Chapter 2
Riley
The dream always ended the same way.
I was running through a forest that didn’t exist, the trees towering like ancient sentinels of black bark and silver needles.
The ground was soft, covered in snow that didn’t melt when it touched my skin.
I was cold, so cold that my bones felt like brittle glass, vibrating with the threat of shattering.
But then, the heat came.
It wasn’t the sun. It was a shadow. A massive, predatory shape tearing through the underbrush behind me.
I could hear the snap of twigs, the heavy, wet panting of a beast, and the low rumble of a growl that vibrated in the marrow of my spine.
I ran until my lungs burned, until my legs gave out, and when I fell, I didn’t hit the snow.
I hit him.
I woke up gasping, my sheets tangled around my legs like a trap.
My heart was hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs—thump-thump-thump—that echoed the beat of the dream.
I sat up, pushing the hair out of my face, my skin slick with a cold sweat that had nothing to do with the temperature of my dorm room and everything to do with the lingering phantom sensation of hot, calloused hands on my waist.
"Stupid," I whispered to the empty room. "Stupid, stupid, stupid."
I pressed the heels of my hands into my eyes until stars exploded behind my eyelids, trying to scrub the image of Spike Thorne from my brain.
It had been twelve hours since the incident in the tunnel. Twelve hours since the Butcher of Ironclad Mountain University had pinned me with a look that felt like a physical assault and told me I smelled like ruin.
I swung my legs out of bed, my bare feet hitting the cold laminate floor.
My room in the graduate dorms was supposed to be my sanctuary.
It was small, sterile, and relentlessly organized.
My desk was a grid of textbooks, highlighters, and color-coded sticky notes.
My bookshelf was arranged by subject—Behavioral Psychology, Kinesiology, Shifter Anatomy.
Everything had a place. Everything had a label.
My life was a series of controlled variables. I was a scientist. I was a researcher. I observed the chaos of the Shifter world from behind the safety of double-blind studies and statistical regressions. I didn’t participate. I didn’t engage.
And I certainly didn’t have wet dreams about the defensive enforcer who looked at me like I was a snack he was debating whether to eat or destroy.
I shuffled to the small kitchenette, my oversized t-shirt hanging to my knees. I needed coffee. Black. Bitter enough to burn the taste of ozone and woodsmoke out of my memory.
As the coffee maker gurgled, I leaned against the counter and stared out the window. The campus of IMU was draped in its perpetual winter shroud. The Gothic spires of the academic buildings poked through the gray mist like jagged teeth. From here, it looked peaceful. But I knew better.
Down there, in the quad, the hierarchy was already in motion.
The Alphas were claiming their tables in the cafeteria.
The Betas were scrambling for scraps. And people like me—the Latents, the humans, the "diversity admissions"—were hugging the walls, trying to make it to class without drawing attention.
I was safe here. I was invisible.
You smell like ruin.
The memory of his voice made my hands shake as I reached for my mug.
It hadn’t been a compliment. It had been an accusation.
In the Shifter world, smelling "good" to an Alpha wasn't a romance novel trope; it was a death sentence.
It meant biology was trying to override logic.
It meant his wolf wanted to mount, knot, and claim, regardless of whether my human body could survive the trauma.
I was five-foot-three. I bruised if I bumped into a table. Spike Thorne was six-foot-five of genetically enhanced aggression. If he lost control with me...
I squeezed my eyes shut, forcing the clinical part of my brain to take over. Diagnosis: Acute stress reaction. Trigger: Perceived threat from apex predator. Physiological response: Elevated cortisol, irrational arousal due to fear-bonding instincts. Solution: Avoidance.
I just had to stay away from him. It was a big campus. I worked in the equipment room, he lived in the Hive. Our paths didn't need to cross. I would go to class, I would do my job, and I would graduate and move somewhere warm and boring where the men didn’t turn into wolves during the full moon.
My phone buzzed on the counter, vibrating against the formica.
Maya: Coffee? I’m at The Grind. I saw you leave the game early last night. Need debrief.
I sighed. Maya was human, completely human, which meant she had zero survival instincts. She thought the Shifters were "exotic." She thought the danger was sexy. She didn't know what it sounded like when a human bone snapped under a Shifter's grip.
I typed back: Can’t. Meeting with Dept Head. Academic stuff. Later.
It wasn't a lie. I did have a meeting. Dr. Aris, the head of the Sports Psychology department, had summoned me via email at 6:00 AM. Usually, that meant good news—a grant approval or a new research opportunity.
I downed the coffee, ignoring the burn, and went to get dressed.
This was the most important part of my day. The Armor.
I chose a pair of jeans that were two sizes too big, cinching them with a belt so they bunched at the waist, hiding the curve of my hips.
I pulled on a thick, shapeless wool sweater that swallowed my torso and came down to my mid-thighs.
I twisted my unruly curls into a bun so tight it pulled at my temples, securing it with three heavy clips.
Finally, the glasses. The lenses were non-prescription glass, but the frames were thick, black, and severe.
They created a barrier. They said: I am not a woman. I am a brain in a jar. Move along.
I looked in the mirror. I looked drab. I looked gray. I looked like prey that had learned how to play dead.
"Perfect," I whispered.
The office of Dr. Aris was located in the oldest building on campus, a stone fortress that smelled of lemon polish and old money.
Dr. Aris was a Beta wolf, efficient and sharp-eyed, with graying hair and a demeanor that suggested he tolerated students rather than enjoyed them. He was sitting behind his mahogany desk, tapping a silver pen against a file folder.
"Miss Bennett," he said without looking up as I entered. "Sit."
I sat. The leather chair groaned under me. I pulled my sweater sleeves down over my hands, clutching my bag in my lap.
"I’ve been reviewing your thesis proposal," he said, finally looking at me. His eyes were a pale, watery blue. " 'The Psychological Impact of Pack Hierarchy on Individual Performance in High-Stress Athletic Environments.' It’s... ambitious."
"Thank you, sir," I said, my voice steady. "I believe the correlation between Alpha dominance and unforced errors in team sports is overlooked."
"It’s good theory," Aris agreed. "But theory is useless without application. You need field hours, Riley. You need to get your hands dirty. You need to prove you can handle the subjects you’re writing about."
A pit formed in my stomach. "I work with the team, sir. I do the stats."
"Stats are numbers. I’m talking about psychology. Minds." He opened the folder and slid a piece of paper across the desk toward me.
It was an academic probation form.
"The Athletic Department is in a bind," Aris said, leaning back.
"We have a star player. A critical asset for the Frozen Four tournament. But his GPA has dropped below the eligibility threshold. If he doesn't pass his midterms next week, he’s benched. If he’s benched, the Alumni stop donating.
If the Alumni stop donating, your scholarship fund dries up. "
The threat was subtle, but it was there. I needed that scholarship. My parents were teachers in Ohio; they couldn't afford IMU tuition without help.
"You want me to tutor someone?" I asked, relief washing over me. "I can do that. I’ve tutored Calculus and English before. Who is it? The freshman goalie? Or maybe Jenkins?"
Aris shook his head slowly. "No. It’s not a freshman.
It’s a senior. And it’s not just about subject matter, Riley.
It’s about focus. This player is... volatile.
He resists authority. He needs someone who understands the Shifter mindset but isn't part of the pack hierarchy.
Someone who can't be challenged for dominance. "
My blood ran cold. The temperature in the room seemed to drop ten degrees.
"No," I whispered. "Please don't say—"
"Spike Thorne," Aris said, the name landing on the desk like a dead bird. "He’s failing History of Shifter Warfare and Ethics. Ironically."
"Sir," I said, gripping the arms of the chair. "With all due respect, Thorne is... he’s unteachable. He barely speaks. He’s aggressive. It’s dangerous for a Latent to be in a closed room with an Alpha of his temperament, especially during the season."
"He has been warned," Aris said dismissively. "He knows that if he touches a hair on your head, he’s off the team and expulsion hearings begin immediately. He wants to play hockey, Riley. It’s the only thing he cares about. He will behave."
He will behave.
The words were laughable. You didn't tell a hurricane to behave. You didn't ask a forest fire to be polite.
"I can't," I said, my voice trembling. "Please, Dr. Aris. Anyone else."
Aris looked at me, his expression hardening. "This is your assignment, Miss Bennett. It counts for twenty percent of your semester grade, and it secures your funding. You meet him in the Library, third floor, private study room B. Every Tuesday and Thursday at 4:00 PM. Starting today."
He looked at his watch.
"You have two hours to prepare. Dismissed."
I spent the next hour in a bathroom stall on the second floor of the Student Union, hyperventilating.
Deep breaths. In for four, hold for four, out for four.
This was a disaster. This was a catastrophe.