Chapter 54: Pretending

Astrid

I stood in front of the mirror that morning and made myself a set of rules.

Yesterday had been a disaster. Today wouldn’t be.

Don’t think about the bond. Don’t stare at Reed. Don’t stare at Xander. Don’t run away from either of them. Don’t cry.

I considered adding a sixth rule. Don’t die of embarrassment. That one felt increasingly necessary the longer I thought about last night.

The bond didn’t change who I was, I told myself. I was still Astrid. Still a student at Moonshade. I still had classes, assignments, a life that existed outside of whatever supernatural mess had attached itself to my chest overnight. Life continued whether I wanted it to or not.

I joined Ivy for breakfast, and she took one look at me and said, "You look less dead."

"Your compliments are becoming impressive," I said.

She laughed, and we talked about ordinary things, an upcoming assignment, something ridiculous that had happened at the carnival weeks ago that she still hadn’t let go of. For a few minutes, I didn’t think about the bond at all.

Then someone walked past our table, and a familiar scent reached me before I could brace for it.

Reed.

My stomach dropped. I didn’t turn around. Ivy noticed my sudden silence and gave me a curious look, but I forced myself to keep eating, keep talking, keep pretending nothing had shifted.

In class, I chose a seat deliberately far from both twins, proud of myself for the small act of self-preservation. Then Reed walked in, and the bond reacted immediately, not painfully, just a warm, unmistakable awareness settling low in my chest.

Ignore him, I told myself, closing my eyes briefly.

He sat elsewhere. He didn’t approach.

That should have made things easier. Instead I found myself wondering why he wasn’t looking at me, and immediately hated the thought the second it surfaced.

What is wrong with me? I focused hard on my notes instead of answering that question.

Xander arrived a few minutes later, glancing my way without approaching either. Partway through the lecture, the professor made some dry remark about wolf migration patterns, and Xander muttered something under his breath so absurd I nearly laughed out loud, biting the inside of my cheek to stop it.

I smiled anyway. For one second, we were back to how things used to be. Then I remembered we were mates. The smile disappeared.

He didn’t tease me about it. He simply turned his attention back to the front of the room, and that restraint surprised me more than anything he could have said.

After class, Reed caught up to hand me back a book I’d left on my desk. Our fingers brushed as he passed it over, and the bond sparked instantly, sharp and undeniable.

I froze. He pulled his hand back just as fast.

"Sorry," he said.

"It’s fine," I said, though neither of us moved for a second, both of us standing there acutely aware of how close we were, his scent, his warmth, the memory of the ball pressing in around us.

I stepped away first. He let me go without argument.

Later, I saw Xander talking with one of the girls who used to follow him around constantly before all of this started. She was laughing at something he’d said, and he looked mildly amused, entirely normal, exactly like the version of him I’d first met.

I told myself I didn’t care. But something twisted in my chest anyway, small and unwelcome.

I am not jealous, I told myself firmly.

My wolf gave no response at all, which somehow felt worse than if it had argued with me. I turned away and told myself, again, that it didn’t matter.

I tried distance after that. Changed my route between classes. Ate somewhere else during lunch. Buried myself in an assignment I didn’t actually need to finish yet, anything to keep my hands and mind occupied.

For a while, it worked.

Then I realized I didn’t actually feel safer. I just felt lonely, and I hated that the people I was avoiding had somehow become the exact people I noticed most, in every hallway, every classroom, every crowded courtyard.

I crossed paths with Reed again near the library later that day. I braced myself for him to stop me, to ask something, to press for whatever explanation I still owed him.

He simply stepped aside and let me pass.

No pressure. No questions. No mention of the ball, or the bond, or anything that had happened between us.

I glanced back. He was already walking away, unbothered, exactly respecting the space I’d asked for.

That bothered me more than if he’d chased me down. I’d braced for pursuit and gotten patience instead, and somehow I missed the attention I’d specifically asked him to withdraw.

I hated myself a little for that.

Sitting alone later, I finally separated two things I’d been tangling together all day.

I didn’t want the bond. I didn’t want some invisible force deciding my future for me, choosing who I belonged to without ever asking my permission first.

But did I actually want Reed and Xander gone entirely?

The answer came slower, and it was no.

I thought about Reed’s quiet concern, the way he’d stayed outside my door without demanding entry. Xander making me laugh even when I didn’t want to laugh. Both of them respecting every boundary I’d thrown up between us, over and over, without complaint.

Maybe I’d been fighting the wrong thing all along. The bond frightened me.

They didn’t.

That realization scared me more than the bond itself ever had.

The day ended with Ivy and I walking back toward our dorm together, talking about homework, her complaining about a professor who’d assigned three times too much reading. I laughed, genuinely, for a few seconds everything felt normal again.

Then I glanced across the courtyard and saw Reed and Xander standing together, talking, neither of them looking my way.

I could still feel them anyway, the bond humming quietly somewhere beneath my ribs.

I stopped walking.

"Coming?" Ivy asked.

I looked away from them. "Yeah."

I followed her inside.

That night, lying in bed, I thought back over my rules from that morning. Don’t think about them. Don’t stare. Don’t run. Don’t cry.

I’d managed most of them, technically.

But the rules had missed the actual problem entirely. I couldn’t control what I felt. I couldn’t control the bond humming beneath everything I did all day. And I couldn’t pretend Reed and Xander were strangers anymore, no matter how carefully I avoided their eyes across a classroom.

I could avoid them. I could deny everything. I could refuse to speak a single word about what had happened at that ball for the rest of the semester if I had to.

But I couldn’t go back to who I’d been before it.

I had spent the entire day pretending nothing had changed.

The worst part was realizing I was the only one who still believed the lie.