Chapter 1
Lydia
The cold at North Ridge wasn’t weather. It was a living thing.
It didn’t just sit on your skin; it tried to break in.
It sought out the gaps in your scarf, the weak points in your zipper, the microscopic spaces between the threads of your denim.
It was aggressive, biting and relentless, much like the student body inhabiting this frozen wasteland in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan.
I pulled my scarf tighter, burying my nose in the wool, and hurried across the quad. The wind coming off Lake Superior screamed through the ancient pines surrounding the campus, sounding less like a draft and more like a warning.
Turn back. You are soft. You break easily.
I ignored the voice in my head. I was used to ignoring it.
Being a human at a Shifter Academy required a certain level of selective deafness.
You had to ignore the growls in the hallway when someone got bumped.
You had to ignore the way the cafeteria smelled of raw meat on Tuesdays.
And mostly, you had to ignore the way people looked at you.
Like you were a snack. Or a porcelain doll. There was no in-between.
I ducked into the massive stone archway of the Ice Arena, the heavy oak doors groaning as I hauled one open.
The silence inside was immediate and heavy.
The air here was different—still freezing, but sterile.
It smelled of Zamboni exhaust, freshly sharpened steel, and the distinct, metallic tang of ozone that always hovered around powerful Alphas.
I checked my watch. 6:00 PM. Uncle Mac—Coach Cross to everyone else—had said to meet him in his office before the evening practice.
My heart did that stupid fluttery thing against my ribs. One, two, three, four. I counted the beats, forcing them to slow down. I wasn’t a terrified freshman anymore. I was a senior Transfer. I was a Kinesiology major with a specialization in Shifter Physiology. I belonged here.
I marched down the hallway, the rubber soles of my boots squeaking against the polished concrete.
The walls were lined with photos of past championship teams. The North Ridge Direwolves.
Row after row of massive men with glowing eyes and feral grins, holding trophies that looked like toys in their hands.
I stopped at the heavy steel door marked HEAD COACH: MACKENZIE CROSS.
I didn’t knock. I just braced myself and pushed.
The office was hot. Uncomfortably so. Polar Bear shifters ran colder than wolves, which meant they liked their environments sweltering to compensate.
My uncle was behind his desk, a mountain of a man who made the executive leather chair look like dollhouse furniture.
He was reviewing game tape, the blue light of the monitor reflecting in his pale, icy eyes.
He sniffed the air before he even looked up.
"You’re late, Lydie."
"I’m on time," I corrected, dropping my heavy backpack onto the leather sofa. "The wind chill is negative twenty. Walking from the dorms took longer than expected."
Mac finally looked up. His face was a map of old violence—a crooked nose, a scar slicing through his left eyebrow, and a jawline that could crush granite. But when he looked at me, the predator retreated, replaced by the weary affection of a guardian.
"You shouldn't be walking," he grumbled, his voice a low rumble that vibrated in my chest. "I told you to call a campus escort."
"I am twenty-one years old, Uncle Mac. I don't need a babysitter to walk across campus."
"You’re a human female at a school that is ninety percent male and one hundred percent apex predator," he countered, leaning back.
The chair groaned in protest. "Rut season starts in three weeks.
The boys are already getting twitchy. You walking around smelling like...
" He paused, his nose twitching distastefully.
"Like vanilla and fear. It’s a dinner bell, kid. "
I stiffened, my hands curling into fists inside my pockets. "I’m not afraid."
"You should be."
He stood up, and the room seemed to shrink. He walked around the desk, towering over me. He put a hand on my shoulder, his palm heavy and warm, encompassing the entirety of my joint.
"Look, Lydia. I pulled strings to get you this internship. The Board didn't want a human working with the team. They think you’re a liability."
"I have the highest GPA in the program," I argued, my chin tilting up. "I know more about shifter anatomy than half the shifters on this campus."
"Book smarts don't stop a three-hundred-pound wolf from snapping you in half by accident during a psychotic break," he said bluntly. "You are here to tape ankles, run the ultrasound, and hand out water bottles. You are invisible. You hear me?"
"Loud and clear."
"And the rules?" He raised a thick white eyebrow.
I sighed, reciting the lecture I’d heard since I was sixteen. "No going to the Hive. No being alone in a room with a player during a full moon. And absolutely, under no circumstances, do I date a player."
Mac squeezed my shoulder, just a fraction too hard.
"I mean it, Lydia. These boys... they aren’t like the guys back home.
They have instincts they can’t always control.
If one of them decides you’re it... if one of them imprints...
" He shuddered, a visceral reaction. "You don't survive that. You’re too small. Too soft."
"I’m not soft," I lied.
He stared at me for a long second, his pale eyes stripping away my bravado. Then he sighed and let go. "Get to the training room. Inventory the supplies. The boys will be off the ice in an hour. I want you gone before they hit the showers."
"Yes, Coach."
I turned and walked out, my back straight, refusing to let him see how much his words rattled me.
Too soft.
That was the narrative. Lydia Cross, the fragile human. The glass figurine in a room full of hammers.
I hated it. I hated the way my heart raced when a door slammed. I hated the way I bruised if I bumped into a table. I hated that in this world of magic and muscle, I was biologically inferior.
I pushed into the Athletic Training Room, flipping on the fluorescent lights. It was my sanctuary. Here, the monsters were just biology. Here, a Alpha wolf was just a collection of hamstrings, deltoids, and ACLs that needed fixing.
I pulled on my latex gloves, the snap of the rubber against my wrist sounding like a gunshot in the quiet room. I grabbed my clipboard.
Let them be twitchy. Let them be dangerous. I wasn’t here to be prey. I was here to be a doctor.
And nothing was going to get in my way.
Mikey
The ice was the only place the noise stopped.
Out in the world, my head was a cacophony.
The scrape of a chair three rooms away. The heartbeat of a squirrel in the rafters.
The smell of fear, lust, anger, and hunger coming off every person I passed.
It was a constant assault on my senses, a never-ending reminder that I wasn't made for classrooms or dorms.
I was made for violence.
But on the ice, the cold numbed it all. The roar of the blood in my ears drowned out the world.
Thwack.
I sent a slapshot into the glass, the puck leaving a black smudge right where a goalie’s throat would be.
"Jesus, Mauler. Save some for the game."
I didn't look up. I knew the voice. Jagger. My line-mate. A Coyote shifter with too much energy and zero survival instincts.
"Go away, Jags," I grunted, skating a hard circle, my blades carving deep gouges into the fresh ice.
"Practice ended twenty minutes ago, man," Jagger said, skating up beside me. He smelled like wet dog and cheap body spray. "Coach kicked everyone out. He said something about his niece being in the building and he didn't want us 'contaminating the air.'"
I paused, leaning on my stick. The niece. The human.
I hadn't seen her yet, but I’d heard about her. The whispers in the locker room were graphic. The wolves were curious. A human female in the den was a novelty. A forbidden toy.
"Don't care," I said flatly.
"You should," Jagger grinned, showing his elongated canines. "I caught a whiff of her in the hallway. Sweet. Like... sugar cookies and rain. Makes my teeth itch."
A low rumble started in my chest before I could stop it. A warning.
Jagger’s eyes widened, and he took a step back on his skates. "Whoa. Chill, Alpha. I'm just saying."
"Don't talk about her," I snapped. The command laced through my voice, heavy and compulsive.
I didn't know why I cared. I didn't give a shit about humans. They were breakable. Boring. And my father had drilled it into me since I was a pup: Humans are a liability. Mixing bloodlines leads to weakness. Or worse.
"Fine, fine," Jagger held up his gloved hands. "I'm hitting the showers. You coming?"
"One more lap."
Jagger shook his head and skated off. I watched him go, the solitude wrapping around me again.
I pushed off, building speed. The wind whipped against my face, cooling the burning heat that always simmered just beneath my skin. I needed the exhaustion. I needed to push my body until it was too tired to want, too tired to need.
I rounded the net, gaining speed for a suicide sprint.
My skate hit a rut in the ice.
It shouldn't have happened. I was the best skater in the conference. But my mind was drifting, thinking about the scent Jagger had described. Sugar cookies and rain.
My ankle twisted. I corrected too late. I went down hard, sliding across the ice, my momentum carrying me into the boards.
CRACK.
My stick shattered. But worse, the blade of my left skate caught the exposed metal of the gate latch that hadn't been closed properly.
I felt the slice before the pain. Cold, sharp, deep.
I hissed, rolling onto my back, clutching my thigh. The scent of copper filled the air instantly. My blood. Thick, dark, and potent.
"Fuck," I growled at the rafters.
I sat up, inspecting the damage. The hockey sock was torn. A gash, about four inches long, ran down my quad. It was bleeding sluggishly, but deep.
I could heal it. Shift into wolf form, let the accelerated metabolism knit the skin back together in an hour.