Chapter 7
Jack
The truck idled at the curb outside Eloise’s dorm, the engine rumbling a low, steady bass note that matched the vibration in my chest.
It was Friday night. On a college campus, that meant chaos.
The sidewalks were already filling with students bundled in parkas, slipping on the ice, headed toward the row of fraternity houses where the bass was already thumping.
The air smelled of exhaust, cheap perfume, and that distinct, metallic scent of snow about to fall.
I wasn't looking at the students. I was watching the front door of Halliwell Hall.
My fingers drummed against the leather steering wheel. Tap. Tap. Tap.
"Relax," I muttered to myself. "It’s pizza. Not a diplomatic summit."
She is ours, the Wolf supplied helpfully from the back of my mind. Feed her. Keep her warm.
"Shut up," I whispered.
The door to the dorm opened, and the air in the cab suddenly felt too thin.
Eloise stepped out.
I had seen her in figure skating gear—spandex and crystals, sleek and aerodynamic. I had seen her in my oversized hoodies, looking soft and swallowable. I had seen her in that pristine white coat that made her look like a Russian spy.
But tonight...
She was wearing jeans. Dark denim that hugged her legs like a second skin. A black turtleneck tucked in, emphasizing a waist I could span with my hands. And a leather jacket.
My leather jacket.
I blinked, leaning forward. It was definitely mine.
An old vintage biker jacket I’d left in the back of the truck when I dropped her off the other morning.
It was miles too big for her. The sleeves were rolled up, and the hem hit her mid-thigh, but she wore it with an effortless, careless cool that hit me right in the solar plexus.
She spotted the truck and walked toward me, navigating the icy sidewalk with the grace of someone who lived on blades.
I leaned across the center console and pushed the passenger door open.
She climbed in, bringing a gust of cold air and that maddening vanilla scent with her. She settled into the seat, pulling the heavy door shut.
"You stole my jacket," I said. No hello. No pleasantries. Just the accusation that sounded dangerously like admiration.
Eloise smirked, buckling her seatbelt. She looked comfortable. The fear from the Dean’s office, the terror of the woods—it was tucked away tonight.
"I didn't steal it," she corrected, adjusting the rearview mirror to check her lipstick. A deep, berry red. Fatal error on my part. I’m going to stare at that mouth all night. "I borrowed it. It smells like cedar and testosterone. It’s excellent camouflage."
"Camouflage?"
"If I smell like the big bad wolf," she said, glancing at me with a playful glint in her blue eyes, "maybe the other predators will leave me alone."
I gripped the gear shift, my knuckles popping. The possessiveness surged, hot and immediate.
"It’s working," I growled, pulling the truck away from the curb. "You smell like me. It’s confusing the hell out of my senses, actually. It’s like high-fiving myself."
She laughed. It was a real laugh—bright, unguarded. "You’re ridiculous, Sterling. Where are we going? Please tell me it’s not a raw meat buffet in the woods."
"Pizza," I said. "The Slice. Best grease in the county."
"Carbs," she feigned horror. "My father would have a stroke."
"Good," I said darky. "Then you’re getting extra cheese."
I merged onto the main road, heading toward town. I reached for the radio dial, but her hand shot out, slapping mine away.
"Driver picks the destination, passenger picks the tunes," she recited, plugging her phone into the aux cord.
"If this is Tchaikovsky, I’m driving into a tree."
"It’s not Tchaikovsky."
A second later, the heavy, distorted guitar riff of a 90s grunge track filled the cab. Nirvana.
I looked at her, eyebrows raised.
"What?" she shrugged, looking out the window. "I contain multitudes, Jack. I like angst. It speaks to my repressed rage."
I shook my head, smiling. A real smile. It felt foreign on my face, stretching muscles that were usually reserved for scowling or snarling.
We drove through the dark streets of Ironwood, the music loud, the heater blasting. For the first time in a week, I didn't feel like a soldier on patrol. I didn't feel like a monster holding back a tide of violence.
I just felt like a guy taking a girl to get pizza.
And that was the most dangerous feeling of all.
The Slice was a dive.
It was the kind of place that had sawdust on the floor to soak up the spilled beer, neon signs that buzzed with an ominous electrical hum, and tables carved with the initials of every hockey player who had passed through Ironwood since 1985.
It was Sentinel territory.
When we walked in, the noise level dropped by half.
It was a biological reaction. I walked in, and every shifter in the room—three bouncers, half the kitchen staff, and two of my defensemen in the back booth—clocked my scent. Alpha. Here.
Then they clocked her scent. Vanilla. Mate.
Then they saw the jacket. Claimed.
Heads dipped. Eyes averted. The ecosystem of the bar realigned itself around us.
"Why is everyone looking at their shoes?" Eloise whispered, leaning into my side as we waited for the hostess.
"They’re respecting the jacket," I lied.
"Right."
The hostess, a terrified sophomore named Kelly, rushed over. "Jack! Hi. Booth in the back?"
"Please," I said.
I placed my hand on the small of Eloise’s back. It wasn't a conscious decision. My hand just belonged there. I could feel the warmth of her through the thick leather, the curve of her spine. I guided her through the crowded room.
We wove through the tables. I felt the gaze of the humans—the civilians—tracking us. They didn't see the Alpha and his Mate. They saw Jack Sterling, the campus celebrity, and Eloise Vance, the campus royalty.
"Is that the Dean’s daughter?"
"She’s wearing his jacket."
"I thought he didn't date."
The whispers followed us like smoke. I ignored them. I focused on the heat of her body next to mine, the way she moved with her chin held high, unfazed by the attention.
We slid into a booth in the back corner—my preferred spot. Wall to my back, clear view of the entrance.
"Cozy," Eloise noted, sliding in. The red vinyl seat squeaked. "It smells like yeast and bad decisions."
"It smells like victory," I corrected, picking up the sticky laminated menu. "We win a game, we come here. We lose a game, we run suicides until we puke. I prefer the pizza."
"So, tonight is a victory lap?" she asked, resting her chin on her hand.
"Tonight is..." I paused, looking at her across the table.
Under the harsh, swinging Tiffany lamp above the table, she looked breathtaking.
The light caught the stray hairs escaping her messy bun, turning them into a halo.
Her lips were stained that dark red. Her eyes were searching mine, stripping away the layers of "Pack Captain" and seeing the man underneath.
"Tonight is maintenance," I said softly. "You need to eat. I need to make sure nobody tries to kidnap you. Multitasking."
"Romance is dead," she sighed, but her eyes were smiling.
A waitress bustled over. It was Maude. She was sixty, human, and terrifying. She had been working at The Slice since before I was born. She knew what we were—or at least, she knew the hockey boys were "different" and ate enough to bankrupt a buffet.
"Sterling," Maude barked, dropping two napkins on the table. "You look terrible. Not sleeping?"
"Hey, Maude. Good to see you too."
"And who’s this?" Maude turned her laser focus on Eloise. She squinted. "Vance’s girl?"
Eloise straightened her spine, her "Dean’s Daughter" mask sliding into place. "Eloise. Nice to meet you."
Maude looked from Eloise to me, then at the jacket Eloise was wearing. Her stony expression cracked into a wide, knowing grin.
"Finally," Maude huffed. "I was starting to think you batted for the other team, Jack. Or no team at all."
"Maude," I warned, feeling the heat rise up my neck.
"What? You’ve been coming here four years, never brought a girl. Now you bring the Princess in your jacket?" Maude cackled, tapping her pen against her pad. "About damn time someone thawed you out. The usual?"
"Please," I grunted.
"And for you, doll?"
"I’ll have a salad," Eloise started, then caught my eye. She paused. "Actually... no. I’ll have a slice of pepperoni. And a beer. Whatever he’s having."
Maude winked. "Good girl."
She walked away.
I stared at Eloise. "Good girl?"
Eloise flushed pink. "Shut up. It’s a common phrase."
"It’s a loaded phrase," I murmured, leaning forward. My knee bumped hers under the table. I didn't pull back. Neither did she. "You hate beer."
"I’m expanding my horizons," she said, echoing my words from the lecture hall. "Besides, if I’m going to be part of the pack, I should assimilate."
Part of the pack.
The words hit me hard. She didn't mean it literally. She couldn't. But God, did I want her to.
"So," I said, trying to distract myself from the sudden urge to drag her over the table. "Tell me something real. Not the PR version. Why skating? Your dad hates it. Why do you do it?"
Eloise traced the condensation on her water glass. Her expression turned contemplative.
"Because it’s flying," she said softly. "For those three minutes on the ice, when I’m in the air... gravity doesn't own me. My father doesn't own me. I’m just... weightless."
She looked up at me. "Why do you play? You’re good enough to go Pro, Jack. Everyone says so. But Silas told me you haven't signed with an agent."
I stiffened. This was the conversation I avoided.
"I can't go Pro," I said, my voice low.
"Why not? Injury?"
"Politics," I said. "Pack politics. When I graduate, I take over. The current Alpha... he’s sick. He’s holding on until I’m ready. Once I ascend, I can't be traveling across the country playing in the NHL. My place is here. Protecting the territory."
"You’re giving up your dream?" she asked, her voice filled with genuine horror. "To stay in the woods and... manage a turf war?"
"It’s not giving up," I lied. "It’s duty."