Chapter 4 #2
"In exchange," I said, "I will help you write that paper. I will get you a passing grade. And I won't tell a soul that the Big Bad Wolf needs help with his homework."
He studied me. It felt like being scanned by an X-ray machine. He looked at my messy bun, my sweatshirt, my hands. He took a step closer, re-entering my personal space.
"You realize what you're asking?" he murmured. "You want to spend more time with me? After I told you it was dangerous?"
"I'm willing to take the risk," I said. "If you are."
He was quiet for a long moment. Then, slowly, he nodded.
"Where?" he asked.
"The library?"
"No," he cut in immediately. "Too many people. I can't... I can't focus when I can hear a hundred heartbeats."
"Okay," I said, filing that strange comment away for later. "Where then?"
"The Hive," he said.
My eyes widened. "The shifter house? You said no humans allowed upstairs."
"We won't go upstairs," he said. "We'll use the study on the main floor. No one goes in there. It's quiet."
Going to The Den alone with him seemed like a terrible idea. It seemed like walking into the lion's mouth. But I looked at the desperation in his eyes, hidden behind the stoic mask.
"Fine," I said. "Tonight. 7:00 PM."
"7:00 PM," he agreed.
He hesitated, then reached out. His large, rough hand brushed a loose strand of hair behind my ear. His fingers grazed the sensitive skin of my neck, and I felt the jolt all the way to my toes.
"You're playing a dangerous game, Little Bit," he whispered.
"I know," I breathed.
He pulled his hand back, shoved it into his pocket, and walked away down the hall.
I stood there, trembling, terrified, and exhilaratingly alive.
7:15 PM
The Shifter House was different when it wasn't filled with a raging party.
It loomed out of the darkness at the edge of the forest, a massive shadow against the snow. The windows were dark, save for a warm yellow glow coming from the ground floor.
I parked my beat-up sedan in the driveway, grabbed my laptop bag, and took a deep breath.
You are a professional. This is a business transaction.
I walked up the steps and knocked on the heavy oak door.
It opened instantly.
Stan stood there. He wasn't wearing the hoodie anymore. He was wearing a tight black t-shirt and grey sweatpants that hung low on his hips. He was barefoot. He held a pair of glasses in his hand.
Glasses.
The sight of Stan Kowalski—The Butcher—holding a pair of reading glasses did something to my ovaries that I didn't think was scientifically possible.
"You're late," he grunted, stepping aside to let me in.
"Fifteen minutes," I said, shaking the snow off my boots. "The roads are icy."
"I know," he said. "I could hear your engine struggling halfway up the hill. You need new spark plugs."
I stared at him. "You could hear my spark plugs?"
He froze, realizing he’d slipped. "Your car is loud, Rachel. Everyone can hear it."
He closed the door, shutting out the wind. The house smelled intensely of pine and fire—and him.
"This way," he said, leading me through the massive, empty living room.
The house was surprisingly clean. Minimalist. Lots of leather and wood. It felt less like a frat house and more like a predator's den.
He opened a set of double doors off the main hallway.
"The Study," he announced.
I walked in and gasped.
It was a library. A real, old-world library. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves packed with leather-bound volumes. A massive fireplace where a real fire was crackling. A large mahogany desk in the center of the room.
"This is..." I spun around. "This is amazing. Do you guys actually read these?"
"Some of us," Stan said, walking over to the desk. He sat down in a leather chair that groaned under his weight. He put the glasses on.
I almost dropped my bag.
He looked... intellectual. And lethal. The contrast was devastating.
"Okay," I said, my voice sounding breathy. I cleared my throat. "Let's see the prompt."
I pulled a chair up next to him. Not across from him. Next to him.
I could feel the heat radiating off his arm. I could smell the fresh soap on his skin.
He slid a crumpled piece of paper toward me.
Prompt: Discuss the concept of Moral Relativism in the context of survival. Is morality a fixed construct, or does it shift based on biological necessity?
I read it twice. Then I looked at Stan.
He was staring at the fire, his jaw working.
"Biological necessity," he muttered. "That's the part. That's the part that messes with my head."
"Why?" I asked softly.
He looked at me. Through the lenses of his glasses, his eyes were magnified, the amber swirling with conflict.
"Because," he said quietly. "If morality shifts based on what you need to survive... then monsters aren't evil, are they? They're just hungry."
The air in the room grew heavy.
I realized then that this wasn't just a paper for him. This was his life. He was asking if he was evil.
I reached out. I placed my hand on his forearm. His muscles were rock hard, tense as wire.
"Stan," I said.
He looked down at my hand. He didn't pull away.
"Morality is a choice," I said. "Hunger is an instinct. The morality comes in how you choose to feed."
He turned his hand over, catching my fingers in his. His palm was rough, calloused from the hockey stick. His grip was gentle, but I knew he could crush my hand effortlessly.
"And if I want to feed on something I shouldn't?" he whispered.
"Then you starve," I whispered back. "Or you find a substitute."
He laughed, a dark, humorless sound. He lifted my hand, bringing it to his mouth. He didn't kiss the back of my hand. He turned it over and pressed a hot, open-mouthed kiss to the center of my palm.
I gasped. The sensation was erotic, intimate, and shocking. His tongue darted out, just a flicker, tasting my skin.
"There is no substitute for this," he murmured against my palm.
My heart was hammering so hard I thought it would break my ribs.
"The paper," I managed to choke out. "We need to... outline. The paper."
He lowered my hand, but he didn't let go. He kept his fingers interlaced with mine on the desktop.
"Right," he said, his voice thick. "Premise A. Premise B."
"Right," I squeaked.
We sat there for three hours. I talked about Kant and Utilitarianism. He listened, nodding, occasionally asking questions that were surprisingly insightful.
He didn't let go of my hand the entire time.
We wrote the outline. We drafted the thesis statement.
By the time we finished, the fire had burned down to embers. The house was silent.
"You're smart," he said, looking at the laptop screen. "Scary smart."
"You're not dumb, Stan," I said softly. "You just... you see the world differently."
"I see the world as it is," he said. "Eat or be eaten."
He took his glasses off, rubbing the bridge of his nose. He looked tired. Vulnerable.
"Thank you," he said. He looked at me, stripped of all pretenses. "Rachel. Thank you."
It was the first time he had said my name without a growl or a sneer.
"You're welcome," I said.
I started to pack up my bag. "I should go. It's late."
"I'll walk you to your car."
"It's just in the driveway."
"There are wolves in these woods," he said seriously.
"I think I'm looking at one," I joked nervously.
He didn't laugh. He just stood up, looming over me.
"Yes," he said. "You are."
He walked me to the car. He opened the door for me. He waited until I was safely inside, the engine sputtering to life.
As I backed out of the driveway, I saw him standing on the porch, barefoot in the snow, watching me leave. He didn't move until my taillights disappeared around the bend.
I drove down the mountain, my hand still tingling where he had kissed it.
We had a deal. I was going to save his grade.
And I had a terrible feeling he was going to break my heart.
The truce was signed. But the war was just beginning.