Chapter 1 #2
I knew who he was. Everyone at Ironwood knew Jack Sterling. He was a myth, a nightmare, a campus legend. They said he’d once put a linebacker through a solid oak door at a frat party just for spilling a drink. They said he didn't date, didn't smile, and definitely didn't talk to girls like me.
He was standing apart from his team, ignoring the celebration. He was perfectly still, which was unnerving in a building full of chaos. He stood like a statue carved from granite and bad intentions.
And he was looking right at me.
At first, I thought I was imagining it. There were thousands of people here. He could be looking at the scoreboard, or the flag, or my father in the box above me.
But then he tilted his head. Just a fraction. A predator adjusting its focus.
A shiver, violent and irrational, raced up my spine. It wasn't the cold. It was heat. A sudden, scorching flush that started in my chest and flooded my face.
Even from here, I could feel the weight of his stare. It felt physical. Like a hand wrapping around my throat. Not squeezing, just... holding. possessing.
I couldn't look away. I should have. I should have turned to Cami and made a joke about his battered helmet or the brutality of the game. But I was paralyzed.
He took off his helmet then.
I had seen photos of him, of course. The campus paper ran them constantly.
But a photo couldn't capture the sheer, overwhelming intensity of his face.
His hair was dark, sweat-damp and messy, falling over his forehead.
His jaw was square, rigid with tension, framed by a thick neck that looked strong enough to bite through steel.
And that scar. A jagged white line tearing through the stubble on his jaw, disappearing down into the collar of his jersey. It made him look ruined. Dangerous.
He wiped a hand over his face, and for a second, I saw his eyes.
They weren't brown. They were... gold? Burning, molten gold.
My breath hitched, catching painfully in my throat. What is he?
He looked furious. He looked like he was in pain. He looked like he wanted to murder someone, and that someone might be me.
Or maybe he didn't want to murder me.
My stomach flipped, a dizzying sensation that had nothing to do with fear and everything to do with a dark, twisted curiosity I had spent twenty-one years repressing. The look on his face wasn't just anger. It was hunger.
I had spent my life being the porcelain doll. Don't fall, Eloise. Don't bruise, Eloise. Don't speak too loud, don't eat too much, don't take up space. I was polished, perfected, and completely untouched.
Jack Sterling looked at me like he wanted to shatter me against the boards.
And God help me, my knees went weak.
"Eloise? You okay?" Cami asked, her voice sounding miles away. "You look like you’re going to faint."
"I’m fine," I whispered, lying through my teeth. My heart was hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs—run, run, run. Or maybe it was stay, stay, stay.
On the ice, another player—Number 14—grabbed Sterling’s arm. They exchanged words. Sterling looked down at the ice, his chest heaving, his hands balling into fists so tight his gloves looked ready to burst.
When he looked up again, the moment was broken. He turned his back on me, skating toward the tunnel with long, powerful strides, disappearing into the darkness beneath the stands.
But the feeling remained. The air around me felt charged, static electricity clinging to my skin. I felt... marked.
"Let’s go," I said suddenly, grabbing my purse. "I need to get out of here."
"But the team comes out in twenty minutes," Cami whined. "I wanted to see if Silas would sign my program."
"I can't," I said, my voice trembling. "I have a headache."
It wasn't a headache. It was an alarm bell. Every instinct I had, every lesson in self-preservation my father had drilled into me, was screaming that I was in danger.
I just didn't realize yet that the danger wasn't something I could run from. It was something that was already hunting me.
Jack
The locker room was a sanctuary of concrete and steam, but tonight it felt like a prison cell.
I slammed the door to the showers, the metal reverberating with the force of my shove.
I didn't strip off my gear; I ripped it off.
Shoulder pads clattered to the floor. Jersey torn over my head.
I stood under the spray of the coldest water the pipes could produce, fully naked, trembling with the effort to keep my skin from ripping apart.
"Jack."
Silas walked in. The other guys were smart enough to stay out in the main locker room, giving the Captain space when he was in a mood. But Silas was Beta. He didn't get scared.
"Get out," I snarled, bracing my hands against the shower tiles. The water sluiced over my back, steaming as it hit my overheated skin.
"Can't do that," Silas said calmly, leaning against the doorframe. "You’re leaking pheromones like a busted radiator, man. The whole room smells like cedar and... need. Heavy need. The pups are getting skittish."
I hung my head, water dripping from my hair, mixing with the sweat and the ache. "It’s her."
"The blonde?" Silas asked. "The Dean’s kid? Vance’s daughter?"
I let out a low, guttural sound that was half-laugh, half-growl. "Of course it is. Of course the universe would look at me—a monster barely holding onto his leash—and decide my Fated Mate is the daughter of the man trying to get us expelled."
Silas went silent. The weight of the words hung in the humid air. Fated Mate. It wasn't a fairy tale term for us. It was biological destiny. It meant she was the only thing that could settle my wolf, and the only thing my wolf would ever want.
"She’s human, Jack," Silas said softly. "And not just any human. She’s... she’s spun glass. I’ve seen her skate. She looks like if you squeezed her hand too hard, she’d break."
"I know," I roared, slamming my fist into the tile. A hairline fracture spiderwebbed out from my knuckles. "I know."
That was the torture of it. My body was screaming to breed her. To knot her. To claim her so thoroughly that every other male on the planet would smell my scent on her for a decade. But my mind knew the truth.
I was 235 pounds of violence and trauma. I had killed a man in this form. I had a temper that could level a room.
She was vanilla and lavender and white wool coats.
"I can't have her," I whispered, the water running into my mouth, tasting like iron. "I’ll kill her. I’ll break her."
"So what’s the plan?" Silas asked.
I turned off the water. The silence that followed was heavy. I grabbed a towel and wrapped it around my waist, stepping out of the stall. I walked to the mirror, wiping the condensation away with my palm.
The eyes staring back were dark again, but the pupil was blown wide, swallowing the iris. The wolf was watching. Waiting.
"The plan," I said, my voice hollow, "is to stay as far away from Eloise Vance as possible."
I grabbed my bag, throwing my wet gear in with a wet slap.
"I’m going to the Den tonight," I told Silas. "Alone. Don't let anyone follow me. If I smell anyone near the cabin, I might not stop myself from tearing them apart."
"And if you see her again?" Silas asked, his voice grave.
I paused at the door, my hand on the latch. The scent of her—phantom, haunting—drifted through my memory, making my cock twitch and my teeth ache.
"Then God help us both," I said.
I pushed the door open and walked out into the frozen night, unaware that fate was already laughing at my plans. I thought I could stay away. I thought I had a choice.
But as I walked across the darkened quad, the wind shifted. And there, cutting through the biting cold, was that scent again. Stronger this time. Closer.
I stopped. I turned.
And I saw her walking out of the library, alone, cutting across the dark path toward the dorms.
And twenty yards behind her, stepping out of the shadows of the ancient pines, was a figure I recognized. Not a student. Not a human.
A Copperhead.
My plan to stay away evaporated in a red haze of possessive rage. I dropped my bag. A low, terrifying growl ripped from my throat, vibrating in the silence of the campus.
Mine.
I didn't run. I hunted.