Page 42 of Roaring Flames

He does that often. It’s almost as if it pains him to stare directly at me. I wonder if he sees my mother—his fated mate—in my features. I’m dark-skinned like my father, but I have my mother’s jawline and nose. At least, that’s what people say. I don’t see it.

“Ashton, don’t you have to get to school?” he asks.

This time, I’m the one gritting my teeth together to keep from saying something I’ll regret. “I think I should hear?—”

“Off to school, boy.” Matthew offers me a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “You’re not on the Council just yet. Let the adults handle this.”

Let the adults handle this.

I take a deep breath, reminding myself to remain calm and nod cordially. I’ve perfected the art of keeping my expression utterly blank. Impassive. No one can sense the turmoil lingering just beneath the surface, demanding to be let out.

“Of course.” I stand gracefully and straighten out a crease in my shirt.

Father always tells me I need to look immaculate when going out in public. Wrinkles, he claims, are for people who don’t give a shit about their appearance, and that’s not who I’m supposed to be.

“Please call me if there are any updates,” I say.

“Of course,” Matthew says, but my father remains silent, glaring at the phone on his desk.

Still, I find myself lingering, unwilling—or perhaps unable—to take that final step out of the office. “Should I keep an eye on Grayson?”

“No need.” Matthew waves a hand in the air and exchanges an unreadable glance with my father.

No need?

Grayson was in a cell less than a day ago for the murder of two wolf shifters. Now he’s free, and the Council doesn’t want me to keep an eye on him?

What the fuck is going on?

I feel as if I’m missing something, like I’ve only been handed the outer edges of a puzzle and am forced to shove the pieces together.

What are they hiding?

But instead of saying any of that out loud, I simply nod once and slip out of the room.

My father and Matthew can do what they want, but I don’t trust Grayson Grey any more than I can throw him. There’s a reason he was released from prison, and I’m going to find out why.

The last thing I want is to go to school. To be surrounded by idiotic classmates who don’t have a single working brain cell between them all.

And, more than that, I don’t want to see my packmates or Isabella.

I still remember the fury on Emery’s face as he rammed his fist repeatedly into me…

Trying to ignore the residual panic coursing beneath my skin, I lift my chin up high and stalk towards my locker. Students part for me immediately, but it doesn’t bring about the usual amount of satisfaction.

Usually, one of my packmates waits for me at my locker.

Today, the hall in front of it is empty.

I am calm. I am collected.

I repeat that mantra in my head as I twist my dial combination and take out my books for the day.

I am calm. I am collected.

No one can see me break.

I did what was right for my pack—I know I did—so why does it hurt so damn much? Why does it feel like needles driving into my brain, causing my heart to pound even faster?

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