Chapter 5
Dante
The library at midnight was a tomb of silence, broken only by the aggressive scratching of a red pen against paper.
I watched the pen. I watched the hand holding it—small, pale, delicate fingers that looked like they had never lifted anything heavier than a latte.
I watched the way her brow furrowed in concentration, a tiny crease appearing between her eyebrows that I had the irrational urge to smooth away with my thumb.
And then I watched her mouth.
Arabella was biting her bottom lip again. She had the bottom lip caught between her teeth, gnawing on it gently as she desecrated my essay on The Moral Obligation of Power.
It was driving me insane.
Every time her teeth sank into that plush, pink flesh, the wolf in my chest clawed at my ribs. It wanted to replace her teeth with mine. It wanted to bite her, taste the copper tang of her blood mixed with the vanilla scent that seemed to radiate from her pores like a beacon.
"You're staring," she murmured, not looking up from the paper.
"I'm observing," I corrected, leaning back in the uncomfortable wooden chair, spreading my legs wide to accommodate my size. The study room was too small. It felt like a closet. A closet filled with her scent. "I'm the subject, remember? You're supposed to be studying me."
"I am studying you," she said, finally lifting her eyes. They were violet in the dim light of the desk lamp, ringed with exhaustion but bright with intelligence. "I'm studying how a man can use the word 'dominate' fourteen times in a three-page paper about community service."
She slid the paper across the desk toward me. It looked like a crime scene. Red ink everywhere.
"Dante, you can't say that the Alpha's role in community service is to 'enforce compliance through superior strength.' That sounds like a dictatorship."
"It is a dictatorship," I argued, picking up the paper and scowling at her corrections. "If the Alpha doesn't enforce, the Pack eats itself. You want me to lie?"
"I want you to pass," she countered, leaning forward, her elbows on the desk. "Professor Halloway wants to hear about stewardship. About protection. Not about how you choke-slammed a sophomore for stealing a puck."
"He didn't steal a puck," I grumbled. "He stole my protein powder. That's a capital offense."
Arabella rolled her eyes. A week ago, she would have flinched at my tone. Now? She just sighed and reached for her water bottle.
It had been five days since the deal in the greenhouse. Five days of this. Every night, we met here. Every night, she tore my worldview apart with red ink, and I tore her worldview apart with brutal honesty about what it meant to be a shifter.
It was torturous. It was frustrating.
And it was the best part of my day.
I hated how much I looked forward to it. I hated that I spent practice watching the clock, waiting for 8:00 PM. I hated that I had started showering twice before meeting her, scrubbing the scent of the locker room off my skin because I didn't want to offend her delicate human nose.
"Okay, look," she said, pulling a fresh sheet of paper from her notebook. "Let's try a different angle. Let's talk about Restraint."
I snorted. "My favorite subject."
"I'm serious," she said, tapping the pen against her chin. "For my thesis, I need to understand the mechanism of control. How do you stop? When the instinct takes over, when the wolf wants to... to hunt... what pulls you back?"
The air in the room shifted. It grew heavier, thicker.
She wasn't asking about essays anymore. We both knew it.
I looked at her. Really looked at her. She was wearing another one of those shapeless sweaters—this one a soft blue that made her eyes pop. Her hair was pulled back in a messy bun, exposing the long, elegant line of her neck.
My pulse thudded a heavy rhythm in my ears. Thump. Thump. Thump.
"You want to know about control?" I asked, my voice dropping an octave.
She swallowed hard. I watched the movement of her throat. "Yes. For science."
"Right. Science." I tossed my paper aside and leaned forward, mirroring her posture. The desk was small. Our faces were only a foot apart. "Control isn't a switch, Arabella. It's a leash. And the wolf... he's a big dog. He pulls. Every second of every day, he pulls."
"What does he pull toward?" she whispered.
"Things he wants," I said, holding her gaze. "Food. Violence. Territory." I paused, letting my eyes drop to her lips again. "Mates."
Her breath hitched. The scent of her anxiety spiked—acrid and sharp—but it was mixed with something else. Something sweeter. Something wet.
Arousal.
She was turned on. The little librarian with her red pen and her moral high ground was wet for the monster.
"And how do you... hold the leash?" she asked, her voice trembling slightly.
"Pain," I said simply. "Discipline. I focus on the consequences. If I let go, people get hurt. If I let go... things break."
"Like me?"
The question hung between us, vibrating with vulnerability.
"Especially you," I murmured. "You're soft, Arabella. You bruise if the wind blows too hard. If I lost control with you... there wouldn't be anything left."
"I think you underestimate me," she said. A spark of defiance flared in her eyes. It was that same spark I’d seen in the greenhouse. "I'm not as breakable as you think."
"No?" I challenged. "You flinch when I move too fast. You shiver when the temperature drops one degree. You're human. It's biology, not an insult."
"It feels like an insult," she snapped. "Everyone treats me like I'm made of glass. My father. Halloway. You. Maybe I'm tired of being protected. Maybe I want to know what it feels like to be..."
She trailed off, realizing what she was saying. Her face went crimson.
"To be what?" I pressed, pushing the chair back and standing up.
I needed to move. The wolf was pacing. He liked her defiance. He liked that she was baring her throat to him, even metaphorically.
I walked around the small desk. The room was tiny. My presence filled it completely. I saw her track my movement, her eyes wide, her breathing speeding up.
I stopped behind her chair. I didn't touch her. I just stood there, letting my heat radiate toward her back. I leaned down, bringing my mouth close to her ear.
"To be what, Arabella?" I whispered.
She shivered. A visible tremor that ran through her shoulders.
"To be real," she breathed. "To feel something intense."
"Be careful," I warned, bracing my hands on the arms of her chair, trapping her. "You're asking for the storm to come inside the house."
She turned her head slightly, looking up at me over her shoulder. Her neck was exposed. The pale skin over her jugular vein pulsed.
Bite her. Mark her. Claim her.
"Maybe I like the storm," she challenged.
That was it. The leash snapped.
I didn't think. I moved.
I spun her chair around so she was facing me. Before she could gasp, I grabbed her by the waist and lifted her.
She let out a squeak of surprise as I deposited her onto the edge of the desk. She sat there, elevated, her legs dangling, her eyes wide and shocked.
I stepped between her thighs.
It was a fluid motion, practiced, instinctual. I parted her legs with my hips, stepping into the cradle of her body. The friction of her jeans against my thighs was electric.
"Dante," she gasped, her hands coming up to rest on my chest. She wasn't pushing me away. She was holding on.
"You want intense?" I growled, my voice rough, deeper than she’d ever heard it. "You want to know what the lack of control feels like?"
I gripped her chin between my thumb and forefinger, tilting her head back, forcing her to look at me. My eyes were glowing. I could feel the burn of the amber flooding my vision.
"Yes," she whispered. A plea.
I crashed my mouth down on hers.
It wasn't a gentle kiss. It wasn't the tentative, romantic first kiss of a hallmark movie. It was a raid.
I devoured her. I slanted my lips over hers, demanding entry, and when she gasped, I swept my tongue inside. She tasted like peppermint tea and innocence. It was intoxicating. It was addictive.
I groaned, a low rumble in my chest that vibrated against her breasts. I angled her head, deepening the kiss, taking everything she had.
Arabella didn't shrink away. She melted.
Her arms wound around my neck, her fingers tangling in the hair at the nape of my neck. She pulled me closer, her body arching into mine. She made a small, needy sound in the back of her throat—a whimper that went straight to my groin.
Good girl.
I broke the kiss, gasping for air, resting my forehead against hers. We were both panting. The air in the room was hot, heavy with the scent of sex and arousal.
"Dante," she breathed, her lips swollen, her eyes dazed.
"Don't speak," I commanded softly. "Just feel."
I ran my hands down her sides, tracing the curve of her waist, the flare of her hips. Even through the bulky sweater, I could feel the softness of her. She was so small. So yielding.
"You said you wanted to know," I murmured, moving my lips to her jawline, trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses down the sensitive column of her neck. "This is what it feels like. The hunger. It never stops. It just waits."
I bit her.
Not hard enough to break skin—not yet—but hard enough to leave a mark. A nip at the sensitive spot where her neck met her shoulder.
She cried out, her head falling back, exposing more of herself to me. Her hands gripped my shoulders, her nails digging in.
"Dante," she moaned.
"Does that hurt?" I asked against her skin, soothing the bite with my tongue.
"No," she gasped. "It feels... electric."
"Good girl."
I moved my hand. I slid it from her hip, down her thigh, to the inside of her knee. I dragged my palm up the inseam of her jeans.
She tensed, her thighs clamping instinctively on my hand.
"Relax," I ordered, my voice low and authoritative. "Open for me."
She hesitated for a split second. Then, with a shuddering breath, she relaxed her legs, allowing me access.
Trust. She trusted me. The realization hit me harder than the lust.
I moved my hand higher, pressing against the heavy seam of her jeans, right at the center of her.
She bucked. A sharp, involuntary jerk of her hips.
"You're wet," I noted, feeling the heat even through the denim. "So wet for me, Arabella."
"Dante, please," she whimpered, her face buried in my neck. "I don't... I've never..."
"I know," I soothed, kissing her temple, her ear, her cheek. "I know you haven't. I can smell it. You're untouched."
The knowledge that no other man had touched her, that no other scent was on her skin, made the wolf roar with possessive triumph.
"I'm not going to hurt you," I lied. I would hurt her eventually. I would ruin her. But tonight... tonight I would just show her the edge.
"Lift your hips," I commanded.
She obeyed instantly.
I reached for the button of her jeans. My fingers felt too big, too clumsy, but I managed to pop the button and unzip the fly. The sound of the zipper was loud in the silent room.
I slid my hand inside.
Her skin was scalding hot. She was wearing cotton panties—simple, white, practical. I hooked my finger under the elastic and found the slick, wet heat of her.
She let out a broken sob, her head falling back against my shoulder.
"Dante..."
"I've got you," I whispered. "I've got you, sweetheart. Just breathe."
I touched her.
She jolted as if I’d applied a live wire to her skin. Her hands grabbed my biceps, squeezing tight.
"Too much?" I asked, freezing.
"No," she panted. "Just... overwhelming."
"Focus on me," I said. "Look at me."
She opened her eyes. They were blown wide, purple and hazy.
"That's it," I praised. "Look at me while I touch you."
I began to move. Slow, rhythmic circles. I wasn't being gentle, but I wasn't being rough. I was being thorough. I watched her face as I learned the map of her pleasure. I watched her pupils dilate. I watched her lips part. I watched the flush spread across her chest.
"You feel so good," I growled, the words torn from me. "So tight. So responsive."
"I feel... pressure," she complained breathlessly, her hips rocking against my hand, seeking more. "I need..."
"What do you need?" I teased, changing the rhythm, adding a second finger.
"I don't know!" she cried out, frustrated.
"You need release," I told her. "You need to let go."
"I can't," she whispered. "I don't know how."
"I'll show you."
I picked up the pace. I used my thumb. I leaned in and crushed her mouth with mine, swallowing her cries, absorbing her sounds so the librarian wouldn't come running.
I kissed her deeply, my tongue mimicking the rhythm of my hand. I surrounded her. I was everywhere—her mouth, her scent, her body.
"Dante!" she muffled against my mouth. Her body went rigid. Her inner muscles clamped down on my fingers.
"Let go," I commanded against her lips. "Give it to me, Arabella. Be a good girl and come for me."
The praise was the key.
She shattered.
It was violent. Her body convulsed, her back arching off the desk. She cried out into my mouth, a high, keen sound of pure release. I felt every spasm, every pulse of her climax washing over my hand.
I held her through it, anchoring her, keeping her from falling off the desk, keeping her from flying apart.
When the tremors finally subsided, she slumped against me, boneless. Her head rested on my shoulder, her breath coming in ragged gasps.
I stayed there, my hand still resting intimately against her, my forehead pressed to her hair. My own heart was hammering like a piston engine. My erection was painful, straining against my pants, demanding attention.
But I didn't move.
I couldn't.
Because as she lay there, trembling in my arms, smelling of sex and vanilla and me, I realized the terrifying truth.
I hadn't just crossed a line. I had burned the bridge.
"Dante?" she whispered after a long moment, her voice wrecked.
"Yeah?" My voice was a croak.
"Is that... is that what the lack of control feels like?"
I closed my eyes, fighting the urge to breed her right there on the study desk.
"No, Arabella," I said grimly, slowly withdrawing my hand and pulling her jeans back together. I buttoned them with shaking hands. "That was restraint."
She looked up at me, shocked. "That was restraint?"
"Yes," I said, stepping back, putting distance between us before I did something unforgivable. "Because if I had lost control... you wouldn't be walking out of here tonight."
I grabbed my bag, swinging it over my shoulder. I needed ice. I needed a cold shower. I needed to run until my legs gave out.
"Finish your paper," I told her, my voice harsh to cover the desperation. "You understand grit now."
I walked out of the study room, leaving her sitting on the desk, looking thoroughly ruined.
And God help me, I had never been more terrified.
Because now that I had tasted her... I knew I was never going to be able to stop.