Chapter 3
Morgan (an hour before Síofra made her appearance)
Morgan Dane surveyed the transformed Library hall while trying to shake off Debbie who had attached herself to him the moment he had set foot inside.
She had the tenacity of a leech. The rest of her clique were not far off.
He had started to think of them as the Barbie crew.
They all paled in comparison to the only one he desperately needed to see.
Síofra. It had been a week since he had laid eyes on her.
After his fuckups had caught up with him.
Being a Dane meant carrying weight on your shoulders.
The Skhol wolves were Fenrisúlfr stock,the stuff of legend; bred for dominance and violence.
His older brothers had shifted early, both strong alphas with teeth and claws sharp enough to be named enforcers of the Council before they’d turned twenty.
His sister was a clever little minx, all teeth and ambition. Even his kid brother had the fire.
And then there was him.
Morgan Dane, the pitied one. The “latent.” A wolf caged by ancient runes no one could read.
Etched down his spine like crude scars from a god’s blade, the marks pulsed and ached sometimes when the moon swelled, but nothing ever happened.
He had hoped for years that it was not true, that his wolf would show itself against all odds.
But his eighteenth birthday came and went and still not a tinge. Just a permanent silence in his blood.
The elders had shaken their heads, calling it a repayment of some forgotten favour.
A debt owed was what the old warlock elder had deciphered.The runes were in an ancient language long lost- even the elves couldn't read it.
His loving family never said it out loud, but he knew.
He was the weak link. The runt. The Dane without a wolf.
Still, he had the body, the charm, the golden-boy mask.
Rugby gave him something to hold on to, something that helped him forget that there was a big empty space inside him where his wolf should have been.
But every time Síofra’s soft green eyes had met his across the university hall, he’d felt something coil inside him that his wolf should have named.
A mate? No. It was impossible. A latent couldn’t have that.
How could a latent identify his mate or mark her? And yet…
He remembered Freshers’ Week, when he’d collided with her outside the poker tables, cards spilling, her surprised laugh catching him off guard.They had been in the same university for more than two years now and their paths had never crossed.
He had felt her touch like he had plunged his finger into a socket.
God, he’d wanted her even then more than he had ever wanted anyone.
But he had been with Debbie back then. No commitments, only temporary physical release-a few moments to forget his reality.
But he hadn't missed the gleam of ownership in her eyes. Alia’s sly whispers and Debbie’s cloying touch had been chains around his wrists.
He had wanted to fit in and hoped his silence would shift their attention from Síofra.
Sloe-eyed, perfect Alia was the one who had first spun the net, weaving her games with that sly smile that made half the university bow to her.
His silence had made him complicit in their schemes and cruelty.
A witch of no small power, though she hadn’t chosen a prime consort yet.
Alia had tried to add him to her harem but he’d never been interested in her beyond the occasional nod.
Debbie was another matter. The shape-shifter had tried to sink her claws into him more than once, curling close and whispering promises of faces she could wear just for him. He’d shut that down fast. She wasn’t his and he wasn’t hers.
It hadn’t stopped her.
Even big, buff Colin from his rugby squad was tangled in Alia’s games. Poor bastard was in love with her, though everyone knew she used him. She’d bang him sometimes when it suited her, but they weren’t exclusive and they never could be. Alia didn’t love anyone but herself.
And Morgan? He was desperately trying to keep Síofra his secret. Too late, he realized that if he’d separated himself from his toxic so-called friends, maybe Síofra wouldn’t have been caught in the fire. Instead, his silence had burned their chances of a relationship to ash.
Still… there had to be a way out. A way to break the cage on his back and the runes down his spine.
Lately, he’d been thinking of seeking out the cursed pair-Connor and Vaelor.
Everyone knew something was off about them, whispered that their names were bound together in ways that defied the usual rules. It was all over the university.
If anyone knew how to decipher what had been carved into his flesh, it might be them.
If only he could track them down.
Those beautiful pictures of Síofra. They were meant for his eyes only. He suspected Debbie had something to do with it but there was no proof. And now she wouldn’t answer his calls, wouldn’t even look at him. Why would she when he had been so colossally stupid.
Debbie leaned in, her heavy perfume making him sneeze as sharp nails grazing his arm. “I’ve got to say, I’m digging your getup tonight. Zombie Prince Charming? Bet you were hoping your Cinderella would show up.” Her smirk sharpened. “Shame she didn’t.”
Morgan’s eyes didn’t stop scanning the crowd. Every sweep of the hall came up empty. A week without seeing Síofra, and the ache gnawed at him like hunger.
Debbie tilted her head, dropping her voice into a purr. “But I can play Cinderella. I know a place just beyond the stairs. You and me, you could collect on that wager.”
Her words finally cut through his distraction. He turned to her suddenly as something occurred to him. His hand snapped around hers, fingers digging painfully making her gasp.
“Was it you?”
Her smile faltered. “What?”
“Was it you who put Síofra’s photos out?” His voice was low, dangerous, thrumming with barely restrained violence.
She blinked, then forced a laugh, trying to slide her wrist free. “God, Morgan,why would I? You think I’d waste my time-”
His grip tightened, his gaze dark. “You’re a shape-shifter. All you need is a touch. You could take my face. Did you touch my phone?”
Her throat worked as she swallowed. “You’re scaring me,” she whispered, a tremor slipping past her mask. He could feel Alia and her group make their way towards him but he didn't back down.
“Good.” He leaned closer, gold glinting in his eyes. “If you did this-if you hurt her-then you should be scared.”
For a moment, neither moved. Debbie’s usual sultry confidence cracked under his stare. And still, underneath the fury, the thought tore through him . Proof, he needed proof before he let his anger off the leash. If he had his wolf, he would have sniffed out the lies.
Morgan pushed Debbie off him and tipped the cup back, letting the spiced rum scorch its way down to his stomach.His tuxedo jacket was ripped at the seams, one sleeve hanging loose and crusted with theatrical blood.
The once-crisp white shirt beneath was torn open at the collar, stained red and grey with ash and dirt smears.
A tattered sash of midnight blue, meant for a fairytale prince, slanted across his chest but was shredded in places, dangling threads brushing his hip.
She hated him now but he had to convince her that he didn't do it.
He was waiting for her, praying she would show.
His eyes scanned every mask in the hall until-
There.
Powder-blue silk, ash-dusted at the hem.
A Cinderella costume that mocked and dazzled all at once.
His throat dried instantly. Her breasts pressed against the bodice in a way that made his cock press urgently against his zipper.Her pale skin glowed under the torches.
He could count the scatter of freckles over her upturned nose- could see them even across the room.
And that hair… God. That hair was fire. Being around Síofra was embarrassing.
Even without her in his sights, his body was in a constant state of arousal.
He wanted to hide her away like a dragon with his treasure.
She was standing there at the entrance and he could feel her eyes on him. For a moment, Morgan let himself believe he could fix it. He could make her understand, explain, beg if he had to. But then Debbie’s nails skimmed down his bicep, her high-pitched giggle cutting into his thoughts.
Síofra’s eyes burned into his.
Wide and Hurt. Shining like fragile glass about to crack. And then she turned away. It felt like a slap on his face. Something moved in his chest. Like pain.Like sorrow.
His gaze followed, locking onto Rand with his hand on Síofra’s shoulder. A red mist covered his vision. How dare he? That boy wasn’t safe, wasn’t worthy. He was all over her like a rash. He had tolerated him because he was her friend. But it was clear he wanted more.But Síofra was his.
Morgan’s jaw clenched, and he shoved past a cluster of masked dancers.
At six feet six, he carved through the crowd like a prow cutting through waves.
Every step was a demand- she was his to hold, his to claim back.
He would clear the mess he had made and he would beg her for forgiveness. She had to.
Rand leaned closer, whispering something to her, handing her another drink. She actually smiled at him.
Morgan’s vision tunneled. His wolf might be caged, but rage was still in his blood. Síofra should be careful. Shouldn’t she know what it meant when another man looked at her like that?
Her moss green eyes widened as he bore down on them. For a second, everything else disappeared-the crowd, the music, Alia’s plotting, Debbie’s craziness. Just him, her, and the strange connection that refused to die, no matter how ruined it was.
And then she fled.
Síofra darted into the velvet-draped corridor, Rand hot on her heels.
With no definite plan in mind, Morgan followed.