Chapter 3
Jack
The cab of my truck felt like a pressure cooker.
The heating vents were blasting hot air against the windshield to fight off the encroaching frost of the Upper Peninsula night, but the real heat was radiating from the passenger seat.
Eloise Vance. The Ice Princess. The Dean’s daughter. My Mate.
She was sitting with her knees pressed together, her hands gripping the safety handle above the door like she expected me to drive off a cliff. She was shaking. I could hear the tiny, rhythmic chattering of her teeth, a sound that grated against my enhanced hearing like sandpaper on bone.
But it was her scent that was killing me.
Vanilla and lavender, yes. But underneath that, the sharp, metallic tang of adrenaline and the sour note of fear. And beneath that? The biological siren song that was currently rewiring my entire nervous system. It was a scent that screamed Claim. Protect. Keep.
I gripped the steering wheel so hard the leather creaked in protest, my knuckles turning white. My wolf was pacing in the cage of my chest, scratching at the back of my sternum.
She is cold, the wolf snarled. Warm her. Wrap her in our scent. Lick the fear off her skin.
"I’m not kidnapping you," I said, breaking the heavy silence. My voice sounded rough, unused, like a rusted engine turning over.
Eloise didn't look at me. She stared out the window at the blurring tunnel of pine trees and snowbanks illuminated by my headlights.
"You basically threw me into a truck, Jack," she said, her voice steady but thin. "After... after whatever that was back there. Those men. The way you..." She trailed off, swallowing hard. "The way you moved."
I tightened my jaw. "I moved fast. I play hockey. It’s what I do."
"You threw a two-hundred-pound man ten feet into a tree with one hand," she countered, finally turning her head to look at me. Her blue eyes were wide, searching my profile in the dashboard darkness. "That’s not hockey. That’s... physics-defying."
"Adrenaline," I lied. It was a weak lie, and we both knew it. "And they weren't men. They were threats."
"Who were they?"
"People who want to hurt your father by hurting you," I said. It was technically the truth. Rurik wanted territory; Eloise was just the leverage. "There’s a turf war. Of sorts."
"A turf war," she repeated, skepticism dripping from the syllables. "In the Upper Peninsula? Over what? Maple syrup reserves?"
"You’d be surprised what people fight over in the dark," I muttered, checking the rearview mirror. No headlights. We were clear for now.
"Where are we going?" she asked. "You passed the turn for the dorms three miles ago."
"I told you, the dorms aren't safe. Those guys know where you sleep. A key card lock isn't going to stop them."
"So where? The police station?"
I nearly laughed. The local cops were on Rurik’s payroll, or at least terrified of him. "No. We’re going to the Hive."
"The Hive?" She frowned. "The hockey house? You’re taking me to a frat party?"
"It’s Saturday night after a win," I said, flicking the turn signal. "The whole team is there. Strength in numbers. I need to grab gear before we go to the safe location, and I’m not leaving you alone in the truck."
"This is insane," she whispered, slumping back against the seat. "My father is going to have you expelled. He’s going to have you arrested."
"Let him try," I growled, darker than I intended. "Better expelled than you being dead."
The word hung in the air, heavy and absolute. Dead. She went quiet, clutching her coat tighter.
I pulled the truck up the long, winding driveway that led to the Hive. It was a massive, sprawling Victorian mansion set back in the woods, bought by alumni boosters decades ago to house the team. It was a fortress of timber and stone, and right now, it was pulsing with life.
Bass thumped through the walls, vibrating the snow off the roof. Every window was glowing amber. Cars were parked haphazardly on the lawn.
"Stay close to me," I ordered, putting the truck in park. I turned to her, leaning across the center console. The movement brought me into her personal space, and her breath hitched. I paused, letting myself inhale her scent for just a second. It was torture. It was paradise.
"Do not leave my side," I said, my voice dropping an octave, slipping into that command tone that made my teammates flinch. "Do not talk to anyone unless I say so. And do not, under any circumstances, go upstairs alone."
She stared at me, her pupils dilated. "Okay," she whispered.
"Good girl."
The words slipped out before I could stop them. A praise kink reflex. A dominance tactic.
Her eyes widened, a flush rising up her neck that I could see even in the dark. She didn't look offended. She looked... affected.
My cock twitched, hard and painful against my jeans. Fuck.
I opened the door and stepped out into the biting cold, forcing the heat in my blood to settle. I had to get through this. I had to walk into a house full of drunk shifters and puck bunnies with my fated mate on my arm, and I had to pretend she was just a job.
The moment we walked through the heavy oak front doors, the sensory assault was immediate.
The Hive smelled like stale beer, expensive cologne, damp wool, and the underlying musk of twenty agitated wolves. The music—some heavy, bass-driven rap track—shook the floorboards. The heat was oppressive, generated by a hundred bodies packed into the main foyer and living room.
I felt Eloise shrink beside me. She was used to galas and silent libraries. This was a mosh pit of debauchery.
"Sterling!"
A roar went up from the living room as I entered. The team. My pack.
Silas was standing on the coffee table, a bottle of whiskey in one hand, shirtless despite the drafty windows. When he saw me, his grin was wide, but the moment his eyes landed on Eloise tucked under my arm, the grin vanished.
The room went quiet. Or, the wolves went quiet. The humans—the girls from the sororities, the puck bunnies, the hangers-on—kept talking, but the sudden drop in aggression from the team created a vacuum of tension.
They could smell her. They could smell me on her.
I scanned the room, making eye contact with every shifted member of the team. My eyes didn't glow, but the weight of my Alpha potential hit them. Mine. Back off.
Heads dipped. gazes averted. Submissiveness. Good.
"Party’s over for me, boys," I announced, my voice cutting through the music. "Just grabbing some gear."
"Who’s the civilian, Cap?"
The voice came from the kitchen doorway. Miller. A freshman defenseman. Human. Cocky. Stupid.
Miller pushed off the doorframe, a red solo cup in his hand, his eyes raking over Eloise with a hungry, sloppy appreciation. "Didn't know we were bringing the library to the party. Is that the Dean’s girl?"
I felt Eloise stiffen against my side. Her "Armor"—that icy, perfect posture—slammed into place. She lifted her chin, staring Miller down with a look that could freeze vodka.
"I’m not the 'library,'" she said, her voice cutting and clear. "And you’re spilling cheap beer on a rug that probably costs more than your tuition."
A ripple of laughter went through the room.
Miller’s face soured. He took a step forward, his ego bruised. "Feisty. I like that. You look a little tight, sweetheart. Maybe you need a drink to loosen up those..."
He reached out, his hand aiming for her arm.
He never made it.
I didn't even think. I just moved. One second I was by the door, the next I was between Miller and Eloise, my hand wrapped around his wrist, twisting it just enough to strain the ligaments.
"Miller," I said, my voice low and pleasant, in direct contrast to the violence in my grip. "You’re drunk."
"Ow, shit—Jack, let go!" Miller stammered, spilling his drink.
"Eloise is with me," I said, loud enough for the back of the room to hear. "She is off-limits. To everyone. If anyone looks at her, speaks to her, or breathes in her direction without my permission, you’re running Suicides until you vomit blood. Do we understand?"
I squeezed his wrist. A warning.
"Yeah, Cap. Yeah, I got it," Miller winced, his face pale.
I released him. He stumbled back, rubbing his wrist, looking at me with wide, fearful eyes.
I turned back to the room. "Silas. With me. The rest of you, keep it contained. If the cops come, you don't know me."
I put my hand on the small of Eloise’s back. I could feel the heat of her skin through her white coat. I could feel the curve of her spine. It felt like branding iron.
"Come on," I murmured to her.
I guided her through the crowd toward the massive staircase. The sea of bodies parted for us like the Red Sea. I could feel their eyes on us—speculating, jealous, confused.
"You have a very... intense leadership style," Eloise whispered as we climbed the stairs, her shoulder brushing against my bicep.
"They respond to clear boundaries," I muttered.
"Is that what that was? Boundaries? You looked like you were about to snap his arm like a glow stick."
"He was annoying me."
"He was flirting," she corrected. "Badly. But flirting."
I stopped on the landing, turning to look at her. We were eye-level here. The music was muffled downstairs, but the bass still thrummed in the floor, vibrating up through our boots.
"He wasn't flirting," I said, stepping closer, crowding her against the banister. "He was hunting. There’s a difference."
Her breath hitched. She looked up at me, her blue eyes dark in the dim hallway light. "And what are you doing, Jack? Are you hunting?"
The question hung between us, charged and dangerous.
I looked at her mouth. Her lips were parted, pink and soft. I wanted to bite them. I wanted to taste the smart-ass comments right off her tongue.
"I’m protecting," I rasped. "There’s a difference."
"Is there?" she challenged, her voice breathless.
I leaned in, my control slipping. My nose grazed her jawline, inhaling that maddening scent again. She didn't pull away. She tilted her head, baring her throat. An instinctual submission. It made my vision swim with gold.