Chapter 7
Dante
The mirror in my bathroom at the Hive was cracked in the corner, a souvenir from when Jax had tried to shift indoors during his sophomore year and put an elbow through the glass. It distorted my reflection, splitting my face into two jagged halves.
Appropriate.
On one side, I was Dante Moretti, senior captain, future NHL center, and a man who supposedly had his life under rigid, military-grade control. On the other side, I was something ancient and starving, a creature that paced behind my ribs and howled at the moon.
I leaned in, running the razor carefully along my jawline. I hated shaving. My stubble grew back with supernatural speed—usually by noon—but tonight, I wanted to be clean. I didn't want to scratch her skin.
Her skin.
The thought alone made my hand slip. A tiny bead of blood welled up on my chin.
"Dammit," I hissed, grabbing a towel.
I was getting ready for a date.
Technically, it wasn't a date. It was "Field Research Session Four: Dietary Habits and Social Dynamics of the Pack.
" That was what Arabella had written in her color-coded planner.
We were going to The Ridge, a dive bar and steakhouse on the edge of town that catered exclusively to shifters and locals who knew not to ask why the steaks were served raw.
But if it was just research, why was I wearing my good black button-down? Why had I spent twenty minutes cleaning the passenger side of my truck, throwing away empty Gatorade bottles and old hockey tape? Why was my heart hammering a rhythm that felt suspiciously like anxiety?
Because she’s yours, the wolf purred. Tonight, we feed her. Tonight, we show her off.
"She's not ours," I muttered to the empty bathroom, splashing cold water on my face. "She's a liability. She's a human. She's a temporary arrangement."
I was lying to myself. I knew it. The wolf knew it. Even the crack in the mirror seemed to be rolling its eyes at me.
Since the night on the ice—since she had touched my scar and told me I wasn't my father—the dynamic had shifted.
The wall I had built between us hadn't just crumbled; it had evaporated.
We were in a bubble now. A dangerous, intoxicating bubble where I forgot that I was poison and she forgot she was fragile.
I grabbed my keys and my leather jacket. I checked my phone.
Arabella: I’m outside. Elena kicked me out of the dorm because I was "overthinking my outfit."
I smiled. A real one. It felt foreign on my face, stretching muscles that were used to scowling.
"Coming," I texted back.
Arabella was waiting by the curb outside the Honors Dorm.
The snowbanks were piled high on either side of the road, glowing orange under the streetlights. It was freezing—classic Washington winter bite—but she looked... warm.
She was wearing jeans that actually fit her, hugging the curve of her hips instead of hiding them, and a thick, cream-colored coat with a faux-fur hood that framed her face like a halo. Her cheeks were flushed pink from the cold.
When she saw my truck—a matte black beast of a vehicle with a lift kit and tires meant for crushing obstacles—her face lit up.
I pulled up and leaned across the center console to push the passenger door open.
She climbed in, bringing a gust of vanilla and cold air with her.
"Hey," she breathed, pulling the door shut and rubbing her gloved hands together.
"Hey," I said. My voice was low, intimate. The cab of the truck was small, enclosing us in a private world of leather and heat.
I didn't ask. I just reached out and cranked the heater up to full blast. Then, I reached across the console and hit the button for her heated seat.
"Oh, God," she groaned, sinking back into the leather as the warmth hit her. "You are my favorite person. Better than Santa Claus."
"Santa Claus doesn't drive a Ford F-250," I grunted, putting the truck in gear. "And he definitely doesn't eat where we're going."
"Is it scary?" she asked, looking over at me. Her eyes scanned my profile, lingering on my freshly shaved jaw. I felt her gaze like a physical touch.
"It's loud," I said, merging onto the main road. "It smells like grease and testosterone. But the ribeyes are the size of your head."
"Perfect," she said. "I skipped lunch. Nervous energy."
"About the research?"
"About the researcher," she admitted softly.
I glanced at her. She was biting her lip.
"Don't do that," I warned, my hand tightening on the gear shift.
"Do what?"
"Bite your lip. Unless you want me to drive off the road."
She laughed, a bright, bubbly sound that loosened the knot in my chest. "Dante Moretti, was that a flirtation?"
"It was a safety warning," I deadpanned. But I reached out, my hand finding her knee instinctively. I gave it a squeeze, my thumb rubbing against the denim of her jeans. "You look good, Ara. Really good."
She covered my hand with hers, her fingers lacing through mine. She didn't push me away. She held on.
"You clean up okay too, Wolf Boy," she teased. "I see you managed to find a shirt with buttons."
"I have buttons," I defended. "I just usually choose efficiency."
"Hoodies are efficient for hiding," she countered gently. "Tonight, you're not hiding."
"No," I agreed, looking at our joined hands on the console. "Tonight, I'm just hungry."
The Ridge was exactly as I described it: a roadhouse built from rough-hewn logs, situated on a bluff overlooking the dark expanse of the treeline. The parking lot was full of pickup trucks and motorcycles, despite the snow.
When we walked in, the noise hit us like a wall. Country rock blared from the jukebox. The air was thick with the scent of charred meat, stale beer, and the overwhelming musk of fifty different shifters.
The moment we stepped through the door, the noise level dropped.
Heads turned. Conversations paused.
A human walking into The Ridge was rare. A human walking in with the Alpha of the Blackwood Pack was a statement.
I felt Arabella stiffen beside me. She moved closer, her shoulder pressing against my bicep.
"Stay close," I murmured, my hand sliding to the small of her back. I spread my fingers wide, staking a claim that anyone with eyes—or a nose—could read.
Mine. Do not touch.
I guided her through the maze of tables. I felt the gazes of the others sliding over us. Some were curious. Some were hostile.
"Moretti!"
A booming voice came from the bar. It was Silas, a massive Kodiak Bear shifter who worked as a bouncer in town. He was sitting with two other Bears.
"Who's the snack?" Silas leered, gesturing to Arabella with a greasy chicken wing.
The air around me instantly superheated. A low growl started in my chest, vibrating against Arabella’s back.
"Careful, Silas," I said, my voice cutting through the music. "She's not a snack. She's a guest."
Silas laughed, wiping his mouth. "Guest? She smells like dessert, Cap. Vanilla cream. Doesn't she know where she is?"
I stopped. I turned fully toward him. I felt my eyes shift, the human brown bleaching out to glowing amber.
"She is with me," I said. The Alpha command laced my voice, heavy and undeniable. "She is under my protection. If you look at her again, I will remove your eyes. If you speak to her again, I will remove your tongue."
The bar went silent.
Silas’s grin vanished. He looked at me, then at the pure, lethal intent in my posture. Bear shifters were strong, but Wolves were faster, and I was an Apex Alpha. He knew he wouldn't win.
"Just joking, Cap," Silas mumbled, turning back to his beer. "Chill out."
I didn't chill out. I kept my eyes on him for three more seconds, letting the threat hang in the air, before guiding Arabella toward a booth in the back corner.
We slid in. I sat on the outside, blocking her from the room.
"I'm sorry," I muttered, picking up a menu. "Silas is an idiot."
Arabella wasn't shaking. She wasn't crying. She was... smiling?
"That was impressive," she whispered, leaning across the table.
"It was barbaric," I corrected. "I shouldn't have to threaten people to get dinner."
"No," she agreed. "But the way you stood? The way your voice changed? It was... very 'Alpha in charge.' My thesis is going to be amazing."
I stared at her. "You're taking notes? Mentally?"
"Always," she tapped her temple. "Besides, I wasn't scared. I knew you wouldn't let him near me."
"I wouldn't," I vowed darkly.
"I know." She reached across the table and stole a french fry from the basket the waitress had just dropped off. "So, feed me, Dante. What do wolves eat?"
"Everything," I said, watching her chew. "But mostly protein. Shifters have a metabolism that runs about four times faster than a human's. We burn calories just sitting still. If I don't eat six thousand calories a day, I start to lose muscle mass."
"Six thousand?" Her eyes widened. "That's three Thanksgiving dinners."
"Basically," I grinned. "It's expensive being this big."
We ordered. I got the porterhouse (rare). She got a burger (medium).
When the food came, the rest of the room faded away. It was just us. The "Field Research" pretense dissolved into something that felt dangerously like a real date.
We talked. Not about the Pack, or the grades, or the threats.
"So, if you weren't playing hockey," she asked, dipping a fry in milkshake (an abomination I chose to ignore), "what would you do? Realistically?"
"Architecture," I said.
She paused. "Really?"
"Yeah. I like... structure. I like building things that last. Things that protect people from the elements. A house is a shell, right? It keeps the chaos out."
"That makes so much sense," she said softly. "You want to build strong walls."
"What about you?" I turned the tables. "If you weren't the Liaison's daughter? If you weren't trying to prove you're tough enough for this world?"
She looked down at her burger. "I'd own a bakery," she admitted, her voice shy. "Somewhere quiet. Where it smells like yeast and cinnamon all day. I love kneading dough. It's... tactile. You have to use your hands."
"You have good hands," I said, my gaze dropping to her fingers. "Gentle. But strong."