Chapter 4
Eloise
The silence in the cab of the truck was heavier than the snow piling up on the windshield.
It wasn't a peaceful silence. It was a pressurized, suffocating thing, thick with unasked questions and terrifying answers I wasn't sure I wanted to hear.
The only sounds were the rhythmic thwack-hiss of the wipers fighting a losing battle against the blizzard and the low, constant rumble of the engine.
And Jack’s breathing.
It was ragged. Controlled, but barely. Every inhale sounded like it was being dragged through gravel.
I stared out the passenger window, but there was nothing to see.
Just a tunnel of white illuminated by the headlights, surrounded by a wall of impenetrable black pine.
We had been driving for forty minutes. We had passed the "Welcome to Ironwood" sign thirty minutes ago.
We were in the deep dark now. The wild part of the Upper Peninsula where cell service went to die and the roads weren't plowed until spring.
My hands were shaking in my lap. I clamped them between my knees to stop it, hating the weakness.
Physics-defying strength. Glowing eyes. Tracks that aren't human.
I was a science major. I believed in biology, in anatomy, in the immutable laws of nature. Bones broke under specific pressure. Muscles had limits. Irises did not bioluminesce unless you were a deep-sea jellyfish.
But I had seen it.
I looked over at him.
Jack Sterling was driving with one hand on the wheel, his grip so tight the leather was groaning. His other hand was resting on the gear shift, the knuckles split and bloody from where he’d hit the dashboard—or someone’s face—earlier.
He looked exhausted. The dashboard lights cast hollow shadows under his cheekbones, highlighting the brutal architecture of his face.
That scar on his neck seemed to throb in time with his pulse.
He looked less like a college student and more like a soldier returning from a war I didn't know was being fought.
"You’re staring," he rasped, not taking his eyes off the treacherous road.
"I’m analyzing," I corrected, my voice steadier than I felt. "I’m trying to categorize the data so I don't go into shock."
"And?" He shifted gears, the truck lurching over a hidden pothole. "What’s the data say?"
"That you’re psychotic," I said bluntly. "Or I am."
He let out a short, dry laugh. "If only it were that simple, Mouse."
"Stop calling me that," I snapped. The nickname grated on me. It made me feel small. Prey. "And stop dodging. You said one hour. The hour is almost up. Tell me what is happening."
Jack sighed, a sound that seemed to rattle deep in his chest. He slowed the truck as we turned onto an even narrower dirt road, the tires crunching over fresh powder.
"You know the stories," he started, his voice low. "The local legends. The Grey Ghost. The beasts in the woods."
"Campfire stories to scare freshmen," I dismissed. "Wolves were eradicated in the U.P. decades ago. They’re reintroducing them, but—"
"They weren't eradicated," Jack interrupted softly. "We just learned how to hide."
I froze. The heater blasted hot air against my legs, but I felt ice in my veins. "We?"
He glanced at me then. A quick, searing look. His eyes were brown now, thank God, but they held a weight of ancient sadness.
"My family. The team. The Copperheads." He turned back to the road. "We’re shifters, Eloise. Therianthropes. Werewolves. Whatever term makes it easier for your rational brain to process."
I laughed. I couldn't help it. It was a hysterical, bubbling sound. "Werewolves. You’re telling me the starting lineup of the Ironwood Sentinels is a pack of werewolves?"
"Not the whole lineup," he murmured. "Goalie’s human. He just thinks we’re on a really intense steroid regimen."
"This isn't funny, Jack."
"I’m not laughing."
He hit the brakes, bringing the truck to a stop. We were in a clearing. In front of us, illuminated by the high beams, was a cabin.
It was massive, built of dark, rough-hewn timber that blended into the forest. A wraparound porch, a stone chimney, and windows that looked like black eyes staring back at us. It looked sturdy. Ancient. Lonely.
Jack cut the engine. The silence rushed back in, ringing in my ears.
He turned in his seat to face me completely. The darkness of the cab felt intimate, dangerous.
"Look at me," he commanded softly.
I looked. I couldn't look away.
"I know what you saw," he said, his voice grave. "You saw the shift. You saw the strength. You smell the... wrongness on me."
"I smell cedar," I whispered. "And something else. Something hot."
His nostrils flared. His jaw ticked. "That’s the Wolf. And right now, he is very confused why I haven't claimed you yet, considering you’re sitting in my truck, smelling like everything I’ve ever wanted."
My breath hitched. "Claimed?"
"It’s biology, Eloise," he said, running a hand through his messy hair, looking frustrated. "It’s not magic. It’s genetics. We have instincts. Violent, possessive instincts. And tonight, you triggered every single one of them."
"Why me?" I asked, my voice barely audible.
He looked at me with a mixture of hunger and resentment. "I don't know. Fate. Bad luck. You smell like my mate."
Mate.
The word hung in the air like a guillotine blade.
"So, what?" I asked, trying to summon the arrogance of Dean Vance’s daughter. "I’m supposed to believe I’m the soulmate to a werewolf hockey player? That’s... that’s absurd. I have a midterm on Tuesday. I have Nationals in three months. I don't have time for a paranormal romance."
Jack actually smiled then. It wasn't a nice smile. It was sharp, jagged, and terrifyingly attractive.
"You think this is romance?" He shook his head. "This isn't romance, Eloise. This is a curse. For both of us."
He opened his door, the cold wind rushing in.
"Come on," he said, stepping out into the snow. "We’re staying here until the heat dies down. Or until I figure out how to keep Rurik from killing you without starting a war."
I sat there for a moment, watching him walk toward the cabin. He moved with a predator’s grace, silent on the snow, broad shoulders cutting through the wind.
I had a choice. I could stay in the truck and freeze. I could try to run into the woods and die.
Or I could follow the monster into his lair and hope he didn't eat me.
I grabbed my bag.
I followed the monster.
The cabin—The Den, Silas had called it—was freezing.
It smelled of pine sap, woodsmoke, and dust. The air inside was stale, like it hadn't been opened in months.
Jack moved through the dark living room with practiced ease, not bothering to turn on lights. I heard the strike of a match, the hiss of gas, and then a lantern flared to life on a central table, casting long, dancing shadows against the log walls.
"Generator is out back," he muttered, crouching in front of the massive stone fireplace. "I’ll start it in the morning. For now, we need heat."
I stood by the door, clutching my purse like a shield. "Is there a phone?"
"No landline," he said, crumpling newspaper into the grate. "No cell service. No Wi-Fi. That’s the point."
"So I’m a prisoner."
Jack froze. He struck a match against the stone hearth, the harsh sound echoing in the room. He lit the kindling, watching the flames lick up the paper before standing and turning to face me.
The firelight illuminated him from below, casting his eyes in shadow but lighting up the rigid line of his mouth.
"You are not a prisoner," he said, his voice hard. "You are under protection."
"Against my will," I countered.
"Would you prefer to be back at the dorm?
" he asked, stepping closer. "With the Copperheads waiting in the parking lot?
You saw what they did, Eloise. They don't care about your GPA.
They don't care about your dad. They want leverage.
They want to hurt me. And right now, you are the giant neon target painted on my chest."
"Why?" I demanded, stepping toward him, anger finally overriding the fear. "Why am I the target? Just because you... sniffed me at a game?"
"Because the moment I reacted to you," Jack said, his voice rising, "the moment I faltered on the ice, everyone in the arena who knows what to look for knew."
He pointed a finger at his own chest. "I am the Beta of the Sentinels. I am the future Alpha. If I have a weakness, the enemies of this pack will exploit it. And you..." He dropped his hand, clenching it into a fist at his side. "You are the biggest weakness I have ever had."
I stared at him. The fire crackled behind him, popping loudly.
"I’m a weakness," I repeated, the words tasting bitter. "Thanks. That’s great for the self-esteem."
Jack scrubbed a hand over his face, flinching as his palm touched his jaw.
I noticed it then.
He was shaking. A fine, tremor running through his hands. And he was sweating, despite the sub-zero temperature of the room. A sheen of perspiration slicked his forehead.
"You’re hurt," I said, the anger instantly evaporating into clinical concern.
"I’m fine," he growled, turning back to the fire.
"You’re not fine," I said, dropping my bag and walking toward him. "You’re trembling. Is it shock?"
"It’s not shock," he warned, not looking at me. "Eloise, stay back."
"Did they cut you?" I asked, ignoring him. I reached out, my hand hovering over his shoulder. "Jack, let me see."
"Don't touch me!"
He spun around, grabbing my wrist to stop me.
His grip was hard, hot—burning hot. But it wasn't the violence of the grab that stopped me. It was the look on his face.
He looked shattered. His eyes were wide, the pupils blown, the gold rimming the iris again. His skin was gray. He looked like a man holding back a tidal wave with his bare hands.
"If you touch me," he rasped, his voice sounding like it was tearing his throat apart, "I can't promise I won't... I can't promise I’ll be gentle."
We stood there, frozen in the firelight. His hand on my wrist. My heart pounding against his chest where I had stepped too close.
"What is happening to you?" I whispered.