Chapter 11
Stan
Happiness was a foreign substance.
It felt... light. Unnatural. Like gravity had decided to take a day off, leaving me floating a few inches above the pavement.
For twenty-one years, my internal landscape had been a frozen tundra of discipline, rage, and the constant, grinding pressure to keep the Wolf on a leash. Now? Now it felt like spring. The ice was cracking. The sun was out.
And it was terrifying.
I sat in the back of my Microeconomics lecture, staring at the whiteboard without seeing a single supply-and-demand curve. My pen was tapping a frantic rhythm against my notebook. My leg was bouncing.
My phone buzzed in my pocket.
I checked it under the desk.
Rachel: Stop vibrating. I can feel you from three rows back.
I smirked, glancing over my shoulder.
She was sitting near the front, wearing her "serious student" glasses and a cream-colored sweater that made her look like a librarian who moonlighted as an angel. She wasn't looking at me—she was furiously taking notes—but I saw the corner of her mouth quirk up.
Me: Can't help it. Thinking about last night.
Rachel: Focus on Elasticity of Demand, Butcher. Or I'm revoking your library card.
Me: Revoke it. See what happens.
She turned around then. Just a quick glance. Her eyes met mine, and for a split second, the air in the lecture hall crackled. I saw the flush rise on her neck. I saw the way her pupils dilated.
She remembered.
She remembered me pinning her against the door of my truck at 2 AM. She remembered the way she had whimpered my name into the leather of the passenger seat.
She turned back to the front, adjusting her glasses.
I leaned back in my chair, the smile refusing to leave my face.
We were criminals. We were stealing moments, stealing touches, stealing happiness right under the noses of everyone who wanted to keep us apart. And the thrill of it—the sheer, adrenaline-fueled risk—was addictive.
The deception required a level of logistical genius that would have impressed the CIA.
Rule #1: No PDAs.
Public Displays of Affection were suicide. We couldn't hold hands. We couldn't kiss. We couldn't even stand too close in the hallway.
Rule #2: The Buffer Zone.
If we were in the same room (cafeteria, training room), there had to be a third party present. A human shield. Usually Rizzo, who was oblivious enough to be useful but observant enough to be annoying.
Rule #3: The Dead Drop.
My rental house—the cabin—was the safe house. But she couldn't park there. She had to park her car at the overflow lot on the edge of campus, and I would pick her up in my truck. Or she would walk through the woods (which I hated, because wolves, but she insisted she liked the exercise).
It was exhausting. It was complicated.
And it was the best two weeks of my life.
"Kowalski! Focus!"
Coach Wolfowitz's whistle cut through my daydream like a razor.
I snapped back to reality. I was on the ice. Practice. The cold air burned my lungs.
"Sorry, Coach," I barked, tapping my stick on the ice.
"Stop dreaming about whatever you're dreaming about and clear the crease!" Wolfowitz shouted, skating toward me. His eyes were hard. He knew. He didn't have proof, but he smelled the change in me. He smelled the... contentment.
Wolves weren't supposed to be content. They were supposed to be hungry.
"Again!" I yelled at the defensive line. "Reset!"
We ran the drill again. A 2-on-1 breakout.
Johnson came at me with speed. He had the puck. Miller was on his wing.
I skated backward, matching Johnson's pace, keeping my stick active. I narrowed the angle. I forced him to the outside.
But instead of just pushing him, I saw the play. I saw the pass before he made it.
When Johnson tried to slide the puck across to Miller, I didn't just block it. I intercepted it. I knocked the puck out of the air with the shaft of my stick, gathered it on my backhand, spun, and fired a clearing pass that landed perfectly on Rizzo’s tape at the blue line.
"Nice!" Rizzo shouted.
I stopped, breathing hard. My body felt... fluid. The tension that usually lived in my shoulders—the constant fear of hurting someone—was gone.
Rachel.
She had done this. She had touched me, grounded me, and somehow, in the process, she had integrated the Wolf. I wasn't fighting him anymore. We were working together. I used his speed, his vision, but I kept the human hand on the wheel.
I looked up at the glassed-in office overlooking the rink.
The trainers sometimes watched practice from there.
She was there.
Rachel was standing by the window, her clipboard in hand. She was watching me.
Even through the glass, I felt it. The tether.
She lifted her hand and touched the glass.
I lifted my glove and saluted her.
Wolfowitz skated past me. "Keep your eyes on the puck, Kowalski. Not the scenery."
"Yes, Coach."
"And shave," Wolfowitz growled, skating away. "You look like a hobo."
I rubbed my jaw. I had stopped shaving every day. Rachel liked the stubble. She said it felt good against her thighs.
The thought made me hard instantly.
Focus. Hockey. Cold.
7:00 PM - The Library (The Real One)
We had to mix in some actual "normal" behavior to sell the cover story.
The cover story was that she was still tutoring me. So, twice a week, we met in the main campus library. In public. Where everyone could see us not having sex.
I sat at a large table in the back corner, surrounded by macroeconomics textbooks. Rachel sat across from me. Not next to me. Across.
"Okay," she whispered, sliding a flashcard toward me. "Opportunity Cost."
"The value of the next best alternative forgone," I recited robotically.
"Good." She slid another one. "Marginal Utility."
"The additional satisfaction gained from consuming one more unit of a good or service."
"Excellent."
She looked at me over the top of the card. Her eyes were dark.
"What is the marginal utility of one more kiss?" she whispered.
I choked on my water.
I looked around. The librarian, Mrs. Gable (the scary academic advisor), was shelving books two aisles over. A group of freshmen were studying near the window.
"High," I whispered back, leaning forward. "Extremely high. Diminishing returns do not apply."
Rachel smiled. It was a wicked little smile that promised trouble.
Under the table, I felt something brush against my calf.
Her foot.
She was wearing sneakers. She slid her foot up the leg of my jeans, pressing firmly against my shin.
"Rachel," I warned, keeping my face neutral.
"What?" she asked innocently, flipping to the next card. "Supply Curve shifts right when..."
Her foot moved higher. Over my knee. Up my thigh.
"When technology improves," I gritted out. "Or input costs decrease."
"Correct."
Her foot reached the junction of my thighs. She pressed her heel right against the bulge in my jeans.
I stopped breathing.
My hand shot under the table and grabbed her ankle.
"If you don't stop," I whispered, "I'm going to flip this table."
"You wouldn't dare," she whispered back. "Mrs. Gable is watching."
"Mrs. Gable can watch," I growled. "I don't care."
I squeezed her ankle, my thumb digging into her Achilles tendon. It was a warning. Don't start a fire you can't put out.
Rachel’s eyes widened slightly. She pulled her foot back.
"Spoilsport," she mouthed.
"Brat," I mouthed back.
I released her ankle. But I didn't pull my hand back. I rested it on her knee, under the table. Just a warm, heavy weight. claiming her.
We studied for another hour. It was agony. It was bliss.
Every time she shifted in her chair, I smelled her. Vanilla. And... me. She was wearing my scent like a perfume. It was faint to humans, but to me, it was screaming.
At 8:30, we packed up.
"I'm hungry," she said as we walked out into the cold night air.
"My place?" I suggested.
"Can't," she sighed. "Chloe is suspicious. She keeps asking where I am every night. I have to make an appearance at the dorm. Girl code."
"Right. Girl code." I hated Girl Code.
"Walk me to my car?"
"Always."
We walked to the parking lot. It was dark, the streetlights humming overhead.
When we reached her car, she unlocked it, but didn't get in. She turned to me, leaning against the door.
"So," she said. "I guess this is goodnight."
"I guess so."
I looked around. The lot was empty.
I stepped closer. I boxed her in against the car door, placing my hands on the roof on either side of her head.
"I hate this part," I muttered. "The leaving part."
"It makes the arriving part better," she said, reaching up to toy with the drawstrings of my hoodie.
"Maybe."
I leaned down and kissed her.
It started sweet. Just a goodnight kiss. But the second our lips touched, the hunger took over.
I groaned, deepening the kiss, my tongue sweeping into her mouth. She tasted like peppermint gum and coffee.
She wrapped her arms around my neck, pulling me down. I pressed my hips against hers, letting her feel exactly how much she had affected me in the library.
"Stan," she breathed against my mouth.
"Yeah?"
"We're in public."
"Don't care."
I moved my hands down her sides, gripping her waist, then lower to cup her ass. I squeezed, lifting her slightly so she was pressed against my erection.
She whimpered.
I moved my mouth to her neck, biting lightly.
"You like teasing me in the library?" I murmured against her skin. "You like playing games?"
"Yes," she admitted.
"You're lucky I have self-control," I said, nipping her earlobe. "Or I'd bend you over this hood right now."
She shivered. "Do it."
I froze.
"What?"
"Do it," she whispered recklessly. "Nobody's here."
I pulled back to look at her. Her eyes were wild.
"Rachel," I said, my voice rough. "It's twenty degrees. And there's a security camera on that pole."
I pointed to the light pole fifty feet away.
She looked at it. She slumped against the car.
"Damn security cameras," she grumbled.
I laughed. I kissed her forehead.
"Go home, you menace. Before I get arrested for public indecency."
"Fine."
She opened the door and got in.
"Call me when you get in?" I asked.
"Always."
She started the car and drove away.
I stood there in the cold, watching her taillights fade.