Chapter 18
Elara's POV
Blythe was still talking.
I could see his mouth moving, could hear the words coming out—something about "history" and "friendship" and "you can't just shut me out"—but my brain had stopped processing them about thirty seconds ago.
My left wrist throbbed in steady, insistent pulses beneath my sleeve. My legs felt like they might give out any second. And standing here in this empty hallway with late afternoon sun turning everything gold while Blythe Harrison tried to guilt-trip me back into being his emotional safety net was officially the last thing I had energy for today.
"I need to go home," I said again. Flat. Final.
He opened his mouth to argue.
"Harrison. Hey, what a coincidence."
The voice came from my left. Casual. Almost lazy.
I turned my head so fast my neck cracked.
Ethan was leaning against the wall near the school gate, one shoulder propped against the metal railing, phone in his hand like he'd just been scrolling through messages. His dark hair caught the light, eyes amber-gold and completely unreadable as they flicked between me and Blythe.
Relief hit me so hard I almost swayed.
He pushed off the railing and walked toward us with that easy, unhurried stride, stopping close enough that his shoulder brushed mine. The solid warmth of him felt like an anchor point.
"Sorry I'm late," he said, glancing at me. "Traffic was hell."
Blythe's jaw tightened. "Grey. We're kind of in the middle of something here—"
"Yeah, I can see that." Ethan's tone stayed light. "But my sister needs to get home. Mom and Dad are waiting."
My sister.
The words did something weird to my chest.
Blythe's expression flickered—frustration, then calculation, then back to that concerned-friend mask. "We were just talking. It'll only take a minute."
"Mm." Ethan glanced at his phone, casual as hell. "Actually, speaking of minutes—you're the lacrosse team vice-captain, right?"
Blythe blinked at the subject change. Wary. "Yeah. Why?"
"Oh, nothing urgent." Ethan shrugged, tucking his phone away. "Just that I drove past the practice field earlier and I'm pretty sure I saw Coach looking for you. Something about the equipment room? Mentioned the keys, I think. Looked like gear was scattered everywhere."
I watched Blythe's face carefully. Saw the exact moment recognition hit.
His eyes widened. Just a fraction.
Because he had forgotten to lock the equipment room today. I'd seen him leave it open after practice, too distracted by his phone to double-check.
"Shit," he muttered under his breath. His eyes darted toward the athletic fields, then back to me, clearly torn between continuing this conversation and dealing with a potentially furious coach.
Ethan's expression stayed perfectly neutral. Helpful, even. "Could be nothing. Maybe I saw wrong. But you know how Coach gets about equipment security..."
The implication hung in the air, heavy and unavoidable.
Blythe hesitated for maybe three seconds. Then his face hardened with decision.
"We'll finish this later," he said, already backing away. Not a question. A statement.
I said nothing. Just watched him turn and jog toward the practice fields, pace quickening with each step until he broke into a full run.
The second he disappeared around the corner, Ethan grabbed my arm. Gentle but firm.
"Come on," he said quietly. "Let's go before he figures it out."
We walked fast, putting distance between us and the school. Past the main gates, down the sidewalk where afternoon shadows stretched long across cracked pavement. My legs protested every step but I forced them to keep moving.
We made it maybe fifty meters before I finally spoke.
"Was Coach actually looking for him?"
"No idea." Ethan's mouth quirked into a grin. Sharp and satisfied. "Probably not. But Harrison did forget to lock the equipment room—I saw that part when I got here. So even if Coach isn't looking for him right now..." He shrugged. "He will be soon. And when Coach finds all that expensive gear left unsecured, Harrison's gonna have to explain why."
I stared at him.
He hadn't actually lied. Just said he "thought" he saw Coach, mentioned the keys only Harrison had access to, and let Blythe's own paranoia do the rest.
Even if Blythe went to check and found Coach wasn't there, he couldn't blame Ethan. Because the unlocked equipment room was real. His own screwup.
"How did you—" I started.
"Practice." Ethan's grin widened. "Mom says we can't cause trouble. Never said anything about letting assholes trip over their own mistakes."
That sentence hit me like a physical blow.
Memory fragments surfaced. Not mine—Elara's.
Sophia's locker plastered with sticky notes reading "AIRHEAD" after she'd spilled paint on Elara's jacket. Nobody ever found out who did it.
The morning announcements mysteriously playing an embarrassing recording of Blythe's voice on loop. Tech support blamed a corrupted file.
Seniors who'd mocked Elara finding their bikes with flat tires the next day.
Ethan had never confronted anyone directly. Never threw a punch. He was too smart for that, too aware of what happened to wolves from disgraced families who started fights.
But he'd found other ways to protect his sister.
Ways that skirted rules without breaking them. Ways that made bullies deal with consequences they'd brought on themselves.
I looked at him standing there in fading sunlight, hands shoved in his jacket pockets, expression calm and faintly pleased.
My throat felt tight.
"You've been doing this for years," I said quietly. "For her."
His grin faded to something softer. "Yeah. Someone had to."
The casual way he said it—like it was obvious, like there'd never been another option—made my chest ache.
In my old life, I'd commanded warriors who'd die on my order. But I'd never had someone who'd notice I was cornered and show up with a perfectly-timed deflection just to give me an exit.
Someone who'd been doing it for years without asking for thanks.
"Thank you," I said.
"Always," Ethan said simply. Like a promise he'd made long ago and intended to keep.
We walked in comfortable silence for a while. The street was mostly empty, just a few cars passing, the occasional dog walker.
Then Ethan's expression shifted. Got more serious.
"Listen," he said, slowing his pace. "There's something I need to tell you before we get home."
Dread pooled in my stomach. "What?"
"Dad sent a message earlier." His jaw tightened. "Said he needs to talk to all of us tonight. Family meeting."
My pulse spiked. "About what?"
"Didn't say." Frustration clear in his voice. "Just that it's important."
Shit.
Had someone found out about the weapons? Had Marcus heard rumors? Had—
"When?" I asked.
"After dinner."
I forced myself to breathe normally. "Okay."
Ethan studied my face like he was trying to read my thoughts. "You sure you're alright? You've been weird since yesterday."
"I'm fine."
"Elara—"
"I'm just tired, Ethan." The words came out sharper than I meant. I saw him flinch. "Sorry. My wrist hurts and I'm exhausted and I just... I need to go home."
His expression softened immediately. "Okay. Let's get you home."