Chapter 6
Arabella
I woke up feeling like I had been dismantled and put back together in the wrong order.
The morning light filtering through my dorm window wasn't harsh today; it was exposing. It felt like a spotlight trained directly on my bedsheets, illuminating the tangled mess of my limbs and the lingering, phantom sensation of heavy hands on my skin.
I lay still, staring at the textured plaster of the ceiling, afraid to move.
If I moved, the soreness between my legs would remind me that it wasn't a dream.
If I moved, the scent of pine and smoke—which had somehow embedded itself into my favorite blue sweater, currently wadded up on the floor—would hit me again.
Good girl.
The memory of his voice, rough and guttural, whispered through my mind, sending a fresh wave of heat flooding through my veins. It wasn't just a memory; it was a physical echo. My stomach flipped. My toes curled into the mattress.
I pulled the pillow over my face and let out a muffled, frustrated scream.
I was Arabella Thorne. I was a scholar. I was the daughter of the Human Liaison. I was the girl who organized her bookshelf by the Dewey Decimal System and had never even held hands with a boy for longer than ten seconds without panicking about germs or awkwardness.
And last night, I had unraveled on a library desk under the hands of the most dangerous predator on campus.
I was in so much trouble.
I sat up, pushing my hair out of my face.
My hands were shaking. Not from fear, but from a terrifying excess of energy.
I felt... alive. That was the only word for it.
For twenty-one years, I had felt like a blurred photograph—faded, static, existing in the background.
Today, everything was sharp. The colors of my room were brighter.
The sound of the radiator hissing in the corner was louder.
I was vibrating.
My phone buzzed on the nightstand, vibrating against the wood.
Dad (FaceTime)
The adrenaline spike that hit me was instant and icy.
I scrambled to grab the phone, my heart leaping into my throat. I cleared my throat, smoothed my hair, and tried to arrange my face into an expression of studious innocence. I accepted the call.
"Hi, Dad," I said, my voice coming out an octave higher than usual.
My father’s face filled the screen. Richard Thorne was a handsome man in a clinical, sterile way. perfectly coiffed grey hair, rimless glasses, and a suit that cost more than my tuition. He was sitting in his office in Seattle, looking concerned.
"Arabella," he said, his eyes scanning my pixelated face. "You look flushed. Do you have a fever?"
"No," I lied quickly, touching my burning cheeks. "Just... the heating in the dorms. It’s erratic."
"I can call Dean Vance," he offered immediately, reaching for a pen. "Have maintenance look at it. You know your immune system can't handle extreme temperature fluctuations."
"No!" I blurted out. "I mean, no, it's fine, Dad. Really. I turned the radiator down. I'm okay."
He paused, studying me. "You seem... agitated. Is everything alright with your classes? How is the thesis coming?"
I felt a bead of sweat roll down my spine. The thesis. The reason I was currently shadowing a wolf. The reason I had been in that library.
"It's going well," I said, picking at a loose thread on my quilt. "I've... I found a primary source. A volunteer. Someone from the hockey team agreed to let me interview him."
My father’s expression hardened instantly. The benevolent dad vanished, replaced by the Liaison.
"Who?" he demanded. "Which one?"
"Um, the Captain," I said, keeping it vague. "Dante Moretti."
My father went still. "Moretti." He said the name like it was a disease. "Arabella, absolutely not. That boy is unstable. His lineage is... problematic. I’ve seen his file. His aggression markers are off the charts."
"He's been very polite," I defended, the lie tasting like ash. Polite. Was that what we called it when he made me scream his name?
"Polite is a mask," my father snapped. "Wolves are masters of mimicry. They act civilized until the instinct hits, and then they are just animals. You are to keep a ten-foot distance at all times. Do you understand? No closed doors. No private meetings."
I looked at the blue sweater on the floor. The symbol of my corruption.
"I understand," I whispered. "Ten feet."
"Good," he sighed, relaxing slightly. "I'm just protecting you, honey. You don't know what they're capable of."
I know exactly what they're capable of, I thought, a shiver running through me. And that's the problem. I liked it.
We said our goodbyes, and I ended the call. I sat there for a long time, staring at the black screen of my phone. The guilt was heavy, sitting in my stomach like a stone. But beneath the guilt was something stronger.
Rebellion.
The campus center was a hive of activity around noon. Students rushed between classes, balancing trays of food and stacks of books. The air smelled of burnt coffee and wet wool.
I walked through the chaos, hugging my books to my chest. I felt like I was wearing a neon sign that flashed I KNOW SECRETS.
Every time I passed a shifter student—a group of Lynx girls laughing by the fountain, a Bear guy carrying two pizzas—I flinched. Could they smell it on me? Could they smell him?
"Watch out!"
I side-stepped just in time to avoid colliding with a guy on a skateboard. I stumbled, my shoulder brushing against a hard, immovable object.
A chest.
I looked up.
Time stopped. The noise of the cafeteria—the clattering silverware, the chatter, the music—faded into a dull roar.
Dante stood there.
He was surrounded by his team. Jax, Grant, and a few others formed a wall of muscle and varsity jackets around him. But Dante... Dante was looking at me.
He looked wrecked.
Dark circles bruised the skin under his eyes. His jaw was clenched so tight a muscle feathered visibly in his cheek. He was wearing a black hoodie with the hood down, his hair messy as if he’d been running his hands through it all morning.
And his eyes.
Those amber eyes burned. They locked onto mine with a intensity that felt physical, like a hand grabbing the back of my neck.
He didn't smile. He didn't wave. He just stared.
My breath hitched. I could feel the heat radiating off him, even from two feet away. I could remember the texture of his skin, the roughness of his callouses, the taste of his mouth.
My body reacted instantly. My nipples tightened painfully against my bra. My pulse hammered in my throat.
Don't look at me like that, I begged silently. Everyone will see.
Jax, standing next to Dante, looked between us. His eyebrows shot up. He sniffed the air, confused.
"Ara?" Jax said, breaking the spell. "You okay? You look like you've seen a ghost."
"I'm fine," I squeaked. I took a step back, needing distance. The magnetic pull toward Dante was terrifying. I wanted to lean into him. I wanted to bury my face in his hoodie and breathe him in. "Just... clumsy. Sorry."
I looked at Dante one last time.
His gaze dropped to my mouth. He swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing. It was a microscopic movement, but it told me everything.
He was remembering it too. He was replaying the library just as vividly as I was.
"Watch where you're going, Thorne," Dante said. His voice was flat, cold, devoid of emotion.
It was a slap in the face.
The "Good Girl" praise was gone. The intimacy was gone. The wall was back up, higher and thicker than before.
"Right," I whispered, stung. "Sorry, Captain."
I turned and fled. I didn't look back, but I could feel his eyes burning a hole between my shoulder blades until I turned the corner.
I didn't see him for the rest of the day.
I tried to focus. I really did. I went to my Folklore lecture, but I didn't take a single note. I went to the library—the main one, not our study room—and tried to read about Pack Law, but the words swam on the page.
If the Alpha doesn't enforce, the Pack eats itself.
I kept thinking about his essay. About his worldview. He saw himself as a cage. He saw his instincts as something to be chained, beaten into submission.
Pain. Discipline.
Why?
Why was he so terrified of his own nature? Most shifters were proud. Arrogant, even. They reveled in their strength. Dante treated his wolf like a terminal illness.
I needed to know. The deal was for the truth. I intended to collect.
By 9:00 PM, the campus was quiet. The snow had started falling again, a light dusting that muted the world.
I knew where he would be.
The Wolves' Den.
I walked to the arena, using the key card Dean Vance had given me. The hallways were empty, the lights dimmed to the security setting. I walked past the locker rooms, past the archives, toward the rink.
I heard him before I saw him.
Schk. Schk. CRACK.
The sound of skates carving ice. The explosive sound of a puck hitting the boards.
I walked up the tunnel and stood by the glass.
The arena was dark, lit only by a single bank of floodlights over center ice. It cast long, sharp shadows across the white surface.
Dante was out there alone.
He wasn't practicing drills. He was punishing himself.
He was doing suicides—sprinting from line to line, stopping hard, turning, sprinting back. He was moving at a speed that blurred the eye, a dark comet of rage and power. He wasn't pacing himself. He was going full tilt, pushing his body past the point of endurance.
He was shirtless.
Sweat glistened on his back, highlighting the terrifying expanse of muscle. He looked like a sculpture brought to life and tormented.
He hit the far boards, turned, and sprinted toward me. He didn't see me in the shadows. His face was a mask of agony. His teeth were bared. He was growling—a low, continuous sound that echoed in the empty arena.
He reached the blue line and suddenly, his leg gave out.
His left leg. The bad knee.
He went down hard.
He didn't slide. He crashed. He hit the ice shoulder-first, tumbling, his stick skittering away.
He lay there, face down on the ice, his chest heaving.
"Dante!"
I didn't think. I ran.