Untamed (Rejected Mate Academy #1) - E. M. Moore
Sorrow surrounds me like an unwanted hug.
I breathe in slowly, trying to temper the chaos of feelings brimming under my skin. Two Lunar Pack elders sit in the front seats of the most expensive car I’ve ever ridden in, and I just know their holier-than-thou asses are attuned to my wolf’s emotions. Fucking pack bond. I would sooner sever it than have them read my pain. I focus outside the vehicle’s window to hold it all in. Acres of moonlit grass lead to Greystone Academy’s two stone turrets peeking above the centuries-old trees in the distance. Lunar Pack is incapable of flying under the radar. Glad to see that’s true even for the place they keep their unwanted.
Rejected Mate Academy.
From the first moment I learned of its existence in fourth grade Pack Civics class, I knew I would end up here. The note Bitch Queen Laura threw on my desk that day only solidified those thoughts. Welcome to your future hell, bitch was a lot harsher than the caption in my textbook: Greystone Academy takes in ill-mannered pups for reform.
That’s me. Ill-mannered, and in need of reform.
Above those bland words was a black and white picture of the same sprawling structure looming in front of me now. What they don’t describe in detail when you’re in fourth grade is that when you arrive at Rejected Mate Academy, you’ll be grief-stricken from a broken heart you never wanted. So, in essence, I guess Laura was right all along.
This is my new hell.
My wolf whines, and I bear down my jaw. I swear the Council elder sitting in the front seat gets a whiff of my suffering and enjoys it. His nose twitches before his lip quirks at the corners, and he drives even slower up the long, desolate road toward my new home as if to draw out my agony.
It’s cool. I’m used to my own pack taking pleasure in my misery. Bunch of pretentious, know-it-all asshats if you ask me. But the elder taking me to this hellhole should be above the bullying and teasing, right? Wrong. Because this ride of shame proves what everyone’s been saying about me since I was a young pup.
I’m unwanted. Unloved. Untamed.
The blacktop road turns to gravel as the car inches past an ornate gate. Stone columns give way to an arch of iron flourishes that reads Greystone.
The name is well-known in my pack, supplying us with a long line of strong alphas. Greystone Academy was Silas’ brainchild—the third leader from that superior bloodline who made most of our current laws, and in his tenure, built this enormous school while writing mandates that secured its use. Currently, Lunar Pack is on our tenth Greystone alpha. When I was little, I pretended I was the daughter of that strong line. After all, Greystone wolves don’t get tormented every day of their lives. They’re revered.
My mind drifts too close to the topic I would do anything to forget right now. My wolf perks up, but I shut that shit down with as much force as I can muster. My wolf and I have been at odds with most things. Hell, I’m not even sure we like each other, mainly because I’ve been avoiding her thoughts and feelings since she started to awaken. Ignoring shit is my coping mechanism. It’s worked wonders for a very long time.
Today of all days, though, we might be the closest to syncing. Still, she wants to think of him. She wants to relive the pain.
I’d rather die.
I smirk when my wolf gives me the cold shoulder. Have you ever given yourself a brush off? It’s pretty freaking weird.
The height of the building as it comes into view draws me closer to the window. The stone turrets I spied before are impossibly tall and large, even from the ground. The gothic structure spans thousands and thousands of square feet. It’s what happens beyond the exterior that scares me the most though. I can only recite the facts I learned from that textbook years ago. Inside these walls, rejected mates learn civility, obedience, pack mentality, more education or less education, basically anything a wolf needs to assimilate back into their own pack on the arm of the mate who rejected them in the first place.
I’m already calling bullshit.
The car slows, coming to a stop in front of an arched wooden door at the top of gradually inclining steps. The sparse evening light casts the medieval structure in shadows, reinforcing the gothic look the builders