Chapter 3
Lydia
The human body is a machine.
That was the mantra I had repeated to myself since I was twelve years old, watching my father ice his knees after a shift at the plant. It was the truth that had carried me through high school biology, through premed anatomy, and all the way to North Ridge Academy.
Muscles contract. Nerves fire. Hormones signal.
It was all chemistry and physics. There was no magic to it. Even here, surrounded by creatures who could break the laws of nature by shifting into wolves and bears, the underlying biology was the same.
Or at least, that’s what I told myself.
I sat at my small desk in the dorm, my specialized Kinesiology textbook open to page 342: Sympathetic Nervous System Arousal and the Fight or Flight Response.
I stared at the diagram of the adrenal glands, but all I could see were eyes. Amber eyes. Glowing, predatory, and fixed on me with an intensity that shouldn't be scientifically possible.
We are stuck, Holt.
I groaned, dropping my forehead against the cool, glossy page of the textbook. It had been twenty-four hours since the tutoring session from hell. Twenty-four hours since I had sat in a glass box with Michael Holt and felt the air turn into something thick and flammable.
We had spent two hours discussing the femur. Just the femur. And yet, I had walked out of that library feeling like I’d run a marathon. My skin had been flushed, my pulse erratic, and my scent...
I squeezed my eyes shut. I didn't want to think about my scent. I didn't want to think about the way his nostrils had flared every time I shifted in my chair. I didn't want to think about the way his knee—solid as a rock and radiating heat like a furnace—had pressed against mine.
He hadn't moved it. And God help me, I hadn't moved mine either.
Knock. Knock. KNOCK.
The door to my dorm room rattled in its frame.
"Lydia! Open up! Emergency!"
I jerked up, my heart doing that stupid fluttery thing again. I checked my watch. 9:30 PM on a Friday.
I unlocked the door and Becca tumbled in. Becca was a human, like me, but she lacked the survival instinct that Uncle Mac had drilled into my head. She was a sophomore Art History major who thought shifters were "misunderstood puppies."
"I need your black boots," she announced, breathless. She was wearing a silver sequined dress that looked less like clothing and more like a cry for help.
"Hello to you too," I said, leaning against the doorframe. "Where are you going dressed like a disco ball?"
"The Hive," she said, kicking off her sneakers and raiding my closet. "The team won against Michigan Tech. Massive blowout. They’re throwing a rager. Everyone is going."
"I am not everyone," I said, walking back to my desk. "And neither are you. Do you know what happens at Hive parties? Property damage and bad decisions."
"Oh, come on, Lyd," Becca pleaded, emerging with my favorite combat boots. "It’s practically a campus requirement. Plus, I heard Jagger Vance is going to be there."
"Jagger Vance is a coyote," I reminded her. "He will steal your wallet and your heart, in that order."
"I’m counting on it," she grinned, lacing up the boots. Then she paused, looking at me. "Wait. Don't you have to go?"
"Why would I have to go?"
"Because," Becca said, standing up and smoothing her dress.
"I saw Jagger in the quad earlier. He said Coach Cross left the new playbook at the Hive during a drop-in inspection this morning.
And he said if someone doesn't come get it before the party gets 'wild,' it’s probably going to get used as a coaster for a keg. "
I froze.
Uncle Mac’s playbook. The "Bible." He kept that thing handcuffed to his wrist during the season. If he realized he left it at the Hive—a house full of drunk, rowdy shifters—he wouldn't just be mad. He would go nuclear. He would bench the whole team.
And as the team's intern, managing the equipment—including the intellectual property—was technically my job.
"Are you sure?" I asked, a pit forming in my stomach.
"Positive," Becca said, checking her reflection in my mirror. "Jagger said, and I quote: 'Tell the Coach's niece to come rescue the sacred text before Miller eats it.'"
I swore under my breath.
I couldn't call Mac. He was at a donor dinner tonight in Chicago. If I told him the playbook was unsecured, he’d have an aneurysm.
I had to go get it.
I looked at my sweatpants. I looked at my textbook. Then I looked at Becca, who was practically vibrating with excitement.
"Fine," I snapped. "But I’m not dressing up. I’m going in, grabbing the book, and leaving. Five minutes. Tops."
Becca squealed and clapped her hands. "Yes! Just... maybe put on some mascara? You look like you've been staring into the void."
"I have been," I muttered, thinking of amber eyes. "I have been."
The Hive wasn't a house. It was a fortress of testosterone.
It sat on the edge of the woods, a massive log structure that looked like it had been built by Vikings who hated architecture. Even from the driveway, I could feel the bass. It thumped in the ground, vibrating up through the soles of my combat boots.
The front lawn was covered in snow, but nobody seemed to care. There were groups of students—mostly shifters, a few brave humans—standing around a fire pit that was burning a little too high and a little too blue.
"Smell that?" Becca shouted over the music as we approached the front porch. "Smell the freedom?"
"I smell cheap beer and bad judgment," I yelled back, clutching my coat tighter.
We pushed through the front door, and the sensory assault was instantaneous.
Heat. A wall of it. Shifters ran hot—102 degrees on average—and with two hundred of them packed into one house, the air was sweltering. It was humid with sweat, breath, and the heavy, cloying scent of pheromones.
To a human, a party smelled like a party. To me, trained in physiology, it smelled like a chemical weapon.
There was the sharp, acidic tang of aggression from the males. The sweet, floral musk of the females. And underneath it all, the metallic scent of magic and adrenaline.
"I'm going to find the bar!" Becca shouted, disappearing into the crush of bodies before I could stop her.
"Becca, wait!" I called, but she was gone.
I was alone.
Shoulders back. Eyes forward. Don't look like prey.
I navigated the living room. It was chaos. A chandelier made of antlers hung precariously over a makeshift dance floor where bodies were grinding together with a ferocity that wouldn't be allowed in a public club.
I scanned the room, looking for the tell-tale black binder of the playbook. It usually sat on the coffee table or the kitchen island.
I pushed past a linebacker-sized Bear shifter who was holding a red solo cup in one hand and a terrified-looking sophomore girl in the other. He grunted as I squeezed by, his nose twitching near my hair.
"Watch it," I muttered, elbowing past him.
"Feisty," he rumbled, but he let me pass.
I made it to the kitchen. It was the heart of the Hive. A massive butcher-block island was covered in bottles, pizza boxes, and... no playbook.
"Looking for something?"
I spun around.
Jagger Vance was leaning against the refrigerator, a lazy grin on his face. He was holding a bottle of vodka like it was water.
"The playbook, Jagger," I said, crossing my arms. "Where is it?"
"Oh, that?" He laughed, pushing off the fridge. "I think Mauler has it."
My stomach dropped. "Mikey?"
"Yeah. He took it down to the basement. Said he wanted to study the defensive spread for next week. You know how he gets. Mr. Intense."
"He's studying during a party?"
"Mikey doesn't party," Jagger said, taking a swig of vodka. "He broods. He looms. He occasionally growls. But he doesn't party." He winked at me. "Go get it, Mouse. If you dare."
I glared at him. "Don't call me Mouse."
"Everyone calls you Mouse," he teased. "Even the big bad Wolf."
I turned away, my face heating up. I hated that nickname. I hated that it was accurate.
I headed for the basement door. It was located in the back hallway, away from the noise. As I got closer, the crowd thinned out. The air got cooler.
I reached for the doorknob, but a hand slammed against the wood right next to my head.
I jumped, spinning around.
It was Davis. The freshman wolf. He was drunk—sloppy drunk. His eyes were unfocused, his shirt was unbuttoned, and he smelled like sour mash and lust.
"Where you going, Lydia?" he slurred, leaning in way too close.
"To get something for Coach," I said, stepping back. My back hit the door. "Move, Davis."
"Coach isn't here," Davis grinned, his gaze dropping to my chest. "And you smell really good tonight. Did you wear that perfume for me?"
"I'm not wearing perfume," I said, my hand inching toward the doorknob behind me. "I'm working. Back off."
"Come on," he whined, putting his other hand on the wall, trapping me. "You're always so uptight. Just one dance. Let me show you what a real wolf can do."
"Davis," I warned, my heart rate spiking. One-twenty. One-thirty. "If you touch me, my uncle will skin you and use you as a rug."
"He won't know," Davis whispered, leaning in to nuzzle my neck.
Panic flared. Cold and sharp. I opened my mouth to scream, or maybe to bite him—
"Davis."
The name didn't come from me. It came from the top of the stairs behind us.
It wasn't a shout. It was barely a whisper. But it cut through the bass of the music like a razor blade. It was low, vibrating with a frequency that rattled the teeth in my skull.
Davis froze. His eyes widened, the drunken haze clearing instantly, replaced by sheer, primal terror.
He pulled back from me as if I were radioactive.
I looked past him.
Mikey was standing at the top of the stairs leading to the second floor. He wasn't wearing his jersey. He was wearing a black t-shirt that strained across his chest and grey sweatpants that hung low on his hips. He was barefoot.
He looked massive. He looked lethal.
And he looked furious.
His hands were gripping the banister so hard the wood was splintering. His eyes were glowing—not a faint shimmer, but a solid, burning gold.