Chapter 1 #2
I adjusted my oversized cardigan, pulling the knitted wool tighter around my body.
I was always cold. It was a bone-deep chill that had followed me since childhood, a reminder of the months spent in hospital beds, the hushed whispers of doctors, the way my father looked at me like I was made of spun glass that would shatter if he spoke too loudly.
Fragile Arabella. Be careful, Arabella. Don't run, Arabella.
I hated it. I hated the fragility. I hated the way the world felt too sharp, too heavy, too rough for me.
I looked down at the ancient text spread open on the folding table I’d set up in the back corner. The Myths of the Pacific Northwest: Origins of the Shapeshifter Legend.
It was for my thesis. I was the only human student allowed into the Advanced Folklore program at Blackwood Mountain University. My father, the Human Liaison for the university board, had pulled strings. He thought I was studying stories. He didn't know I was studying the truth.
I wasn't stupid. I knew what Blackwood was. I knew why the football players were too big, why the hockey team moved with supernatural speed, why the forest around the campus was strictly off-limits after sundown.
I was living in a den of wolves. And I was the only rabbit stupid enough to think she could study them without getting eaten.
A massive boom shook the ceiling, followed by a roar that sounded less like a crowd and more like a riot.
"They must be winning," I murmured to the empty room, tracing the illustration of a wolf standing on its hind legs.
I checked my watch. The first period should be ending soon. I needed to pack up before the players came down the hall to the locker rooms. I made it a rule never to be seen. Invisibility was another form of armor. If they didn't see me, they couldn't break me.
I reached for my highlighter, my hand hovering over the page.
And then the door to the archives slammed open.
The sound was explosive. The heavy steel door banged against the stopper with enough force to dent the metal.
I jumped, my heart lurching into my throat. My highlighter skidded across the page, leaving a jagged yellow streak through the text.
I spun around on my stool, clutching the edges of my cardigan.
A man stood in the doorway.
No. Not a man. A mountain.
He was massive. He took up the entire frame of the door, his shoulders so broad they defied anatomy. He was wearing hockey pants and skates, which added three inches to his already terrifying height, but his top half... oh god.
He had ripped his jersey off. He was wearing a compression shirt that had been torn open at the collar, revealing a chest that looked like it was carved from granite. Muscles rippled beneath olive skin that glistened with sweat.
He was breathing hard, his chest heaving like a bellows. His black hair was a wild, damp mess, sticking to his forehead.
But it was his face that stopped my breath.
He was beautiful in a way that was terrifying. Sharp cheekbones, a strong, square jaw, lips that were currently pulled back in a snarl. A jagged scar ran from his jaw down the thick column of his neck, disappearing under the torn shirt. It looked brutal. Violent.
And his eyes.
They were staring right at me. And they were glowing.
Not metaphorically. They were literally glowing a deep, molten amber.
I froze. My father’s warnings rushed through my head. Never corner them. Never look them in the eye when they’re agitated. If you see one shifting, run.
But I couldn't run. My legs felt like they had turned to water.
He stepped into the room. The door swung shut behind him with a heavy click.
The sound locked us in.
He moved with a terrifying grace, the blades of his skates cutting into the linoleum floor. He didn't walk; he stalked. He lowered his head, his nostrils flaring as he inhaled deeply.
"You," he rumbled.
The voice was so deep I felt it in the soles of my feet. It wasn't human. It was gravel and thunder.
I scrambled backward, my stool scraping loudly against the floor. I backed up until my hips hit the metal shelving behind me. There was nowhere to go.
"I... I was just leaving," I stammered, my voice barely a whisper. I sounded pathetic. Fragile Arabella.
He didn't listen. He kept coming. One stride. Two.
He stopped two feet in front of me. He was so tall I had to crane my neck back to look at him. He blocked out the light. He blocked out the air.
The smell of him washed over me. It was overwhelming. Cold pine needles. Worn leather. And something dark and smoky, like a wood fire burning in the dead of winter. It was the most masculine thing I had ever smelled, and it made my stomach flip in a way that had nothing to do with fear.
Well, maybe a little to do with fear.
He leaned down, bracing one hand on the shelf beside my head. His arm was a thick cord of muscle, the veins popping against the skin. He caged me in.
"What are you doing here?" he demanded. His eyes were scanning my face, frantic, hungry. He looked like he was in pain.
"Studying," I squeaked, clutching my book to my chest as a shield. "I have a permit. From Dean Vance."
"Vance is an idiot," he snarled.
He leaned closer. His face was inches from mine now. I could feel the heat radiating off him. He was burning up.
"You smell..." He trailed off, his voice cracking. He closed his eyes for a second, inhaling near my neck.
I stopped breathing. He was sniffing me. The Captain of the hockey team, the most terrifying man on campus, was sniffing my neck.
"Like what?" I whispered, my voice trembling.
His eyes snapped open. The amber fire in them was brighter now. He looked at my mouth, then back to my eyes.
"Like trouble," he said low. "Like something I shouldn't want."
My heart was hammering so hard against my ribs I was sure he could hear it. With his enhanced hearing, he probably could.
"Please," I said, though I didn't know what I was begging for. To be let go? Or for him to close that final inch of space?
The thought shocked me. I was the Good Girl. I was the virgin who spent her Friday nights translating Latin. I didn't want giant, scarred, angry hockey players to look at me like I was a steak.
Except... my body seemed to disagree. My skin prickled with awareness. My nipples tightened against the lace of my bra. A heavy, unfamiliar ache settled low in my belly.
He looked down at my hands, clutching the book. His gaze lingered on my knuckles, white from the strain.
"You're shaking," he observed. His tone shifted, just slightly. The aggression dialed back a fraction, replaced by something possessive.
"You're terrifying," I shot back, the words slipping out before I could stop them.
His eyes narrowed. A muscle feathered in his jaw.
"I am," he agreed. "Which is why you need to leave. Now."
"I can't," I said, glancing at his arm blocking my exit. "You've trapped me."
He looked at his own arm, as if surprised to find it there. Then he looked back at me. He didn't move it.
"If I move," he whispered, his voice rough, straining, "I'm going to do something that will get us both expelled."
"Like what?" I challenged. I didn't know where this boldness was coming from. Maybe it was the adrenaline. Maybe it was the way he was looking at me—like I was the only water in a desert.
His gaze dropped to my lips again. He leaned in, his nose brushing against my jawline. The stubble of his beard grazed my sensitive skin, sending a shiver violently down my spine.
"Like taste you," he murmured against my pulse point.
I gasped. The sound was loud in the quiet room.
His hand—the one not bracing the shelf—twitched at his side. He clenched it into a fist, fighting himself. I saw the battle in his eyes. The man versus the monster.
"You're human," he said, the word sounding like an accusation. "You're fragile. You'd break."
"I'm not glass," I whispered. It was the lie I told myself every day.
"You are to me," he growled.
Suddenly, he pulled back. He ripped his arm away from the shelf as if the metal burned him. He stumbled back a step, putting distance between us. The loss of his heat was immediate, leaving me shivering in the cold basement air.
He ran a hand through his hair, gripping the strands tight. He looked wild. Unhinged.
"Get out," he commanded. He didn't look at me. He stared at the floor, his chest heaving. "Get out before I stop thinking."
I didn't need to be told twice.
I grabbed my bag, shoving my book inside with shaking hands. I slipped past him, careful not to touch him, though the air between us crackled with static electricity.
I ran for the door.
My hand was on the handle when his voice stopped me.
"Hey."
I froze. I turned back slowly.
He was watching me from the shadows of the shelves. His eyes were still glowing, two burning coals in the darkness.
"What's your name?" he asked.
"Arabella," I whispered.
He tested the name on his tongue, mouthing it silently. Arabella.
"Stay away from me, Arabella," he said, his voice flat, final, and terrifyingly serious. "I mean it. If I see you again... I won't let you run."
I pushed the door open and fled.
I ran down the hallway, my boots slapping against the concrete. I didn't stop until I was outside in the freezing night air, the snow swirling around me.
I leaned against the brick wall of the arena, gasping for breath. The cold air burned my lungs, but it couldn't cool the heat that was still radiating from my skin.
I could still smell him. Pine and smoke. It was clinging to my clothes. It was clinging to my hair.
I touched my neck where his nose had brushed my skin. My pulse was still racing.
I knew who he was. Dante Moretti. The Captain. The Alpha.
I knew he was dangerous. I knew he was forbidden. I knew that my father would lock me in a tower if he knew I had been within ten feet of him.
But as I stood there in the snow, shivering and terrified, all I could think about was the way he had looked at me.
Like he wanted to devour me whole.
And God help me... I wanted to let him.