at all.
I felt like Elleanore…
Standing on the edge of unraveling everything.
And two very different Alphas were circling the truth.
One out of suspicion.
One out of protection.
And neither of them were going to stop.
I didn't get far.
I had barely rounded the corner when a hand caught my wrist—firm, but not painful. I stiffened instantly, breath snagging in my chest.
It wasn't Chandler.
It was Horace.
Of course it was.
He stood close, face calm but eyes sharp, the faint scent of cold amber brushing the air between us. Not aggressive. Not hostile. But intense enough to make my pulse jump.
"We're not done," he said quietly.
I tried to pull my wrist back—gently, discreetly. He let go immediately, but he didn't step away.
His voice stayed low. "Why did he call you by the wrong name?"
My heartbeat kicked up again. "I told you—it was a mistake."
"That wasn't a mistake."
Horace's eyes narrowed slightly. "He said it with confidence. With familiarity."
"It doesn't matter," I whispered.
"It matters if someone is using a name that shouldn't exist here."
A cold shiver ran down my spine.
He wasn't just suspicious.
He was close—too close—to the truth.
I forced a steady breath. "Drop it, Horace."
"Elliot." His voice softened, just enough that my chest tightened. "I notice patterns. It's my job." His gaze flicked over my face, as if searching for micro-expressions. "And something about you this week is… wrong."
Everything inside me froze.
My voice came out strained. "What do you mean wrong?"
He stepped half a step closer—still respectful distance, but near enough that I felt the weight of his attention settle on my skin.
"You move differently," he said.
"You speak differently."
"You breathe differently when someone corners you."
"And… your scent is wrong."
My stomach dropped.
He smelled it.
He actually smelled it.
I fought to keep my face neutral. "I told you—I'm tired."
Horace frowned, eyes narrowing. "Tired doesn't change a person's scent profile."
"I didn't know you kept track of mine," I said, trying for nonchalant.
"I keep track of everyone's," Horace replied simply. "But yours—"
He paused.
His eyes softened—just for a second.
"Yours concerns me."
My breath stuttered.
"Why?" I whispered.
"Because it changed," he said, "and you look like you're trying very hard to pretend it didn't."
The suppressor.
The strain.
The rising panic.
He wasn't wrong.
Before I could respond, footsteps echoed from the far end of the hallway.
Slow. Heavy. Too confident.
Cassian Valehart stepped into view just as Horace turned slightly, positioning himself closer to me.
Cassian took one slow look at us—his eyes lingering exactly one second too long on the space between me and the Prince.
"Well," he said, smirking faintly. "Is this a private conversation, or can anyone join?"
Horace's gaze sharpened. "Go away, Valehart."
Cassian ignored him and addressed me instead.
"Skipping lunch on your first week? Bold," he said. "You weren't this dramatic before."
I forced a steady tone. "I'm not feeling well."
Cassian's eyes softened—not kindly, but knowingly. Like someone who spotted a crack in armor and wanted to press a thumb into it just to see what happened.
"You look different," he said, voice low. "More tense. More… fragile." His gaze dropped to my neck. "Are you suppressing?"
My blood froze.
Horace stepped forward sharply. "That's enough."
Cassian chuckled. "Relax. I'm not accusing him." He tilted his head. "Just curious why I can't smell anything on him."
I swallowed—hard.
Cassian's scent perception was sharper than most Alphas. He wasn't royalty-level sensitive like Horace, but he wasn't someone I should be standing this close to.
"Back off," Horace said again, quieter this time but much more dangerous.
Cassian smiled. "Protective, aren't you?"
"Persistent, aren't you?" Horace replied.
"Only when something's interesting."
The tension pulled taut—two Alpha presences pushing against each other, subtle but unmistakable. It scraped along my nerves, thinning the suppressor even more.
I forced myself to step back. "I'm going."
Cassian's eyes flicked to me, amused. "Running already? Didn't think you were the type."
I clenched my fists. "I'm not running."
Horace stepped between us entirely, blocking Cassian's view of me.
"Stay away from him," Horace said.
Cassian smiled like he'd been hoping for that reaction. "We'll see."
Then he turned and walked away, hands shoved in his pockets, whistling under his breath.
When he was out of earshot, Horace exhaled—an irritated sound he almost never made.
"He's dangerous," Horace said.
"I can tell," I muttered.
Horace looked at me again, expression softer but no less determined.
"Elliot," he said, "whatever is happening—whatever you're hiding—you need to be more careful."
I paused.
He wasn't threatening me.
He was worried.
That made my heart twist in a strange way—something warm and sharp all at once.
"I'll manage," I whispered.
Horace held my gaze. "You don't have to manage alone."
Something inside me wavered.
But I couldn't afford to let it crack.
"Thanks," I said quietly. "Really. But I need to handle things my own way."
Horace didn't argue.
He just watched me like he was memorizing the moment.
Then he stepped aside.
"Go," he said softly. "Before someone else corners you."
I didn't go to lunch.
I went to the library.
It was nearly empty—tall windows, long tables, bookshelves carved with old Academy crests. The air smelled like dust and ink and silence.
I headed for the back corner—dark, quiet, safe enough for my heart to stop racing.
When I sat down, I pulled out the torn note from Elliot's locker.
If something happens, don't trust—
Don't trust who?
My fingers trembled as I studied the handwriting.
Elliot's rushed, uneven letters.
The torn edge.
The urgency.
He had known something was coming.
He was scared.
He was trying to warn someone.
Maybe trying to warn me.
A shadow shifted on the other side of the bookshelves.
I looked up—instantly alert.
Someone was watching.
Not stepping out.
Not moving.
Just… there.
I stood slowly.
"Hello?" I whispered.
No answer.
A faint clatter—like a foot brushing against the end of a shelf.
Then silence.
I stepped back.
Heart pounding.
Scent suppressed but stretched thin.
Whoever it was left as quietly as they came.
I sat down again with a shaky breath.
Someone was following me.
Someone knew something.
Someone was watching my every move.
But who?
Cassian?
Rowan?
A professor?
A guard?
A royal agent?
Someone connected to Elliot's disappearance?
Before I could spiral further, the chair across from me slid back.
I nearly jumped.
But it wasn't Cassian.
Or Rowan.
Or an instructor.
It was Adrian Grimaldi—quiet, well-mannered, the polite noble from Leadership class.
He sat down gently, hands folded.
His golden-brown eyes met mine with something I didn't expect.
Concern.
"You shouldn't be alone right now," he said softly. "People are talking."
A chill ran through me.
"What are they saying?" I whispered.
Adrian hesitated, then leaned in, voice barely above a breath.
"They're saying the Academy never meant for you to come back."
My blood turned cold.
"And that if you stay," Adrian added quietly, eyes filled with something like pity, "you won't leave again either."