[BOOK ONE]
"You have me, okay?" Stiles told her seriously, and then dropped his voice into a whisper. "You'll always have me."
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Normal people struggle to get through four years of high school but it's nothing compared to what Sierra, Scot...
WHITE CHALK SQUEAKED AGAINST THE GREEN BOARD AS MR. HARRIS, ONE OF THE FEW BEACON HILLS HIGH SCHOOL'S SCIENCE TEACHERS, WROTE NOTES UPON IT.
Now, Sierra liked science. However, chemistry, the class she currently sat in with her best friends, was her least favorite time of the day.
Mr. Harris was a middle-aged man, his brown hair slicked back and his body clothed in a tweed suit. His hawk eyes gleamed distastefully due to the many years working in high school education despite his wire-rimmed glasses covering them.
A zero-tolerance policy kept the room silent and diligent as students focused solely on passing the class.
She held no respect for the adult at the front of the room, who clearly would rather be dead than teach vexatious adolescents because of their inability to recognize the difference between polar and nonpolar molecules. He snarled like a dog at those who couldn't answer simple questions and made students shrink down into their seats to avoid being insulted. Harris' signature eye roll and sarcasm told you he'd literally be anywhere else, once telling a former sophomore that they made him want to ram his head into a wall repeatedly before shooting himself off.
Sierra mentally chanted, only fifty minutes, while copying a diagram in her notebook.
From beside her, Stiles twiddled his thumbs and filled his mind with thoughts about his werewolf best friend and the bloody bus the trio discovered this morning.
Scott turned around since he sat in front of the pair, also unable to concentrate. "Maybe it was my blood on the door."
Sierra glanced at Scott but chose to stay silent when Stiles replied.
"Could've been animal blood," Stiles suggested with a shrug. "You know, maybe you caught a rabbit or something."
"And did what?" Scott questioned.
"Eat it?"
"Raw?"
Stiles rolled his whiskey eyes, a sarcastic response at the tip of his fiery tongue. "No, you stopped to bake it in a little werewolf oven. I don't know; you're the one who can't remember anything."
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"Mr. Stilinski?" Mr. Harris huffed, interrupting Scott's potential reply.
Sierra closed her eyes and prayed she wouldn't be dragged down with Stiles' demise. She hated getting in trouble, especially with the devil, Mr. Harris, and Stiles knew that.
"If that is your idea of a hushed whisper, you might want to pull the headphones out every once and a while," Mr. Harris quipped.
A scoff escaped Stiles' mouth, one that didn't hide the antipathy for the advisor.
"I think you, Ms. Page, and Mr. McCall would benefit from a little distance, yes?"
Sierra flickered her blue eyes towards the spastic boy beside her as he mumbled in disagreement. "Nice going," she snapped in a low undertone as the two moved to the other side of the room.
