Lilith’s POV
Monday morning greeted me with a feeling of unease, like I was teetering on the edge of a cliff I hadn’t chosen to climb. My conversation with Dahlia the night before had been exhausting, prying out every detail about this auction nonsense so I wouldn’t sound like a complete fool while trying to charm wealthy benefactors.
The morning began with calls-just two successful ones. One was to the football coach, who was absolutely elated that his prized players were making headlines. His enthusiasm bordered on childlike, as he eagerly proposed a photo of himself with them for the article. I took the opportunity to negotiate; in exchange, he agreed to extend some auction invitations. A win-win, just the way I liked it.
No one gets the better of me. I always win, always walk away satisfied-though I make sure the other party leaves smiling too. But my personal life? That was another matter entirely. It felt like the universe was plotting to take away everything I’d worked tirelessly to achieve.
After my first class, I locked myself in a library study room, throwing myself into crafting a recommendation letter for Sylas to sign. Three hours later, I had created a masterpiece, one so good it gave me a rare moment of triumph. I printed it out and headed to the dingy little office that served as headquarters for the school paper.
Sylas was sprawled out on his couch, passed out cold. The room reeked of stale cigarettes, bourbon, and sweat. My nose wrinkled in protest as I noted the clock: 12:50 p. m. It was safe to assume he hadn’t showered all weekend. Disgusting.
*Don’t touch anything. This place is crawling with germs,* Rose, my wolf, warned.
For a creature that relished raw meat, she was surprisingly fussy about cleanliness-a quirk I couldn’t help but appreciate. Grateful for my tall boots, I used the sharp point of my heel to prod Sylas awake. Four attempts later, he finally stirred.
“I’m… not paying you,” he mumbled, his voice hoarse.
I bit back a laugh. “Prostitutes, Sylas? Really? Has it come to that?” I waved the air with my folder, but all it did was waft the sour stench back toward me.
“Huh? What?” He jolted upright, rubbing his bleary eyes.
“Oh, it’s just you,” he grumbled, running a hand through his greasy hair.
“For the love of all that’s holy, Sylas, soap and razors are not expensive. Neither is toothpaste.”
He glared at me, but it was half-hearted. “What do you want, princess?”
I tossed the file onto his desk, careful to avoid the questionable stains. “I’ve got the Ashford interview. The coach wants a picture with his so-called star players for the article. Hand over the camera-and if I find any inappropriate photos on it again, I’m erasing them. Permanently.”
“Har har,” he muttered, flipping through the folder.
“And,” I added, crossing my arms, “I took the liberty of drafting my letter. There are three copies-one for you.”
He didn’t respond right away, his eyes scanning the letter. His expression shifted subtly, from surprise to intrigue. I resisted the urge to tap my foot as I searched for the school’s camera, wary of whatever else might be lurking in this pigsty.
“Damn, Emory,” he said at last, his voice tinged with genuine admiration. “This is… really good. Heartfelt. Genuine. Deep. The Ashford twins finding their mate? And we’ve got the scoop? Hell, this might be your best work yet.”
I froze, my heart skipping a beat. They mentioned their mate? But not my name? A normal woman might have been offended, but I was downright elated. Were they being… discreet? Gentlemen, even?
“You think *The Full Moon Times* would take it?” I asked, the thought tumbling out before I could stop it. “If I get published there while still in college, I could practically guarantee an internship. Maybe even a job.”
Sylas nodded, his grin wide. “It’s that damn good. Brilliant, actually. No one’s gotten this personal with the Ashfords before.”
I squealed, jumping up and down, until I noticed his eyes lingering on my chest. My enthusiasm turned to ice. “Eyes up here,” I snapped, shoving him back.
Rose growled in disapproval. *You didn’t even make a copy of the letter. Amateur move, Lilith.*
“Well, Sylas, I-” he began, but I cut him off, grabbing the camera from the shelf. Of course, the batteries were dead. Typical.
“Lily, listen,” he said, leaning forward. “This story isn’t about football. The real headline is the Ashfords’ mate. That’s what people will want to read about. That’s the story.”
I felt my chest tighten as his words sank in. My mind raced. *People saw me at practice. Briar knows. It’s only a matter of time before the pieces fall into place.*
“A good reporter never reveals her sources,” I said firmly, dodging his question.
He studied me for a moment, then chuckled. “Lily, I care about you, okay? We’ve been through hell together. Ups and downs. Highs and lows. You and I… we’re the same.”
I narrowed my eyes. “Are you high? There’s nothing about us that’s remotely similar.”
And with that, I shoved him back, snatching my folder and camera before striding out the door.
“Lily! I know you because you *are* me, alright? The rush, the high-being at the top, your name in bold under the headline. Don’t deny it. You want it. I *know* you do,” Sylas declared, his tone unwavering.
My lip trembled as I instinctively backed into the wall. Sitting on his couch wasn’t an option-not now.
*Yes, yes! Let’s tell the world it’s us! I love it!* Rose purred in my mind, her enthusiasm spilling over like champagne.
My gaze darted everywhere but at Sylas. *I am NOT the story. My name belongs under the headline-not in it. No, no… I can’t.*
“Lily, come on,” Sylas pressed, his voice firm but coaxing. “We can’t report half the damn story. What happens if we tell them the Luna was found, but someone else gets the name? You’d lose it. I know I would.” He leaned against his desk, his eyes burning with intensity.
I clenched my fists, the heat rising in my chest. *Nobody puts me in a damn corner.*
“When’s the deadline for the graduation issue?” I asked, exhaling slowly, willing myself to stay calm.
“Finals start Monday. I want it out then-Monday’s when everyone’s on campus. I’ll need the story by Sunday evening, six o’clock latest, so there’s time for formatting and layout,” he said, his face serious. “I’ve got two reporters on the final football game and the charity event. Figured neither of those would be your scene.”
*If he only knew.* He had no idea how connected all these pieces were, how I was the missing thread tying them together. The thought of anyone uncovering my name-it churned my stomach. I wasn’t ready to be seen as the Alpha’s mate.
*The future Luna Ashford,* Rose whispered slyly.
No. I was Lilith Emory, top investigative journalist. My name belonged under the headline. Always.
*Let’s be fair-there’s never been a reason for us to be the headline before,* Rose taunted.
I couldn’t stomach the idea of some rookie freshman like Naia covering the charity event, and Quillon, that smug little pest, writing about the game. Quillon was already fuming that Sylas had handed me the Ashford cover story. Apparently, the twins thought I was more interesting than football.
*Well, you are,* Rose said smugly.
Straightening my back, I locked eyes with Sylas.
“I want all three stories,” I said flatly.
Sylas laughed, a sharp bark of amusement. “You don’t know a thing about football, and you’ve got finals. It’s too much.” He waved me off dismissively.
“Dahlia Whittaker invited me to be auctioned off at the charity event alongside the Ashfords. That’s as hands-on as it gets,” I countered, my voice steady.
His eyebrows shot up, clearly intrigued. “Damn. Maybe I’ll need to grab a ticket,” he muttered, scratching the back of his head.
“If you can scrounge up the loose change in your couch, go right ahead,” I replied, pushing off the wall and grabbing my camera.
“I’ll give you the dinner but not the game. Fair enough? But I want names. Whoever she is, she’ll probably bid on the Alphas. There’s no way she won’t be there. Get me the story, Lily. Bring me all the articles by Sunday, and I’ll hand over your signed recommendation letter,” he said, drawing out the words deliberately.
I gave him a mock salute before turning to leave.
“Oh, and Lily,” he called after me. I stopped, glancing back.
“You seem… different today. Almost happy. Who’s the lucky guy?” he teased, a grin splitting his face.
Sylas was infuriatingly perceptive, but that was what made him a damn good reporter.
“I’ve got two new toys,” I said with a smirk, walking out without waiting for his response.