Page 96 of Raised By Wolves

Then the track shifts, and the music slows down. Waylon grins and holds out his arms. “May I have this dance, m’lady?” he says, giving me a mock bow.

I hesitate. I remember the last time we slow-danced, how I shoved my nose into his neck the way Beast used to nuzzle Ernie, which had confused Waylon and horrified me.

“Well?” Waylon says. “Cuz if you don’t want to, I’ll go ask Mr. Chive to dance with me.” He inclines his head toward the gym teacher, who’s goofily swaying on the far side of the cafeteria.

“I dare you,” I say.

He shakes his head. “Don’t do that. Just dance with me.”

You can do this, Kai. All you have to do is keep your nose out of his neck.

“Fine.” I step into the circle of Waylon’s arms. They tighten around me. I suck in my breath as I lean into him. Pressing myself close. My heart’s beating so hard I think he must be able to feel it against his ribs. We sway back and forth, turning in slow circles. All around us, other couples spin, their bodies tight against each other.

I close my eyes. Breathe in Waylon’s warm scent. Let the music guide my feet. For once I’m not thinking. Not worrying. I’m just beingalive.

The next thing I know, I’m on the ground, and Mac Hardy’s standing over me, his face twisted in anger and hate.

“Dogs aren’t allowed at dances,” he says.

Behind him, Waylon struggles to free himself from Logan Hardy’s grip. We wereambushed! I start to get up, but Mac kicks my feet out from under me and I fall to my side. The other kids back away.

“Fight,” someone says softly. “Fight.”

Logan sneers, “Can’t you get up?”

I push myself up halfway on my hands. Then I falter. Grimace. Shake my head.

A killdeer will fake a broken wing to draw predators away from its nest.

A seventeen-year-old outcast will fake an injured leg to draw a predator closer.

Mac edges nearer. “Ooooh, does the pooch have an owie?”

No, but you will.

I spring up from the ground and launch myself toward him. He doesn’t have time to react before my fist connects with his nose. Even over the sound of the music, I hear it crack as the force of the blow travels up my hand to my shoulder, hard as the recoil of a gun.

Mac’s hands fly to his face. He staggers sideways. Blood pours through his fingers. Logan lets go of Waylon and charges at me, screaming.

I consider punching him, too. But I don’t want the janitors to have to clean up too much blood.

So I reach for Waylon’s hand, and we run.

CHAPTER 75

WE JUMP INTO the convertible—leapfrogging over the doors instead of opening them—and peel out of the parking lot. The tires squeal as Waylon takes the turn way too fast.

“That dance sucked anyway,” I shout over the screaming engine.

Waylon throws back his head and laughs. “I know! Why’d we go?”

“Because you said we should!”

Waylon glances in the rearview mirror to make sure no one’s following us. When he doesn’t see any headlights, he downshifts. The engine stops sounding like it’s shrieking in pain.

“Everybody needs to go to a high school dance at least once,” he tells me. “It should be a requirement for graduation, like biology.”

“What’s so important about jumping around in the dark with a bunch of people you don’t like?” I rub my knuckles. They hurt where I smashed them into Mac’s nose.

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