Chapter 11
Rory
The duplex was quiet.
It wasn't the heavy, suffocating silence that used to haunt me—the kind that felt like a prelude to a storm. It was a new kind of silence. A hollow, aching vacuum where a heartbeat used to be.
I stood in the center of my living room, staring at the shared wall.
Unit 4B was empty.
The movers had come and gone like vultures, stripping the place bare in under two hours.
I had watched from behind my blinds, pacing like a caged animal, my hands flexing into fists until my knuckles turned white.
I had watched Dean Carmichael stand on the porch, looking like a king surveying a conquered kingdom, before driving away with his prize.
He thought he had won. He thought that by moving Zoe back to the dorms—the "Nunnery," as the hockey team called the all-female South Hall—he had severed the connection. He thought geography could cure biology.
I let out a low, dark laugh that vibrated in my empty chest.
You have no idea, old man.
I raised my hand to my nose, inhaling deeply.
The scent was fading from the air in my apartment, but it was branded into my skin. Vanilla. Freesia. And the sharp, musky undertone of sex. My sex.
I had knotted her. I had marked her. I had rewritten her chemical signature.
Every time she walked into a room now, every shifter with a working nose would know she belonged to the Enforcer. And every human would just feel the subconscious "do not touch" vibe radiating off her.
My phone buzzed on the coffee table.
Zoe [10:42 PM]: My roommate is interrogating me about the scarf. She thinks I have a hickey. I told her I burned myself with a curling iron.
I picked up the phone, a smirk tugging at the corner of my mouth.
Me: Terrible lie. Curling irons don't leave bite marks.
Zoe: Well, I couldn't exactly tell her that the resident werewolf ate me, could I?
Me: Ate you? I haven't even started eating you.
Zoe: Rory Thorne. Behave.
Me: Never. How’s the cell?
Zoe: Small. Loud. It smells like cheap body spray and despair. I miss the cave.
The words hit me in the chest. I miss the cave. She missed my darkness. She missed the black sheets and the silence and the weight of me on top of her.
Me: Sneak out.
Zoe: I can't. There’s an RA on patrol. My dad probably hired a sniper.
Me: Then I’m coming to get you.
Zoe: Rory, no. You can't come into South Hall. If you get caught, you lose the scholarship.
Me: I won't get caught. Meet me at the loading dock behind the dining hall. 20 minutes.
Zoe: This is insane.
Me: 19 minutes.
I tossed the phone onto the couch and headed for the door. I grabbed a black hoodie, pulling the hood up.
I felt… different.
For years, I had walked around with a ten-ton weight on my shoulders. The Curse. The fear of the Feral bloodline. The constant, buzzing noise of the Wolf demanding violence.
Tonight? The weight was gone.
The Wolf was curled up in the back of my mind, purring. He was satiated. He had a mate. He had a purpose.
I walked out into the cold night air. The snow crunched under my boots. The wind bit at my face.
Usually, the cold made me numb. Tonight, it just made me feel alive. The streetlights looked brighter. The air tasted crisper. It was like someone had turned up the saturation on the world.
I was high. High on her. High on the secret. High on the sheer, reckless audacity of what we were doing.
I broke into a jog, heading for the shadows of the tree line.
Dean Carmichael wanted a war? Fine.
He was about to learn that wolves are nocturnal hunters.
The loading dock behind the main dining hall was a grim, industrial space. Dumpsters overflowed with trash bags. The smell of rotting vegetables and grease hung in the air. A single yellow security light buzzed overhead, casting long, flickering shadows.
It was the most romantic place on earth.
I leaned against the brick wall, hidden in the darkness, checking my watch.
11:03 PM.
A metal door creaked open.
Zoe slipped out.
She was wearing pajama pants tucked into snow boots and a massive, puffy coat that made her look like a marshmallow. She had a scarf wrapped three times around her neck, burying her chin. Her hair was messy, escaping from a hasty bun.
She looked around nervously, her breath puffing in white clouds.
"Psst."
She jumped, spinning toward the shadows.
I stepped into the light.
Her face transformed. The anxiety vanished, replaced by a radiant, blinding smile that hit me harder than a cross-check.
"You came," she whispered, running toward me.
She didn't care about the ice. She didn't care about the dumpsters. She launched herself at me.
I caught her, swinging her around, burying my face in the scarf to find the warm skin of her neck.
"I told you," I growled against her ear. "You call, I come."
"Put me down," she giggled, slapping my shoulder. "Someone might see."
"Let them see."
I put her down, but I didn't let go. I backed her up against the brick wall, shielding her from the wind with my body. I planted my hands on either side of her head.
"Let me see it," I commanded.
"Rory, it’s freezing—"
"The mark. Let me see."
She sighed, but her eyes were dark with desire. She unwound the scarf.
There it was.
Right over her pulse point. A bruise. Dark purple, fading to blue at the edges. The imprint of my teeth.
Seeing it sent a rush of possessive heat straight to my groin.
"Beautiful," I murmured, tracing the mark with my gloved thumb.
"It’s embarrassing," she countered, though she leaned into my touch. "I have to wear turtlenecks for a week. Mia thinks I’ve joined a cult."
"You have," I said, leaning down to kiss the spot gently. "Population: two."
"This is dangerous," she whispered, her hands sliding inside my open jacket to clutch the front of my hoodie. "If my dad finds out I snuck out…"
"He won't." I kissed her jaw. "Because you're going to sneak back in. In five minutes."
"Five minutes? I risked expulsion for five minutes?"
"Quality over quantity, Princess."
I captured her mouth.
It wasn't gentle. We didn't have time for gentle. It was a hungry, desperate collision of lips and tongues. I tasted mint toothpaste and desire. She tasted of my own need reflecting back at me.
I pressed my hips against hers, letting her feel exactly how happy I was to see her.
"Rory," she gasped into my mouth. "We're by a dumpster."
"Don't care."
I slid my hand down her coat, finding the curve of her hip through the layers. I wanted to touch her skin. I wanted to strip her bare and remind her exactly who she belonged to. But the temperature was five degrees below zero.
So I settled for friction.
I ground against her, mimicking the rhythm we had found in the dark of my room. She whimpered, her hands tightening in my shirt.
"I missed you," I admitted, pulling back just an inch to look her in the eye. "The duplex is too quiet. I kept waiting to hear you drop a book or sing in the shower."
"I sing in the shower?" She looked mortified.
"Badly. It’s adorable."
She hit my chest. "I hate you."
"Liar."
I kissed her again, deeper this time. I let my tongue sweep her mouth, claiming it.
A door banged open somewhere down the alley. Voices echoed. Kitchen staff finishing a shift.
Zoe froze.
"Go," I whispered, stepping back instantly, turning my back to the light to hide my face.
She fumbled with her scarf, wrapping it quickly. "Tomorrow?"
"Library. Third floor stacks. 2 PM."
"It’s a date."
She turned and sprinted back to the door, slipping inside just as two guys in aprons walked around the corner lighting cigarettes.
I pulled my hood lower and walked away into the dark, whistling.
I felt invincible.
The next three days were a blur of adrenaline and secrecy.
It was a game. A high-stakes, terrifying game of cat and mouse.
We developed a system. A code.
One text emoji—a snowflake—meant Coast is clear.
A flame emoji meant Meet me now.
A skull emoji meant Abort. Dad/Coach/Roommate is watching.
We met in the strangest places.
The library stacks, hidden between the rows of dusty reference books on European History. We didn't talk. We just stood close, holding hands, stealing quick, silent kisses while students studied ten feet away.
The gym, late at night. She would spot me on the bench press, and in between sets, I would pull her between my legs and dry hump her until we were both breathless and aching.
The back of my truck, parked in the remote lot near the forestry building.
It was reckless. It was stupid. It was the most fun I had ever had.
But the hardest part wasn't the sneaking.
It was the public part.
Wednesday. Lunch. The Cafeteria.
I sat at the "Wolf Table"—the long, rectangular table in the center of the dining hall claimed by the hockey team. It was prime real estate. We owned it.
I was flanked by Jax and two defensemen, Miller and Svensson. We were eating like we were going to the electric chair—trays piled high with pasta, chicken, and questionable vegetables.
"So," Jax said, shoveling spaghetti into his mouth. "Coach is running us into the ground today. He says we looked sluggish in the third period against Duluth."
"We won," Svensson grumbled. "What does he want?"
"He wants domination," I said, stabbing a piece of broccoli. "Winning isn't enough. We have to crush them."
"Speaking of crushing," Jax said, his voice dropping. "Don't look now, but your neighbor just walked in."
I froze.
Don't look. Don't look. Don't look.
I looked.
Zoe was walking through the double doors. She was with Mia and a couple of other girls from the figure skating team.
She looked… incredible.
She was wearing black leggings and a chunky white sweater that hid her neck. Her hair was down, loose waves cascading over her shoulders. She was laughing at something Mia said.
She looked happy. She looked light.
As she passed our table—keeping a wide berth—her eyes flicked to mine.
Just for a microsecond.
It wasn't a wave. It wasn't a smile. It was a hit of pure dopamine. Her pupils dilated. Her step faltered, just slightly.
Then she looked away, her mask slamming back into place.
My Wolf growled low in my throat. Mine.