Chapter 7
Spike
The paper felt heavy in my hand, even though it weighed less than a breath.
History of Shifter Warfare and Ethics: Midterm Examination.
Comment: surprising depth of analysis regarding the Unbound Madness. Well done, Mr. Thorne.
I stared at the red ink. An 88. I hadn’t seen an eighty-eight on a test since I was in middle school, before the wolf took over, before my dad went to prison, before I became the Butcher.
"You're going to burn a hole in it," Jax said, leaning against the doorframe of my room in the Hive. He was tossing a lacrosse ball against the opposite wall, the rhythmic thwack-thwack grating on my nerves. "It’s just a piece of paper, man. Frame it, burn it, eat it. Just stop staring at it."
"It's not just a piece of paper," I muttered, folding it carefully and sliding it into my desk drawer. "It’s my eligibility. It’s the season."
"It’s the tutor," Jax corrected, catching the ball. He grinned, his sharp canines flashing. "Let’s be real. You didn't get a B-plus because you suddenly care about the Treaty of 1894. You got it because a certain little brunette cracked the whip."
I shot him a warning glare. "Watch it."
"I'm just saying. You owe her." Jax pushed off the doorframe. "Big time. And since the team is heading to Grizzly’s tonight to celebrate the sweep against the Southern Bears, you should bring her. Buy her a burger. Maybe a milkshake. Humans love milkshakes."
I paused. bringing Riley to Grizzly’s?
Grizzly’s was the unofficial dining hall for the Apex team. It was loud, it smelled like grease and testosterone, and it was strictly Pack territory. We didn't bring outsiders there. We definitely didn't bring Latents.
But then I thought about the library floor. I thought about her small hands holding mine, her voice steady as she talked me down from the edge of my own genetic nightmare.
You are not your father.
She didn't just tutor me. She saved me.
"Yeah," I said, the decision settling in my chest like a warm weight. "I do owe her."
"Wear the black shirt," Jax advised, walking away down the hall. " The one that makes your arms look illegal. Trust me."
I wore the black shirt.
I rolled the sleeves up to my elbows, exposing the tattoos on my forearms. I shaved, careful around the scar on my jaw, and splashed cold water on my face.
I looked in the mirror. The shadows under my eyes were gone.
The frantic, caged-animal energy that usually vibrated under my skin had settled into a low, steady hum.
I felt... good.
I drove the truck to her dorm, the engine purring beneath me. It was Friday night. The campus was alive with students heading to parties, slipping and sliding on the icy sidewalks.
I texted her when I pulled up.
Come down. Wear shoes you can run in. (Joking. Mostly).
She came out two minutes later.
And for the second time in a week, the air left my lungs.
Riley wasn't wearing the armor. The oversized hoodie was gone. The severe bun was gone.
She was wearing a dark green dress that hugged her ribs and flared out at the hips.
It was simple, long-sleeved, modest by college standards, but on her, it was devastating.
She had black tights on and heavy combat boots (the "shoes she could run in").
Her hair was loose, a riot of curls tumbling over her shoulders, catching the light of the streetlamps.
She looked soft. She looked dangerous.
I got out of the truck. I couldn't just sit there. I had to meet her.
"Thorne," she said as she approached, a small, nervous smile playing on her lips. She clutched her coat tighter around herself. "To what do I owe the pleasure? Did you forget how to spell 'armistice' again?"
"I got an eighty-eight," I said, unable to keep the pride out of my voice.
Her eyes widened. Her smile broke free, genuine and dazzling. "An eighty-eight? Spike! That’s amazing! That’s... well, that’s almost an A."
"Don't push it, Professor." I opened the passenger door for her. "Get in. We're going to dinner."
She hesitated, looking at the height of the cab. "Dinner? Like... a date?"
"Like a payment," I corrected, though the word felt like a lie the moment it left my tongue. "I owe you. Steak. Fries. Whatever you want."
"I'm a vegetarian," she reminded me.
"Right. Then... grilled cheese. The biggest one they have."
She laughed, and the sound wrapped around my heart. She climbed into the truck, her hand brushing my shoulder for balance. "Okay. Grilled cheese it is."
Grizzly’s was chaos.
The moment we walked in, the noise hit us—a wall of laughter, shouting, and clinking glass. The air was thick with the scent of seared meat and beer.
The entire back section was taken over by the Apex team. Thirty massive guys, squeezed into booths meant for four, devouring food like they hadn't eaten in weeks.
When I walked in with Riley, the noise level dropped by half.
Heads turned. Forks lowered.
Bringing a Latent to the Pack dinner was a statement. It was a claim.
I felt Riley stiffen beside me. She took half a step behind me, trying to use my width as a shield.
I didn't let her hide.
I reached back and placed my hand on the small of her back. I didn't grab; I guided. My palm rested there, warm and heavy, signaling to the room and to her: I am here. She is with me.
"Relax," I murmured, leaning down so only she could hear. "They smell fear. If you walk in like you own the place, they'll believe you."
"Easy for you to say," she whispered back. "You actually do own the place."
"Tonight," I said, applying gentle pressure to move her forward. "So do you."
We walked to the main booth where Jax, the team captain, and a few of the starting linesmen were sitting.
"Look who it is!" Jax roared, standing up and waving a fry. "The Scholar and the Savage!"
The tension broke. The guys laughed. It wasn't mocking; it was welcoming.
"Move over, Miller," I said to our center.
He scrambled to make room. I slid into the booth, pulling Riley in with me. We were squeezed in tight. Her thigh was pressed against mine from hip to knee. Her shoulder was tucked under my arm.
It should have been uncomfortable. It felt like plugging into a charger.
"So," Jax said, leaning across the table, his eyes dancing. "Eighty-eight percent. I owe Henderson twenty bucks. I bet on a C-minus."
"You have so much faith in me," I said dryly, grabbing a menu.
"I have faith in your ability to hit things," Jax corrected. He looked at Riley. "You must be a miracle worker, Bennett. How did you get him to memorize dates? Did you use treats? A clicker?"
Riley adjusted her glasses, her confidence returning as the banter started. "Visual aids," she deadpanned. "And I threatened to tell everyone he sleeps with a teddy bear."
The table exploded in laughter.
"I do not," I growled, though I was fighting a smile.
"It's a stuffed wolf," Riley clarified to the table. "But it counts."
I looked at her. She was smiling, her eyes bright, teasing me. She wasn't afraid. She was holding court with five Alpha shifters, and she was winning.
Under the table, I moved my hand to her knee. I gave it a squeeze.
Good girl.
She glanced at me, her breath hitching slightly, but she didn't pull away. She leaned into me.
The waitress arrived—Mama Bear herself. A formidable woman in her sixties with gray hair and forearms like tree trunks. She slapped a pitcher of water on the table.
"What are we having, Butcher?" she barked. " The usual? Three steaks, raw?"
"Two steaks," I corrected. "Medium rare. And a grilled cheese. With the fancy bread. And fries. A lot of fries."
Mama Bear looked at Riley. She sniffed the air, unashamedly.
"Vegetarian?" she huffed. "Fine. But I'm putting extra butter on the bread. You're too skinny."
She looked back at me, a knowing glint in her eye. "Finally found one with a backbone, huh? Good. Maybe you’ll stop breaking my furniture."
She walked away before I could respond.
Riley turned beet red. "Did she just imply..."
"She implies a lot of things," I said, grabbing my water. "Ignore her."
But I couldn't ignore the warmth spreading through my chest. One with a backbone.
The night blurred into a haze of grease, laughter, and proximity.
Riley ate her grilled cheese with a gusto that impressed the team. She argued stats with the goalie. She corrected the winger’s grammar. She fit.
And through it all, we had our own conversation going on without words.
When the waiter brought a tray of shots, I glanced at her. She gave a tiny shake of her head. I put my hand over her glass. "She's driving," I lied to the table.
When the noise got too loud, I felt her tense. I rubbed my thumb in slow circles on her inner thigh, hidden by the tablecloth. She relaxed instantly, melting against my side.
It was domestic. It was possessive. It was the most natural thing I had ever felt.
"Hey, Thorne."
The vibe shifted instantly.
I looked up. A group of guys had stopped at our table. They weren't Apex. They were Alumni. Older, thicker around the middle, smelling of expensive cologne and entitlement.
"Mr. Henderson," I said, nodding to the leader—the father of our current equipment manager, and a major donor.
"Good game against the Bears," Henderson Senior said, his eyes glassy with too much scotch. "Violent. I like it."
His gaze drifted to Riley. He frowned.
"Didn't know we were bringing pets to the table, though," he slurred. "Thought this was a team dinner."
The silence that fell over the booth was absolute. Jax stopped chewing. The music seemed to cut out.
Pet.
The slur for a Latent.
Red haze flooded my vision. My hand on Riley’s thigh tightened, not in comfort, but in restraint. I felt the Wolf rise up, hackles raised, ready to tear a throat out.
Riley froze. I felt her shrink, the armor trying to come back up.
"She's not a pet," I said. My voice was low, terrifyingly calm. "She's with me."
"With you?" Henderson Senior laughed. "Come on, Spike. You're a Thorne. You need a Wolf. Not a... defective little human who pushes papers."
He reached out, as if to pat Riley on the head.
I moved faster than thought.