Chapter 6

Cassandra POV

The history of werewolves class was my refuge—a room filled with ancient scrolls, intricate tapestries, and the scent of aged parchment. It was a setting where I could immerse myself in the past, where the weight of my family's expectations could be momentarily set aside. My goal for the day was simple: do well in class, endure the session, and retreat to the solitude of my dormitory.

I took a seat in the middle of the classroom, my gaze focused on the front where the teacher stood, passionately discussing the intricacies of our ancestral lineage. While my fellow students scribbled notes, I listened intently, my mind absorbing the information like a sponge.

But my focus was disrupted when a new presence entered the room—a guy with an air of confidence that seemed to demand attention. His name, I would later learn, was Alex. He strolled in and took a seat nearby, his presence an unexpected disturbance to my carefully curated environment.

As the class continued, I could sense his gaze on me. It was a feeling that sent a jolt of annoyance through me. I didn't need distractions; I needed to excel in this class. My attention returned to the lecture, determined to keep my concentration intact.

However, fate seemed to have other plans. When the teacher posed a question, I raised my hand, ready to offer an answer. But before I could speak, Alex's voice cut through the air, his words confident and authoritative.

"No, actually," he interjected, his gaze locked on me. "I think the correct answer is that the Lycoan Pack originated in the northern region, not the southern."

I felt a rush of irritation surge through me. Who was this newcomer to challenge me? While part of me was annoyed by his audacity, a small part felt a flicker of intrigue. People rarely dared to challenge my knowledge.

The teacher seemed momentarily taken aback, and then nodded in agreement with his correction. I shot him a glare, a silent message that he was on my radar, despite my attempt to dismiss his existence.

Class continued, but the subtle tension between us persisted. He had disrupted my sanctuary, inserting himself into my realm of expertise. It was infuriating, and yet, I couldn't deny the flutter of curiosity that accompanied his challenge.

When the class finally ended, I gathered my belongings and made my way out. He fell into step beside me, his stride confident and purposeful.

"Sorry if I seemed like I was showing off back there," he said, his tone casual.

I glanced at him, my expression masked by indifference. "No need to apologize. "

His lips curved into a half-smile, as if he appreciated the exchange. "Fine. See you around."

As he walked away, I couldn't deny the nagging thought that he was different from the others—a challenge, an enigma. It was a thought I quickly brushed aside, my goal of returning to my dormitory at the forefront of my mind.

Finally, the solitude of my private quarters enveloped me—the spacious room that held only my presence. My father's insistence on creating a separate house for me had always been a point of contention. But as I sank into the comfort of the surroundings, I couldn't help but feel a sense of gratitude for this space that shielded me from the complexities of my family's expectations.

Leaning against a window, I gazed out at the moonlit night, the weight of my responsibilities mingling with a new intrigue. Alex's challenge had brought an unexpected spark to my day, a spark that I was determined to extinguish before it grew into something more.

***

Days turned into weeks, and the memory of that first encounter with Alex had begun to fade into the background of my daily routine. The history of werewolves class remained my sanctuary, a place where I could immerse myself in knowledge and temporarily escape the web of family expectations.

But a new twist was about to disrupt my carefully curated world. Whispers began to circulate, carried on the winds of gossip that seemed to infiltrate every corner of the university. And it all revolved around me and Alex.

It was the anonymous blog, Lycoan Whispers, that lit the spark—a post that hinted at a connection between the "normie" and me. The rumors spread like wildfire, fueled by speculation and insinuation. Suddenly, the unassuming encounters we'd had became fodder for speculation, interpreted as evidence of a hidden romance.

As I navigated the campus, I could feel the weight of curious glances and hushed conversations that followed my every step. The glances ranged from envious to judgmental, each carrying a shade of assumption. I knew that the blog's anonymous posts were the source of this newfound attention, a fact that irked me more than I cared to admit.

During a particularly tense morning, Tunde approached me, his expression amused. "So, have you heard the latest?"

I arched an eyebrow, feigning indifference. "Enlighten me."

He chuckled, clearly enjoying the drama. "Word has it that you and Alex are an item."

I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. "Ridiculous. I barely know him."

Tunde's grin widened. "Well, Lycoan Whispers seems to think otherwise."

The mention of the blog tightened a knot in my chest. The anonymous writer seemed to revel in weaving narratives out of thin air, exploiting the curiosity of the student body for their own amusement.

"Ignore it," Tunde advised. "Rumors are just that—rumors."

He was right, of course. But even as I tried to dismiss the notion, the unease lingered like a shadow. I couldn't shake the feeling that this was an intrusion into my carefully controlled world, an invasion of privacy that I had no control over.

The days passed and the rumors continued to swirl, growing like a wildfire that refused to be contained. And while I refused to acknowledge their validity, the constant scrutiny and knowing glances wore on me.

One evening, as I sat alone in the courtyard, a text from Tunde alerted me to a new post on Lycoan Whispers. The title caught my eye: "Unlikely Romance in the Halls of Power."

I clicked on the link, a mixture of annoyance and curiosity gripping me. The post was a melodramatic narrative that spun our encounters into a tale of forbidden love, each sentence dripping with innuendo and sensationalism. I felt a surge of frustration, as if my private world was being invaded and exploited for the entertainment of others.

As the moonlight cast a silvery glow over the courtyard, I made a decision. I wouldn't let these rumors define me, nor would I let an anonymous blog dictate the course of my emotions. With a determined resolve, I closed my phone and stood up, ready to face the challenges that lay ahead.

The whispers might have spread, but I refused to be swept away by their currents. My path was my own, and no amount of gossip would change that. And as I walked away from the courtyard, the sensation of the moon's light against my skin reminded me that my journey was far from over.