Chapter 3
Spike
The weight room at the Ironclad Athletic Center was supposed to be my church. It was the one place on campus where the noise in my head usually went quiet, drowned out by the clang of iron plates and the tearing sensation of muscle fibers breaking down to be rebuilt stronger.
Tonight, the church was failing me.
I had four hundred pounds on the bar for a bench press—a warm-up for an Alpha, but enough to make a human’s chest collapse—and all I could think about was the smell of vanilla and old paper.
Down. The bar lowered, the steel groaning.
Up. My triceps fired, locking out with a violence that shook the bench.
One.
She had stared me down. A little human Latent with wrists I could snap like dry twigs had looked me in the eye and told me no.
Two.
I could still feel the phantom warmth of her knee brushing mine under that damn library table. It was a ghost sensation, itching under my skin, irritating the Wolf.
Three.
Why did she smell like that? It was biological warfare. It was a evolutionary glitch. A Latent shouldn't smell like a Mate. A Latent shouldn't trigger the instinct to provide, protect, knot.
I racked the weight with a deafening crash that echoed off the concrete walls. I sat up, gasping for air, sweat dripping from my nose onto the rubber matting. The physical exhaustion was there—my muscles were trembling—but the mental itch hadn't gone away. If anything, it was worse.
The Wolf was pacing inside my chest, scratching at the back of my ribs. He didn't want to lift weights. He wanted to hunt.
"You're going to break the equipment, butcher."
I didn't turn around. I grabbed my towel and wiped the sweat from my face, wincing as the rough fabric dragged over the scar on my jaw. "Go away, Jax."
Jax walked into my line of sight, leaning against the squat rack.
He was wearing jeans and a button-down shirt that was unbuttoned halfway down his chest—his standard 'going out' uniform.
As a coyote shifter, he didn't have the sheer mass I did, but he made up for it with speed and a complete lack of shame.
"Can't go away," Jax grinned, spinning his keys around his finger. "It's Friday night. The moon is waxing. The kegs are tapped. And you, my large, brooding friend, are the Captain."
I stood up, peeling my soaked shirt off. "I'm not going."
"You have to go," Jax said, his voice dropping the joking tone. "The Southern Bears are in town for the series this weekend. They're going to be at the Hive. If we don't show face, they think we're weak. You know the rules, Spike. Territory must be maintained."
I growled low in my throat. He was right.
The Hive—the massive, gothic frat house where the team lived—was neutral ground for visiting teams, but only if the Alphas were there to keep order.
If I stayed in my room, the Bears would take it as a sign of submission. Or worse, they’d tear the place apart.
"I hate parties," I muttered, grabbing my water bottle.
"I know," Jax said, clapping me on the shoulder. "Too many people. Too much noise. But think of it this way: Vera will be there."
I stiffened. "That's not a selling point."
Vera. The Cheer Captain. A purebred She-Wolf with a pedigree better than mine and an ambition that terrified most men. She had decided freshman year that we were the power couple of IMU. I had spent three years trying to convince her otherwise.
"She’s been asking where you are," Jax said helpfully. "She says you've been... distracted."
Jax’s eyes narrowed slightly, his coyote nose twitching. He was digging. He knew something was up with me. He had smelled the change in my scent yesterday in the tunnel.
"I'm not distracted," I lied, walking toward the showers. "I'm focused. We have a game tomorrow."
"Right. Focused." Jax followed me. "Just put on some clean clothes, Butcher. We leave in twenty. And try to look like you aren't planning to murder everyone in the room. It kills the vibe."
The Hive was living up to its name.
From a block away, I could hear the bass.
It thumped against the frozen ground, a rhythmic heartbeat that synced with the pounding in my own temples.
The house was a monstrosity of stone and timber, lit up like a beacon in the dark forest. Smoke—both tobacco and...
other herbs—drifted from the open windows, mingling with the biting cold air.
Inside, it was worse.
The moment I stepped through the heavy oak doors, the sensory assault hit me. The air was thick, humid, and hot. It smelled of cheap beer, expensive whiskey, sweat, and the chaotic, cloying mix of a hundred different shifters and humans pretending to get along.
Pheromones were everywhere. It was a soup of lust and aggression. I could smell who was ovulating, who was looking for a fight, and who was terrified.
"Thorne!"
A beer was shoved into my hand before I even made it to the living room. I didn't drink it. Alcohol didn't do much for Alphas unless we consumed enough to kill a horse, and I needed my wits sharp tonight.
I moved through the crowd like a shark through a school of fish. People parted for me. They always did. I was the biggest thing in the room, the Apex predator. The younger wolves dipped their chins in submission as I passed; the humans just looked at their shoes.
I hated it. I hated the fear. It reminded me of my father. It reminded me that no matter how many books I read or how many classes I passed, I was just a monster in a jersey.
I found a spot in the corner of the massive living room, leaning my back against the dark wood paneling.
From here, I had a view of the entire floor.
The fireplace was roaring. The furniture had been pushed back to make a dance floor.
Bodies were grinding together in a way that left little to the imagination.
I scanned the room, looking for threats.
Three Southern Bears were by the kegs. Big guys, loud, wearing their varsity jackets. They were posturing, laughing too loudly, taking up too much space. But they weren't starting fights yet.
I took a sip of the warm beer, my eyes continuing their sweep.
And then I stopped.
The glass bottle in my hand creaked as my grip tightened instantly.
She was here.
Riley.
She was standing near the archway to the kitchen, clutching a red solo cup with both hands like it was a life preserver. She looked completely out of her element. She looked terrified.
And she looked... different.
The armor was gone. Or at least, altered.
The baggy hoodie had been replaced by a sweater that actually fit her—a soft, cream-colored thing that fell off one shoulder, exposing the smooth, pale skin of her neck.
She was wearing jeans that hugged her hips, revealing curves I had only guessed at.
Her hair was down. It was a chaotic halo of dark curls that framed her face, softening the sharp angles of her glasses.
She looked soft. She looked edible.
And she was surrounded.
Two guys—humans, from the track team by the look of their lean builds—were boxing her in. They were leaning close, smiling those predatory, alcohol-soaked smiles that men used when they thought they’d found easy prey.
My vision tunneled. The red haze crept into the corners of my sight.
One of the guys reached out and touched her arm.
A low growl started in my chest, a vibration so deep it rattled my own ribs. I didn't authorize it. It just happened.
"Spike."
A hand landed on my bicep, nails digging in.
I looked down. Vera was there. She was stunning, objectively. blonde hair, ice-blue eyes, a body honed by hours of gymnastics. She smelled like crushed rose petals and ambition.
"You're making that noise again," she said, her voice sharp. "The one that scares the freshmen. Stop it."
"I'm not making a noise," I rasped, my eyes flicking back to Riley.
Vera followed my gaze. Her eyes narrowed instantly. "The tutor? Really, Spike? You're staring at the diversity hire?"
"She's not a hire. She's a student."
"She's a Latent," Vera corrected, dismissing Riley with a wave of her manicured hand. "And she looks like she's about to faint. Why is she even here? This is a pack party."
"Open invite," I muttered, watching as the track guy leaned closer to Riley's ear. Riley took a step back, her back hitting the wall. She shook her head. She looked uncomfortable.
"Let her handle it," Vera said, stepping in front of me, blocking my view. She placed a hand on my chest, right over my heart. "Focus on me, Spike. The Bears are watching. We need to look like a front. Dance with me."
"I don't dance."
"Then stand there and hold me," she commanded. "Show them who the Alpha Female is."
I looked at Vera. She was perfect. She was safe. She was what I was supposed to want. Our pups would be strong. Our lineage would be secure.
But she smelled like roses, and roses had thorns.
I looked over her shoulder.
The track guy had moved his hand from Riley's arm to her waist. He was crowding her. Riley pushed at his chest, her mouth moving in a clear "No."
The guy laughed. He didn't move.
Something inside me snapped. It wasn't a choice. It was a fracture in the dam I had built to hold back the beast.
"Excuse me," I said to Vera.
I didn't wait for her response. I physically moved her aside—gently, but firmly—and stepped into the crowd.
I didn't run. predators don't run unless the prey is fleeing. I stalked.
I cut through the dance floor. People scrambled out of my way, sensing the shift in the air. The pressure in the room dropped. The static electricity spiked. I could feel the eyes of the Southern Bears on me, assessing the threat level.
I didn't care about the Bears.
I reached the archway in ten strides.
The track guy—I think his name was Kyle—was leaning in for the kill. "Come on, sweetheart. Just one drink. You can't spend the whole night hiding in the corner."
"I said I'm fine," Riley said, her voice tight. "Please move."
"Don't be a bitch," Kyle said, his smile dropping. "I'm just trying to be nice to the little—"
I reached over Kyle’s shoulder and grabbed the back of his shirt.