Chapter 6
Maya
I woke up with the phantom sensation of large, rough hands imprinted on my skin.
The guest room of Blackwood Manor was bathed in the grey, watery light of dawn. The heavy velvet curtains were drawn, but a sliver of morning sun cut across the duvet, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the air.
I lay perfectly still, staring at the ceiling, my heart already hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
It wasn’t fear. Not exactly. It was the biological aftershock of having my entire world tilted on its axis.
I closed my eyes and the memory washed over me, visceral and terrifyingly high-definition.
The smell of the basement gym—iron and sweat.
The cold leather of the bench press against my back.
And Leo. The heat of him. The way he had looked at me, eyes flashing with that unnatural gold, as he took me apart without even kissing me.
I pressed my palms to my burning cheeks.
I was Maya Sterling. I was a classical cellist. I was the girl who color-coded her planner and never jaywalked.
And yesterday, I had let a wolf shifter—a man who admitted he had a "feral" side—touch me in ways that made my knees weak just thinking about it. And I hadn’t just let him. I had begged him.
"I am in so much trouble," I whispered to the empty room.
I threw the covers off and sat up. My body felt different. Heavy. Sensitive. My skin felt too tight, like it was buzzing with a residual static charge.
I needed to get out of this bed. I needed to get out of this house. I needed to find a practice room and play until my fingers bled, because if I didn't channel this energy into something productive, I was going to explode.
I dressed quickly in the clothes I had brought yesterday—jeans, a thick sweater, my boots. I tried to move silently. The hallway outside the guest room was quiet, the massive house sleeping off the energy of the pack.
I crept down the grand staircase, my boots making soft thuds on the runner.
The kitchen was empty, thank God. It smelled of coffee and bacon, a lingering scent from a breakfast I had missed.
I didn't want to see anyone. I especially didn't want to see Leo. If I saw him, if I looked into those hazel eyes and saw the knowledge of what he’d done to me reflecting back, I would crumble.
I made it to the heavy oak front door. I reached for the handle.
"Running away?"
The voice came from the living room archway. It was low, raspy, and instantly stopped my heart.
I froze. My hand hovered over the brass latch.
I turned slowly.
Leo was sitting in a leather armchair by the cold fireplace. He was holding a mug of coffee, steam curling around his face. He was wearing grey sweatpants and a black hoodie, looking deceptively comfortable. But his posture was rigid, watchful.
He had been waiting for me.
"I have class," I lied. My voice sounded thin, reedy. "And practice. The recital is tomorrow."
Leo took a slow sip of his coffee, his eyes never leaving my face. "Class doesn't start for two hours. The Conservatory doesn't open until eight."
"I have a key," I bluffed.
He set the mug down on the side table. The ceramic clinked loudly in the silence.
"You're fleeing," he stated. "It's the flight response. We talked about this."
"I'm not fleeing," I argued, though my grip on my cello case strap tightened until my knuckles turned white. "I'm... processing."
"And how is the processing going?"
He stood up. He didn't rush. He unfolded his massive frame with a predator's grace and walked toward me.
He stopped five feet away—close enough for me to smell the cedar and rain scent that was now inextricably linked to my arousal, but far enough away to pretend we were just two people talking in a hallway.
"It's going," I managed to say. "I'm confused, Leo. I'm overwhelmed."
"Good," he said simply. "Confusion means you're breaking old patterns. Clarity is overrated when it's built on lies."
He looked at my mouth. My lips tingled.
"Did you sleep?" he asked. The question was intimate, loaded.
"No," I admitted. "Did you?"
A shadow passed over his face. "No. The Wolf was... loud."
We stood there, staring at each other. The air between us was thick, gelatinous. It felt like we were underwater. I wanted to step forward. I wanted to bury my face in his hoodie and let him absorb the panic radiating off me.
But the deal was for teaching, not for comfort.
"Go practice," Leo said softly, breaking the spell. "Attack the music, Maya. Play it like you played the gym floor yesterday."
My face flamed. "Leo!"
"Go," he ordered, but his lips quirked up in the ghost of a smirk. "I'll find you later. We have phase two of the immersion therapy tonight."
"Phase two?" I squeaked.
"Phase two," he confirmed. "Now run, Little Bit. Before I decide to keep you here for breakfast."
I turned and fled out the door, the cold morning air slapping my hot cheeks.
I ran not because I was scared of him. I ran because the part of me that wanted to stay for breakfast—and stay for everything else—was getting louder than the part of me that wanted to be a world-class musician.
The campus was waking up.
I walked quickly toward the Conservatory, head down, headphones on, trying to create a barrier between me and the world. But the barrier was failing.
Usually, I felt invisible on campus. I was just another student in a sea of parkas and backpacks. Today, I felt like I was glowing neon. I felt like I had "THE HOCKEY CAPTAIN MADE ME SCREAM" tattooed across my forehead.
I ducked into the campus coffee shop, "The Grind," desperate for caffeine.
It was crowded. The line snaked out the door. I joined the queue, shifting my cello case to a more comfortable position on my shoulder.
"Maya!"
I flinched. Harper was waving at me from a table near the window. She looked frantic, surrounded by notebooks and a laptop covered in stickers.
I sighed. I couldn't avoid her. I got my coffee—black, bitter, necessary—and walked over.
"You weren't in the room last night," Harper whispered loudly before I even sat down. Her eyes were wide, scanning my face like she was looking for clues to a crime. "I woke up at 3:00 AM to pee, and your bed was empty. It was made. You never make your bed if you sleep in it."
"I... I fell asleep in the practice rooms," I lied. It was a practiced lie. I had used it before.
Harper narrowed her eyes. She leaned across the table, sniffing the air. "You're wearing the same sweater you wore yesterday. And you smell like... pine trees? And expensive men's deodorant?"
My stomach dropped. I had forgotten about the nose of a journalism major.
"It's a new laundry detergent," I said quickly. "Earth scents. Very trendy."
"Bullshit," Harper declared. She sat back, crossing her arms. "You were at The Hive. I saw you leave with Leo Vance at the party. I saw the way he looked at you. Like he wanted to mount you and mount your head on his wall at the same time."
"Harper, please," I hissed, looking around. "Keep your voice down."
"So it's true?" Her eyes bugged out. "You spent the night at the murder mansion? With the Alpha of the Jocks?"
"Nothing happened," I insisted. "We... talked. He helped me with some anxiety stuff. For the recital."
"Leo Vance helped you with anxiety?" Harper snorted. "That man is a walking panic attack. He put three guys in the hospital last season."
"He's different when you know him," I defended, feeling a sudden, irrational urge to protect him. "He's intense, but he's... focused."
Harper studied me for a long moment. Her expression softened from investigator to concerned friend.
"Maya," she said quietly. "Be careful. Seriously. Those guys... they run this school. They operate by different rules. If you get mixed up with Leo, you're going to get hurt. He's not the boyfriend type. He's the 'ruin your life and leave you in the wreckage' type."
"I know," I whispered, gripping my coffee cup. "I know, Harper."
But knowing it and feeling it were two different things.
"Speak of the devil," Harper muttered, looking toward the door.
My head snapped around.
The door to the coffee shop opened, and the air pressure in the room seemed to drop.
It was the Pack.
Leo walked in first, flanked by Silas and Jax. They took up space instantly. They moved in a V-formation, unconscious but precise. They were wearing their team jackets—black leather with the snarling wolf logo on the back.
The coffee shop went quiet. Conversations paused. Eyes followed them.
Leo didn't look at anyone. He walked straight to the counter, the crowd parting for him like the Red Sea. He looked tired. His jaw was set, his shoulders tense.
I tried to look away. I tried to focus on Harper.
But I felt it. The weight of his gaze.
He turned his head. Slowly. Deliberately.
His eyes locked onto mine across the crowded room.
The noise of the espresso machine faded. The chatter of students disappeared. It was just us.
He didn't smile. He didn't wave. He just looked.
His gaze swept over me, checking me. He looked at my eyes (tired), my hands gripping the cup (nervous), and finally, my neck (where he had kissed me in the library).
It was a claim. It was a silent conversation shouted across thirty feet of linoleum.
I see you. You're mine. Are you okay?
I gave a microscopic nod.
His shoulders relaxed, just a fraction of an inch. He turned back to the counter, ordered three black coffees, and walked out without looking back.
"Oh my god," Harper whispered. "He looked at you."
"He looked at the room," I deflected, my heart racing.
"No," Harper said, shaking her head. "He looked at you. And you looked back. Maya... that wasn't a casual glance. That was... that was heat."
She reached across the table and grabbed my hand. "You're sleeping with him."
"I am not sleeping with him!" I hissed.
"Yet," Harper corrected. "You aren't sleeping with him yet. But looking at the two of you? It's a matter of time. And when that bomb goes off, make sure you're not standing in the blast radius."
I pulled my hand away. "I have to go practice."