Chapter 5
Faye
If someone had told me two weeks ago that my Friday nights would consist of being locked in a six-by-six glass box with a brooding, two-hundred-and-thirty-pound werewolf discussing the nuances of utilitarianism, I would have recommended they seek psychiatric help.
But here I was.
The study room—affectionately dubbed "The Penalty Box"—smelled like dry-erase markers, stale coffee, and the overwhelming, forest-after-a-storm scent of Oakley Thorne.
It had been ten days since The Deal was struck. Ten days of meeting every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Ten days of me trying to teach moral philosophy to a man whose entire biological imperative was kill or be killed.
And ten days of me slowly, systematically losing my mind.
"You're not listening," I said, tapping the end of my pen against the open textbook.
Oakley didn't look up from the notebook where he was aggressively sketching something that looked suspiciously like a decapitated stick figure.
He was sprawled in the plastic chair, his long legs stretched out under the table, effectively trapping mine against the wall.
He took up so much space. It was a constant issue.
His shoulders were too broad for the furniture; his energy was too volatile for the room.
"I am listening," he rumbled, his voice low and vibrating with boredom. "Aristotle. Virtue Ethics. The Golden Mean. Courage is the midpoint between cowardice and recklessness. I got it."
"Then why are you drawing a murder scene instead of outlining your essay?"
He finally looked up. His gold eyes were hooded, heavy with a mixture of exhaustion and a heat that I had been trying desperately to ignore.
"Because Aristotle is boring, Mouse," he said, dropping the pencil. "And I'm hungry."
He reached into his bag and pulled out a protein bar, ripping the wrapper open with his teeth. The sound—the sharp tear of foil—sent a bizarre jolt straight to my groin. I shifted in my seat, crossing my legs.
This was the problem. The "New Normal," as I tried to call it, was a minefield.
We had fallen into a routine, yes. He showed up on time. He didn't growl at me (mostly). He actually did the reading. But underneath the academic veneer, there was a current of tension so strong it felt like we were sitting in a bathtub with a toaster.
He watched me. Constantly.
When I was reading, I could feel his gaze tracing my hairline, my neck, the shape of my mouth. When I reached for a book, his eyes followed my hand. It wasn't the predatory glare from the first week. It was heavier. Warmer. Like he was memorizing me.
And I was doing the same to him.
I knew that he tapped his left foot when he was confused. I knew that he rubbed the scar on his eyebrow when he was thinking. I knew that he drank his coffee black and scalding hot, wincing slightly with the first sip but drinking it anyway, as if he enjoyed the pain.
"Eat," he said, tossing a second protein bar at me. It landed on my open book with a thud.
I blinked. "I'm not hungry."
"You skipped dinner," he stated. "I heard your stomach growl five minutes ago. It's distracting. Eat."
"My stomach did not growl."
"I have hearing that can pick up a mouse heartbeat under three feet of snow," he deadpanned. "Your stomach growled. Eat the bar, Faye."
I picked up the bar. Chocolate peanut butter. My favorite. I hadn't told him that.
"How did you know I like this kind?"
He shrugged, leaning back in his chair and clasping his hands behind his head, causing his grey t-shirt to strain across his chest. "I saw you buying one at the vending machine last week. I pay attention."
I pay attention.
The words hung in the air, heavy and significant.
"Thank you," I murmured, unwrapping it.
"Don't thank me for feeding you," he grunted. "It's basic maintenance. If you pass out from hypoglycemia, I have to carry you to the hospital. And I don't feel like dealing with the paperwork."
"Right," I rolled my eyes, taking a bite. "Purely pragmatic. Just like a true utilitarian."
"See? I'm learning." A corner of his mouth quirked up.
That almost-smile. It was a weapon of mass destruction. It transformed his harsh, scarred face into something devastatingly handsome. It made me want to do stupid, reckless things.
"Okay," I said, swallowing the chocolate and trying to regain control of the session. "Let's pivot. If you hate Aristotle, let's talk about the concept of 'Vice' versus 'Virtue'. In your own words."
Oakley chewed slowly, his eyes locking onto mine. "Vice is easy. Vice is giving in. Letting the instincts drive. Gluttony. Wrath. Lust."
He said the last word with a particular weight, letting it roll off his tongue like dark honey.
"And Virtue?" I squeaked, my voice betraying me.
"Virtue is control," he said, his gaze dropping to my lips. "Virtue is staring at something you want—something you are starving for—and not taking it because the rules say you can't."
The air in the room suddenly felt very thin.
"That's... that's a good definition," I managed, feeling a flush creep up my neck. "Very... disciplined."
"I'm all about discipline, remember?" He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. We were inches apart now. "What about you, Faye? What's your vice?"
"I don't have one," I said quickly. Too quickly.
He laughed softly, a low rumble that vibrated the table. "Bullshit. Everyone has a vice. Even the Good Girl."
"I'm not a 'Good Girl'," I protested, hating the nickname and loving it in equal measure.
"You are," he countered. "You color inside the lines. You show up early. You organize your notes with highlighters. You probably fold your underwear."
I gasped. "I do not!" (I did).
"You're terrified of breaking the rules," he continued, his voice dropping to a whisper. "But I smell it on you, Mouse. You're curious. You wonder what it's like to step off the path."
"We are supposed to be talking about Ethics," I whispered, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird.
"We are," he said. "We're talking about the ethics of desire. Is it wrong to want something you can't have? Or is the sin in the denial?"
He reached out. His hand, large and scarred and warm, moved across the table. He didn't grab me. He just laid his hand next to mine, pinky finger brushing against pinky finger.
The contact was microscopic, but it felt like a lightning strike.
I stared at our hands. His skin was tanned, mine was pale. His fingers were thick and rough, mine were slender. The contrast was stark. Predator and prey.
"Oakley," I breathed. A warning? A plea? I didn't know.
"Tell me to stop," he murmured. "Give me a command, Faye. Tell me to pull back. Tell me to focus on the book."
I looked up at him. His eyes were burning. The gold was swirling, swallowing the pupil. He was giving me the power. He was letting me choose.
But I was tired of choosing the safe option. I was tired of being invisible.
"I don't want to talk about the book," I whispered.
Something snapped in his face. The restraint he wore like a straightjacket fractured.
"Then what do you want to talk about?" he asked, his voice rough.
"I want to know..." I hesitated, licking my lips. His eyes tracked the movement like a hawk. "I want to know why you look at me like you're hungry."
"Because I am," he growled.
He moved so fast I didn't even process it.
One second he was across the table. The next, he was standing, kicking his chair back. He rounded the table in a blur of motion.
I started to stand up, but he was already there. He gripped my waist, his hands large enough to almost span it, and lifted me.
"Oakley!" I gasped.
He didn't stop. He hoisted me up and set me down on the edge of the sturdy library table, spreading my knees with his thighs so he could step between them.
We were eye to eye now.
The position was compromising. Intimate. Dangerous. The glass walls of the study room had blinds, but they were only half-drawn. Anyone walking by could see shadows. But at this hour, the library was nearly empty.
"Is this better?" he asked, his hands resting on my hips, thumbs rubbing circles into the denim of my jeans. The heat of his palms seeped through the fabric, branding me.
"We... we can't do this here," I stammered, gripping his biceps to steady myself. His arms were rock hard, muscles bunched under the cotton of his shirt.
"Do what?" he challenged, leaning in until his nose brushed mine. "I'm just standing here. Talking to my tutor."
"You're between my legs," I pointed out, my breath coming in short pants.
"It's a small room," he murmured. "Limited space."
"You're lying."
"I am," he admitted. He nuzzled his face into the crook of my neck, inhaling deeply. "God, you smell good. Like vanilla and trouble. It’s been driving me insane for two hours. I’ve been trying to listen to you talk about moral imperatives, and all I can think about is what you would sound like if I bit you. "
My knees went weak. If I hadn't been sitting on the table, I would have collapsed.
"Oakley," I whimpered.
"Shh," he soothed, pulling back to look at me.
His expression was intense, focused. "You challenged me, Faye. You asked why I look at you. I look at you because you’re the only thing in this world that makes the noise stop.
When I'm near you, the Wolf settles. He just wants to be close. He wants to... keep."
"Keep?"
"Keep," he confirmed. "Protect. Own. Whatever you want to call it."
"I'm not a thing to be owned."
"No," he agreed, one hand moving up from my hip to slide along my ribs, stopping just under the swell of my breast. My breath hitched. "You're not a thing. You're a force of nature. And I think... I think you want this just as much as I do."
He wasn't asking anymore. He was stating facts.
He leaned in and captured my mouth.
It wasn't a tentative first kiss. There was no hesitation, no testing the waters. It was a collision.
He kissed me like he was starving and I was the last meal on earth. His lips were hot, firm, and demanding. He groaned against my mouth, a low, animalistic sound that vibrated through my entire body.