Chapter 6
Rory
I sat in the back of the lecture hall, my spine rigid against the cheap plastic chair, staring at the back of Zoe’s head.
It was torturous.
She was sitting three rows down and to the left, wearing a cream-colored sweater that looked soft enough to sleep in. Her hair was pulled back into that severe, perfect bun, exposing the nape of her neck.
That neck.
I closed my eyes, but the sensory memory was instantaneous. The taste of her skin—salt and vanilla. The pulse jumping under my lips. The way she had whimpered when I bit down, just hard enough to bruise.
“Please, Rory. Touch me.”
The memory of her voice, breathless and begging, hit me like a physical punch to the gut. I shifted in my seat, my jeans suddenly feeling two sizes too small.
Focus, Thorne. Focus on the lecture.
Professor Vance was droning on about lever arms and mechanical advantage. He was drawing diagrams on the whiteboard that looked like stick figures having a seizure.
"Now, if we consider the femur as the lever," Vance was saying, "the gluteus maximus provides the force..."
I looked at my notebook. It was a mess of scribbles. Instead of notes, I had drawn a wolf. Just a rough sketch in charcoal pencil—teeth, fur, hunger.
I was losing it.
Last night had been... a mistake. A glorious, life-altering mistake. I had touched the Dean’s daughter. I had tasted her. I had brought her to climax on her kitchen counter while my Wolf howled in victory inside my chest.
And then I had left.
I had walked out because if I had stayed one second longer, I wouldn't have just touched her. I would have claimed her. I would have stripped those leggings off completely, knotted inside her, and marked her neck for every male on this campus to see.
The thought made my hands clench into fists, the pencil snapping in my grip with a loud crack.
Heads turned.
Zoe turned.
Her violet eyes met mine across the rows of students. Her cheeks flushed a deep, tell-tale crimson. She looked away instantly, staring intently at her textbook, but I saw her hand go to her neck, her fingers tracing the exact spot where I had kissed her.
She felt it too. The phantom touch.
"Mr. Thorne?"
I looked up. Professor Vance was staring at me over his spectacles. The entire class was looking at me.
"Since you seem to have destroyed your writing implement," Vance said dryly, "perhaps you can tell us the primary mechanical disadvantage of the human knee joint during a deep squat?"
The room was silent. This was it. The public humiliation. The dumb jock moment.
I cleared my throat. "The disadvantage," I rumbled, my voice scraping against the silence, "is the sheer force on the patellofemoral joint. As the angle of flexion increases, the contact area decreases, spiking the pressure. But..."
I paused, glancing at Zoe’s back. She was frozen.
"But it’s necessary," I continued. "Because without that depth, you can't generate the elastic energy needed for explosive power. You risk the joint to get the lift."
Vance blinked. He looked at his notes, then back at me. "That is... surprisingly accurate, Mr. Thorne. Correct. Though 'explosive power' is a bit colloquial."
He turned back to the board.
I leaned back, exhaling slowly.
Zoe turned around again. She didn't smile. She just looked at me with a mixture of shock and something softer. Something like pride.
It terrified me.
I could handle her lust. Lust was simple. Lust was biology. But if she started looking at me like I was a person worth being proud of?
That was how you got your heart ripped out.
"You're distracted."
Jax leaned against the locker next to mine, watching me lace up my skates. The locker room smelled of Deep Heat and unwashed gear—a comforting, masculine stench that usually grounded me. Today, it just made me nauseous.
"I’m focused," I lied, tightening the laces until my circulation cut off.
"You put your left skate on your right foot first," Jax pointed out.
I looked down. He was right.
"Dammit." I unlaced the boot, ripping it off my foot and throwing it into my locker.
"Okay, spill," Jax said, his voice dropping to that serious, pack-mate tone. "You've been weird all week. You're jumpy. You smell like you're constantly on the verge of shifting. And..." He leaned in, sniffing the air theatrically. "You still smell like vanilla."
I froze. "I showered."
"It’s not on your skin, man. It’s on your aura. You're carrying her scent like a flag." Jax’s eyes narrowed. "Did you... did you seal the deal?"
"No."
"But you did something."
I slammed my locker shut. The metal clang echoed through the room. "Jax. Drop it."
"I can't drop it," Jax hissed. "Because the rumor mill is churning. Tyler—the linebacker whose wrist you almost snapped? He’s telling people you went feral at the party. He’s telling people you were guarding the Ice Princess like she was a steak dinner."
"Tyler is an idiot."
"Tyler is a loud idiot. And if the Dean hears that you're guarding his daughter..."
"I’m not guarding her," I growled, grabbing my stick. "I’m training her."
Jax blinked. "What?"
"Training. Gym. Squats. Deadlifts." I stood up, towering over him. "She helps me with physics. I help her get stronger. That’s it. It’s a transaction."
Jax stared at me for a long, uncomfortable moment. Then he started to laugh.
It wasn't a mocking laugh. It was a terrifying, pitying laugh.
"Oh, Rory," he wheezed, shaking his head. "You poor, dumb bastard."
"What?"
"You think this is a transaction?" Jax wiped a tear from his eye. "You're spending hours alone with your fated mate, sweating together, talking about... what? Torque? And you think you're not going to fall in love with her?"
"Wolves don't fall in love," I said coldly. "We mate. We breed. We protect."
"Right. Keep telling yourself that." Jax clapped me on the shoulder. "Just remember, buddy. Transactions end. Mating bonds don't."
He walked away, leaving me standing in the middle of the locker room, feeling more exposed than I ever had on the ice.
Practice was brutal.
Coach hammered us on defensive drills. Skating backward, pivoting, checking. Again and again. My legs burned, reminding me of the squats I had done with Zoe.
Every time I closed my eyes, I saw her face. Every time I hit someone, I imagined it was Tyler touching her arm.
By the time practice ended, I was exhausted, bruised, and irritable.
I showered quickly, scrubbing my skin raw to get the scent of the rink off me. I needed to get back to the duplex. I needed... help.
I had a Physics quiz tomorrow. A real one. And despite my moment of glory in the lecture hall, I was still confused about rotational inertia.
But more than that, I just needed to be in the same room as her. It was pathetic. I was addicted.
I walked out of the arena into the cold afternoon. The sun was setting, casting long, purple shadows across the snow.
I saw her immediately.
She was sitting on a bench near the entrance, her skates slung over her shoulder. She was staring at her phone, her brow furrowed. She looked small.
I walked over. "Waiting for a ride?"
She looked up. Her eyes were red. Had she been crying?
"My car wouldn't start," she said, her voice thick. "Battery died in the cold. Mia is in class, so I called a tow truck, but they said it’s a three-hour wait."
"It’s ten degrees out here, Zoe."
"I know. I was going to walk, but..." She gestured to her gym bag. "Heavy."
"Get in the truck."
She hesitated. "Rory, we shouldn't. People will see."
"People see a teammate giving a ride to a stranded student. It’s neighborly." I grabbed her gym bag before she could protest. "Get in."
She followed me to my truck—a battered black pickup that rumbled like a beast when I turned the key. The cab was warm, smelling of old leather and coffee.
She climbed in, shivering.
"Heat’s coming," I said, blasting the vents.
We drove in silence for a few minutes. The tension from the lecture hall was back, filling the small space of the cab.
"You knew the answer today," she said softly, looking out the window.
"I remembered what you said. About the storm."
"You're smart, Rory. You just learn differently."
"I’m not smart," I muttered, gripping the wheel. "I’m persistent. There’s a difference."
"Why are you so hard on yourself?"
"Because if I’m not hard on myself, the world will be hard for me."
She looked at me then. "Who told you that?"
"My father."
The words hung in the air. I hadn't meant to say them.
"The one who..." She trailed off. She knew the rumors. Everyone knew the rumors. Crazy Elias Thorne.
"The one who went feral," I finished for her. "Yeah. Him."
I turned onto the road leading to the woods. The trees closed in around us, casting the cab in shadow.
"He used to tell me that control was a muscle," I said, staring at the road. "That if you didn't exercise it every second of every day, the beast would take over. He made me sit in ice baths for hours to learn to ignore pain. He made me starve myself to learn to ignore hunger."
I glanced at her. She was staring at me with horror.
"That’s abuse, Rory."
"It was training," I corrected. "He was trying to save me. He knew I had his blood. He knew I would end up like him."
"You aren't him," she said fiercely.
"I am," I whispered. "I feel it, Zoe. Every day. The anger. The need to hurt things. The only time it stops is when I’m on the ice... or when I’m with you."
The truck hit a bump.
Zoe reached across the center console. She placed her hand on my arm, right over the bicep flexed against the steering wheel.
"Then be with me," she said.
I slammed on the brakes.
The truck skidded on the gravel, coming to a halt in the middle of the driveway.
I turned to her. "You don't know what you're asking."
"I think I do."
"No, you don't. You think this is a game. You think I’m a 'bad boy' you can fix. I’m not broken, Zoe. I’m cursed. If I let this happen... if I let myself claim you... I will ruin you. I will consume your life. You won't be the Ice Princess anymore. You’ll be the Wolf’s mate. You’ll be mine. Forever."
"Maybe I don't want to be the Ice Princess," she whispered. "maybe I want to be ruined."
We stared at each other in the dim light of the dashboard.
"Show me," she said. "Show me the scar."
I frowned. "What?"
"The scar on your neck. I’ve seen it peeking out of your jersey. Show me."
I hesitated. I hated that scar. It was ugly, jagged, a permanent reminder of violence.
Slowly, I pulled the collar of my hoodie down.
The scar ran from my jawline down to my clavicle. It was thick, raised, and white against my tanned skin.
"How did it happen?" she asked, her voice trembling.
"My father," I said. "The night he turned. He tried to rip my throat out. My mom shot him. I was ten."
Zoe gasped, her hand flying to her mouth.
"That’s the monster, Zoe," I said brutally. "That’s what lives in my blood. Violence. Death."
She didn't pull away.
She unbuckled her seatbelt. She leaned across the console.
She brought her lips to my neck.
She kissed the scar.
It was the softest thing I had ever felt. Her lips were warm, tender, and healing. She kissed the jagged ridge of skin, then moved up to kiss the spot under my jaw.
I stopped breathing. My heart stopped beating.
It wasn't sexual. It was... holy.
"He hurt you," she whispered against my skin. "But you survived. You aren't him, Rory. He was the monster. You're the survivor."
She pulled back, looking into my eyes. Her hand came up to cup my cheek.
"I’m not afraid of your wolf," she said. "I’m afraid of you not letting yourself be happy."
I looked at her, and the wall around my heart—the wall I had spent twelve years building, brick by brick, ice bath by ice bath—cracked.
It didn't shatter. It just cracked. But light poured in.
"Zoe," I choked out.
I grabbed her hand, pressing my face into her palm. I closed my eyes, fighting back the sting of tears I refused to shed.
"You're dangerous," I mumbled into her skin.
"I know," she said softly. "I’m working on my explosive power."
I laughed. It was a wet, ragged sound, but it was a laugh.
I sat up, kissing her palm one last time before letting go.
"We have to study," I said, putting the truck back in gear. "If I fail this quiz, your dad kills me."
"And if you pass?" she asked.
"If I pass," I said, glancing at her, "I take you on a real date. Not a study session. Dinner. Movie. The works."
"Is that a promise?"
"It’s a threat," I said, winking.
She smiled.
We drove the rest of the way to the duplex in silence. But it wasn't the tense, heavy silence of before. It was a comfortable silence. The silence of two people who had seen each other's scars and decided not to look away.
We went inside. We studied. We didn't touch each other again that night.
But as I lay in bed later, staring at the ceiling, I realized Jax was right.
I was in trouble.
Because for the first time in my life, the Wolf wasn't pacing. He was curled up, sleeping.
He felt... safe.
And that was the most terrifying thing of all.