Chapter 11
Spike
The world looked different when you weren't trying to burn it down.
That was my first thought as I sat in the back of Professor Halloway’s lecture hall, staring at the back of Riley’s head three rows down.
Usually, this class was torture. Eighty minutes of listening to a human drone on about psychology while my leg bounced with restless energy and my brain replayed game tapes. Usually, the air in here felt stale, smelling of chalk dust and boredom.
Today, the air smelled like her.
I took a deep breath, letting the scent of vanilla and honey settle in my lungs. It was faint—masked by the cheap coffee the kid next to me was drinking—but I could find it. It was my anchor.
Riley was taking notes. I knew she was, because her shoulders were hunched in that focused way she had, and her pen was moving furiously across the page.
But every thirty seconds or so, she would pause.
She would tuck a stray curl behind her ear.
And she would tilt her head just slightly to the left, as if listening for something.
Or someone.
I shifted in my seat, a slow smile spreading across my face.
Look at me.
I projected the thought, pushing it toward her with a little pulse of Alpha intent. It wasn't telepathy—Shifters didn't have that—but the bond was real. It was a thread connecting us, vibrating with every heartbeat.
Riley froze. Her pen stopped moving.
Slowly, casually, she turned her head. She pretended to check the clock on the wall, but her eyes kept moving until they found mine in the back row.
Her cheeks flushed a brilliant, beautiful pink.
I winked.
She bit her lip, suppressing a smile, and quickly turned back to the front.
I leaned back, crossing my arms over my chest. I felt... light. That was the only word for it. The constant, grinding pressure in my chest—the fear of the madness, the weight of the team, the shadow of my father—it was gone. Or at least, it was quiet.
It had been replaced by a different kind of obsession.
Riley.
It had been three days since the art studio. Three days of sneaking around. Three days of living a double life that was equal parts exhilarating and terrifying.
We had made a pact. Secret until the Finals.
It made sense. If the team found out I was sleeping with the tutor, distraction would be the least of my worries.
If Coach found out, I’d be benched for breaking the "No Fraternization" clause in the Latent Protection Policy.
If the Alumni found out... well, Henderson Senior had made his feelings pretty clear.
So we were ghosts.
I watched her scribble in her notebook. She was wearing a sweater I recognized—mostly because I had taken it off her last night in the backseat of my truck parked down a logging road.
My body tightened at the memory. The fogged windows. The desperate heat. The way she had whispered my name against the leather upholstery.
I was an addict. And she was the drug.
"Mr. Thorne?"
I snapped my attention to the front. Professor Halloway was looking at me.
"I asked for your opinion on the Flight or Fight response in pack mentality," Halloway said. "Specifically, the override of self-preservation."
The class turned to look at me. Usually, I would have snarled something monosyllabic or ignored the question entirely.
Today, I just shrugged, relaxed and easy.
"It's not an override," I said, my voice rumbling through the quiet room.
"It's a prioritization. An Alpha doesn't fight to save himself.
He fights to save what's his. If the threat is to the Mate or the Pack, self-preservation is irrelevant.
You don't run from a fire if your heart is burning inside the house. "
The room went dead silent. Halloway blinked, looking stunned.
Riley didn't turn around this time. But I saw the tips of her ears turn red.
"Well," Halloway stammered, adjusting his glasses. "That was... surprisingly poetic, Mr. Thorne. And accurate."
He turned back to the board.
I smirked, sinking lower in my chair.
Yeah. I was definitely in trouble.
"You're glowing."
Jax dropped his tray onto the table next to mine in the cafeteria, startling me out of my daydream.
"I'm not glowing," I said, stabbing a fork into my chicken breast. "Wolves don't glow. We brood."
"You haven't brooded since Sunday," Jax pointed out, stealing a french fry from my plate. "You've been... pleasant. You helped a freshman pick up his books yesterday. You let Miller survive practice without a single check into the boards. And just now, you quoted poetry in psych class."
Jax leaned in, his coyote eyes narrowing. "Did you get laid, Butcher? Or are you possessed?"
"Eat your food, Jax."
"Who is she?" he pressed. "Is it Vera? Did you finally cave to the Ice Queen?"
"No."
"Then who? A puck bunny? One of the soccer girls?" Jax sniffed the air around me. "You smell like..." He frowned. "You smell like clean laundry. And vanilla."
I stiffened. I had showered twice before coming here, scrubbing my skin raw to hide Riley's scent. But the bond scent—the pheromones produced by happiness—was harder to mask.
"I changed detergent," I lied.
"Bullshit." Jax chewed thoughtfully. "You're hiding something. And usually, when you hide things, people end up bleeding. Should I be worried?"
"No," I said, meeting his gaze. "You should be focused on the finals. We play the Badgers on Saturday. Do you have your angles down?"
Jax groaned. "Don't change the subject to geometry. You're deflecting."
"I'm Captaining. Eat."
I looked across the cafeteria.
Riley was sitting three tables away with Maya and a few other girls from her dorm. She was laughing at something Maya said, peeling a tangerine.
She didn't look at me. We had agreed: No eye contact in the caf. Too risky.
But I felt her. I felt her awareness of me like a heat lamp on my skin.
As if sensing my thought, she dropped a piece of peel. She bent down to pick it up. As she straightened, her gaze flicked to mine for a millisecond.
Her eyes were dark. Hungry.
She put a slice of tangerine in her mouth, her lips wrapping around it slowly.
I nearly snapped my fork in half.
She did that on purpose.
My phone buzzed on the table.
Mouse: Meet me in the stacks? 20 mins?
Mouse: I have a... statistical anomaly I need you to examine.
I typed back under the table.
Me: I'm in the middle of lunch.
Mouse: Shame. I'm wearing the skirt.
The skirt. The plaid, pleated skirt she wore sometimes that made her look like a librarian gone rogue.
I stood up abruptly, grabbing my tray.
"Where are you going?" Jax asked, mid-chew. "You barely touched your protein."
"Forgot something," I muttered. "In the locker room."
"What did you forget?"
"My sanity."
The library stacks were a maze of metal shelves and dust, located in the basement level where the wifi didn't reach and the air conditioning was non-existent. It was the perfect place for illicit activities.
I found her in the section on 19th Century Agriculture.
She was standing on a step stool, reaching for a book on the top shelf.
She was wearing the skirt. It was short. And she was wearing knee-high socks.
I didn't say a word. I walked up behind her, grabbed her waist, and lifted her off the stool.
She gasped, dropping the book. It hit the floor with a muffled thud.
I spun her around and pinned her against the shelf.
"Hi," she breathed, her eyes wide and dilated.
"You are a menace," I growled, burying my face in her neck. "Using fruit as a weapon in the cafeteria. Unfair play."
"I was just eating," she claimed innocently, wrapping her arms around my neck. "Did it work?"
"I'm here, aren't I?"
I kissed her.
It wasn't a soft kiss. It was starving. We had spent twenty-four hours apart—an eternity in the early stages of the bond—and I needed to taste her to make sure she was still real.
She opened for me instantly, her tongue meeting mine. I gripped her hips, hiking her up until her legs wrapped around my waist. The skirt rode up. My hands found the bare skin of her thighs above the socks.
"You're warm," I murmured against her mouth.
"You're hot," she countered. "Like a furnace."
"I missed you."
"It's been two hours, Spike."
"Two hours too long."
I walked us backward—her clinging to me like a koala—until we hit a darker corner behind a row of encyclopedias. I pressed her into the metal shelf.
"Spike," she whispered, breathless. "Someone might hear."
"No one comes down here," I assured her, nipping at her jawline. "Who reads about crop rotation in 1850?"
"Nerds. Like me."
"Well, if a nerd comes, I'll growl at them."
She giggled. The sound vibrated against my chest.
I moved my hand up her thigh, teasing the edge of her panties.
"We have ten minutes," she whispered. "Before my next class."
"Ten minutes is plenty."
I slipped my hand inside her underwear. She was wet. Ready.
"God, Riley," I groaned. "You're always ready for me."
"Always," she admitted, her head falling back against the books.
I didn't undress her. I didn't undress myself. I just unzipped my jeans, freed myself, and pushed her panties aside.
I entered her in one smooth thrust.
She cried out, biting her knuckle to stifle the sound.
"Shh," I whispered, holding her tight against the shelf so it wouldn't rattle. "Quiet, Mouse. Secret."
We moved together in the dusty silence. It was frantic, desperate friction. Every thrust was a claim. Every gasp was a confession.
I watched her face as I moved inside her. She looked wrecked. Beautiful. Her glasses were crooked, her lips swollen, her eyes rolled back.
"Spike," she whimpered. "Please. Faster."
I sped up. The pleasure was building fast, a sharp, white-hot coil in my gut.
"Come for me," I ordered. "Right now."
She did. I felt her tighten around me, pulsing, milking me.
I followed her over the edge seconds later, groaning into her hair as I spilled into her.
We stood there for a minute, panting, sweating, still connected.
"We are terrible people," she whispered against my neck. "Desecrating a library."
"We're celebrating knowledge," I corrected, kissing her ear. "Biology. Anatomy."