Chapter 4
Leo
The ice was chopped up, scarred by an hour of suicide drills. It looked how I felt: rough, white, and unforgiving.
"Vance! Again!"
I didn't complain. I didn't slow down. I dug the edges of my skates into the blue line and pushed off, exploding toward the far goal.
Push. Glide. Push. Glide.
Pain was good. Pain was simple. Pain was a language my body understood, unlike the chaotic, gibbering mess my mind had been in since I let Maya Sterling walk out of the library last night.
I shouldn't have let her in. I shouldn't have touched her. And I definitely shouldn't have buried my face in her neck and breathed her in until her scent was permanently tattooed onto my olfactory bulb.
Vanilla and honey. It was a plague.
I reached the goal line and sprayed ice shavings as I slammed into a stop, my chest heaving.
"Better," Coach Miller grunted, skating over with his clipboard.
He was a human, unaware of the wolves under his command, but he had the instincts of a drill sergeant.
He looked at me, his eyes narrowing. "You're skating angry, Leo.
You're fast, but you're sloppy. You checked Silas into the boards so hard yesterday I thought you broke his collarbone. "
"He was in my lane," I said, squirting water from my bottle into my mouth.
"He's your teammate," Miller snapped. "And you're my Captain. You need to get your head out of your ass, Vance. The Dean is breathing down my neck about the playoffs. I don't need you going rogue. Whatever is eating you, spit it out or swallow it down. I don't want to see it on the ice."
"Understood," I lied.
I couldn't spit it out. And I couldn't swallow it down because the thing "eating me" was a biological imperative written into my DNA.
She is Mate. She is carrying the scent of potential. Claim.
The Wolf was relentless today. Usually, after a hard skate, the beast was quiet, tired out by the physical exertion. Today, he was pacing in the back of my skull, scratching at the door. He wanted to hunt. And he didn't want a puck.
I skated off the ice, my blades clacking loudly on the rubber mats. I needed a shower. I needed to go to class. I needed to pretend that I wasn't constantly tracking the location of a 5'3" cellist across campus like a human GPS.
My resolve to stay away from her lasted exactly four hours.
It broke around 2:00 PM, in the middle of the Student Union. I was sitting in a booth in the back, trying to force my brain to process a Political Science textbook. The noise of the cafeteria was a dull roar—clattering trays, laughing students, the hiss of the espresso machine.
Then, the scent hit me.
It wasn't fresh. It was stale, distressed. It was the scent of salt water and panic mixed with the vanilla.
I stopped reading. My head snapped up, scanning the room.
I didn't see her. But my hearing, tuned to a frequency humans couldn't access, picked up a sound that didn't belong.
It was faint. A rhythmic, jagged gasping.
It wasn't coming from the cafeteria. It was coming from above.
The Student Union had an old bell tower—a remnant of the original chapel the university had been built around. It was technically condemned, the stairs roped off with "Do Not Enter" tape. It was dusty, cold, and abandoned.
Sanctuary.
I closed my book. I shoved it into my bag.
"Don't do it," I whispered to myself. "Let her be."
But the scent of her distress was like a hook in my gut. It pulled.
I stood up, swinging my bag over my shoulder. I walked past the "Do Not Enter" tape, stepping over the velvet rope with a glance around to ensure no one was watching. I took the narrow, spiraling stone stairs two at a time, moving silently.
The air grew colder as I climbed. The smell of dust and old pigeon feathers grew stronger, but cutting through it all was the sharp, metallic tang of misery.
I reached the top landing. The heavy wooden door was ajar.
I pushed it open.
The bell tower was a small, octagonal room. The four arched windows were open to the elements, letting the gray Vermont sky pour in. The massive bronze bell hung in the center, silent and imposing.
Maya was there.
She was sitting on the floor in the corner, her knees pulled up to her chest, her back pressed against the rough stone wall. Her cello case was next to her, closed.
She wasn't playing. She was crying.
It wasn't a pretty, cinematic cry. It was ugly. Her face was buried in her hands, her shoulders shaking violently. She was gasping for air, choking on sob after sob, sounding like she was drowning on dry land.
The sight of it punched a hole in my chest.
The Wolf didn't want to breed her right now. The Wolf wanted to kill whatever had made her make that sound.
I stepped into the room. "Maya."
Her head snapped up. Her face was a mess—eyes swollen, mascara streaked down her cheeks, her nose red. When she saw me, panic flared in her eyes. She scrambled to wipe her face, trying to compose herself, trying to put the mask back on.
"Leo," she choked out, her voice thick. "You... you can't be here. This is off-limits."
"So are you," I said, closing the door behind me to block the wind. "What’s wrong? Are you hurt?"
I crossed the room. I couldn't help it. I knelt in front of her, ignoring the dust on my jeans. I scanned her body for injuries—blood, bruises.
"I'm fine," she lied, sniffing wetly. She turned her face away, hiding from me. "Please go away. I don't want you to see me like this."
"Too late," I said. My voice came out softer than I intended. The "Alpha Command" was gone, replaced by something instinctively gentle. "Look at me."
She shook her head. "No. I look hideous."
"You look like you're in pain," I corrected. "Is it someone? Did someone touch you?"
If someone had touched her, I was going to find them, and I was going to peel their skin off.
"No one touched me," she whispered. She wrapped her arms tighter around her legs, resting her chin on her knees. She looked so small. "I'm just... failing."
"Failing what? A class?"
"Everything," she said, a fresh tear sliding down her nose. "The recital is in two days. The Dean is coming. My parents are coming. And I can't... I can't do it."
"You play fine," I said. "I heard you."
"I play notes," she spat, the sudden anger surprising me.
She looked at me, her brown eyes flashing.
"I play the notes exactly as they are written on the page.
I have perfect pitch. I have perfect technique.
And it's dead, Leo. It’s boring. My professor told me I sound like a machine. He said I have no soul."
She let out a bitter, wet laugh. "And he's right. I've spent my whole life being the good girl. I follow the rules. I color inside the lines. I don't know how to feel the music because I don't know how to feel anything except fear of messing up."
She dropped her forehead back to her knees. "I'm going to get up on that stage on Friday, and I'm going to be perfect, and everyone is going to be bored, and I'm going to lose my scholarship."
I sat back on my heels, studying her.
I understood that feeling. The pressure to be what your bloodline demanded.
The crushing weight of expectation. I played hockey with a violence that terrified people because it was the only place I could let the pressure out.
She didn't have an outlet. She was a pressure cooker with the valve welded shut.
"You're not empty," I said quietly.
"How do you know?"
"Because," I said, reaching out. I hesitated for a fraction of a second, then placed my hand on the back of her neck.
She froze.
My hand was large enough to span her entire neck. Her skin was fever-hot and damp. I could feel the frantic rabbit-pulse of her carotid artery against my thumb. I didn't squeeze. I just held her. Grounded her.
"Because," I continued, my voice low, "empty things don't smell like a storm. You have chaos in you, Maya. You've just buried it under a mountain of 'shoulds'."
She leaned into my touch. It was subtle, but I felt it. Her shoulders dropped an inch. Her breathing hitched, then slowed, syncing with the rhythm of my thumb stroking her skin.
"How do I get it out?" she whispered. She turned her head, looking at me sideways, her cheek brushing against my wrist. "How do I stop being the good girl?"
"You don't want to stop," I warned. "The world isn't kind to bad girls. It eats them."
"I don't care," she said. She turned fully, shifting her body so she was facing me, cross-legged. She didn't pull away from my hand. "I’m tired of being safe, Leo. Safe feels like suffocating."
She looked at my chest, then up to my eyes. "You're not safe."
"No," I agreed. "I'm not."
"Teach me."
The words hung in the dusty air between us.
My hand went still on her neck. "Teach you what?"
"To be reckless," she said. "To let go. To feel whatever it is you feel when you look at me like you want to devour me."
My gut tightened. The air in the bell tower suddenly felt very thin.
"Maya," I rasped, pulling my hand back. The loss of contact was physical ache. "You are asking for trouble. You are asking a wolf to teach you how to bite."
"I need to know," she insisted. "I need to feel something real before Friday. Or I'm going to shatter."
I looked at her. Really looked at her.
She wasn't flirting. She was desperate. She was a drowning woman asking for an anchor, not realizing I was the weight that would pull her down.
But...
A plan formed in the back of my mind. A dangerous, selfish plan.
I couldn't stay away from her. The bond was pulling too hard. If I tried to ignore her, I’d end up stalking her from the shadows like a creep.
But if I agreed... if I controlled the interaction... I could keep her close. I could satisfy the Wolf’s need to be near her, to protect her, while keeping her at arm's length physically. I could be her "teacher." I could control the dosage.
"I have conditions," I said.
Maya blinked, surprised that I hadn't just walked out. "Conditions?"
"If I do this," I said, leaning forward, resting my forearms on my knees. "If I show you how to... unravel... we do it my way. You don't ask questions about my family. You don't ask why I can smell your perfume from a mile away. And you do exactly what I say."
"What you say?" she repeated, a flush rising on her neck.
"Control," I said simply. "That's what you want to lose, right? So you give it to me. For the next two days, until your recital. When we are together, I make the decisions. I tell you when to speak. I tell you when to move. I tell you when to stop."
Her pupils dilated. The scent of arousal spiked in the air—sweet, heavy honey.
"Why?" she breathed.
"Because," I said, my voice dropping to a whisper, "submission is the ultimate freedom, Maya. When you don't have to choose, you don't have to worry. You just... exist."
She stared at me, processing. I could see the wheels turning. The Good Girl was terrified. But the artist—the desperate, starving artist—was intrigued.
"And what do you get out of it?" she asked suspiciously.
I get to be near you without going insane. I get to pretend, for a few hours, that you are mine.
"I get peace," I lied. "You're noisy, Maya. Your anxiety is loud. If I fix you, maybe I can get some quiet."
She bit her lip. She looked down at her hands, then back at me.
"Okay," she whispered.
"Okay?"
"I accept the conditions."
I felt a dark, possessive satisfaction uncurl in my belly.
"Good girl," I said.
The praise hit her like a physical blow. Her breath hitched. Her eyes glazed over slightly.
Bingo.
She was a praise junkie. She had spent her whole life trying to be perfect for her parents, starving for validation. Two words from me, and she melted.
I stood up, offering her my hand.
"Up," I commanded.
She took my hand. I pulled her to her feet effortlessly. She stumbled slightly, bumping into my chest. I steadied her, my hands lingering on her waist for a second too long.
"Wipe your face," I said, reaching into my pocket and handing her a handkerchief. "You look like a raccoon."
She let out a wet, startled laugh, taking the cloth. "You're an ass."
"I'm your teacher," I corrected. "Come on. We're leaving."
"Where are we going?"
"The Hive," I said. "It's too crowded here. If you want to learn how to scream, we need soundproofing."
Her eyes went wide. "I'm not going to scream."
I leaned down, brushing a stray lock of hair behind her ear. My knuckles grazed her jaw. "Maya," I murmured, "before I'm done with you, you're going to be begging to scream."
I turned and walked toward the door, not waiting for her.
"Grab your cello," I threw over my shoulder.
I heard the scramble of her grabbing her case. I heard her footsteps hurrying to catch up.
The deal was struck.
I told myself I was helping her. I told myself I was in control.
But as we walked down the spiral stairs, the Wolf in my head was laughing. He knew better. I hadn't just agreed to tutor her. I had just agreed to walk straight into the fire, and I was dragging her in with me.
Maya
I sat in the passenger seat of Leo's truck, my cello case wedged in the back seat. The engine rumbled beneath us, a deep, mechanical growl that matched the man driving.
My hands were in my lap, twisting the handkerchief he had given me. It smelled like cedar and laundry detergent.
I should be terrified. I was going to a house full of giant athletes, alone, with a man who looked like he could snap me in half with one hand. A man who had just demanded I give him control of my life for forty-eight hours.
It was insane. It was dangerous. It was everything my mother had warned me against.
I looked over at him. His profile was sharp, illuminated by the dashboard lights. His hand rested on the gear shift, large and scarred. He drove with an easy, arrogant competence.
"Stop thinking so loud," he murmured, without looking at me.
"I can't help it," I said. "This is... weird."
"It's only weird if you make it weird," he said. He downshifted as we turned onto the private road leading to the manor. "You wanted to know how to let go. Step one: Stop overanalyzing the logistics of the fall."
"What's Step two?"
He glanced at me then. His eyes were shadowed, unreadable, but his mouth curved into a faint, terrifying smirk.
"Step two," he said softly, "is realizing that you aren't the one steering the car anymore."
He accelerated. The truck surged forward, pressing me back into the seat.
For the first time in months—maybe years—the knot of anxiety in my chest loosened. He was right. I wasn't steering. I didn't have to worry about the map, or the speed, or the destination.
I just had to hold on.
I closed my eyes, took a deep breath of the pine-scented air, and for the first time, I let myself fall.