Chapter 4 #2
"Besides the knee." He reached into the pocket of his hoodie and pulled out a crumpled paper of his own. He tossed it into my lap.
I picked it up. It was a syllabus for Ethics of Inter-Species Relations.
Across the top, in bold red letters: ACADEMIC PROBATION WARNING.
"You're failing Ethics?" I asked, looking at him incredulously.
He groaned, rubbing a hand over his face. "It's bullshit. The professor wants me to write essays on 'The Moral Implications of the Shift' and 'Human Fragility.' I wrote that if a human gets in the way of a shift, it's natural selection. Apparently, that's 'problematic.'"
I couldn't help it. I laughed. A real, genuine laugh.
"Dante, you can't say that to a professor."
"It's the truth!" he defended, throwing his hands up. "But if I don't pass this midterm, the Dean suspends me. If I'm suspended, I don't play. If I don't play, the scouts stop looking. My NHL draft prospects... poof."
He snapped his fingers. The sound was sharp in the quiet room.
"So," I said slowly, the gears in my brain turning. "You need someone who understands how humans think. Someone who can teach you how to write the 'correct' answers to make the professor happy."
"Yeah," he grunted. "I need a translator. A filter for my... lack of filter."
"And I," I continued, feeling a sudden surge of adrenaline, "need someone who understands the Pack. Someone who can show me the 'grit.' Someone who can give me the inside scoop so I can rewrite my thesis and get Halloway off my back."
Dante went still. He looked at me, his eyes narrowing slightly. He saw where I was going.
"You want to shadow me," he stated.
"I want to be your shadow," I corrected. "I want access, Dante. I want to see the locker room. The strategy sessions. The Hive. I want to interview you. Real answers. No growling, no 'stay away from me' speeches. I want the truth."
"It's dangerous," he said immediately. "The Pack won't like a human sniffing around. Especially you."
"Why especially me?"
He looked at me—really looked at me. His gaze dropped to my mouth, then back up.
"Because you smell like something they want to eat," he said darkly. "And because... you distract me."
My heart skipped a beat. "I'll take the risk. If you will."
He stared at me for a long time. The silence was thick, heavy with unspoken tension. I held his gaze, refusing to look away, refusing to let him see me blink.
Finally, he let out a long breath, a puff of white mist in the cold air.
"Fine," he grunted. "We trade. You tutor me in Ethics. You rewrite my papers so I don't sound like a homicidal maniac. In exchange... I give you the tour."
"The full tour," I insisted. "No hiding things."
"Within reason," he countered. "If I tell you to run, you run. If I tell you to close your eyes, you close them. You don't argue with me when safety is involved. Deal?"
He held out his hand.
I looked at it. His hand was massive, scarred, and rough. It was a weapon.
I reached out and placed my hand in his. My fingers looked impossibly small wrapped in his palm. His skin was calloused and hot—so hot. The heat seeped into my cold fingers, traveling up my arm, warming me from the inside out.
"Deal," I whispered.
He didn't let go. He squeezed my hand, his thumb brushing over my knuckles.
"You have ink on your face," he murmured.
"What?"
He reached up with his other hand—the one not holding mine. His fingertips brushed my cheekbone, right under my eye. His touch was feather-light, a shocking contrast to the size of him.
He rubbed his thumb gently against my skin, wiping away a smudge of blue ink I must have gotten there while agonizing over my notes.
I stopped breathing. The air in the greenhouse vanished.
His eyes were locked on mine, intense and unreadable. He wasn't looking at me like a teammate or a tutor. He was looking at me like I was a puzzle he was desperate to solve.
"There," he whispered. His hand lingered on my cheek, cupping my jaw. His thumb grazed my lower lip, dragging it down slightly.
My breath hitched. I leaned into his touch, just a fraction of an inch. It was instinct. It was gravity.
"You're cold," he said, his voice rougher now.
"I'm always cold," I admitted.
"Not when you're with me," he said. It wasn't a boast. It was a promise.
He abruptly pulled his hand away and stood up, breaking the spell. He winced as he put weight on his bad knee, but he masked it quickly.
"Library. Tonight. Eight o'clock," he ordered, transforming back into the Captain. "Bring your red pen. I have an essay on 'Empathy' that needs CPR."
"I'll be there," I said, my voice breathless.
He turned to leave, but paused at the glass doors. He didn't look back.
"And Arabella?"
"Yeah?"
"Wear something warmer," he grumbled. "Seeing you shiver makes me want to burn things down."
He pushed through the doors and vanished into the grey afternoon, leaving me alone with the frozen roses and a heart that was beating so fast I thought it might melt the ice.
I looked down at the hand he had held. It was still tingling.
We had a deal. I was going to shadow the wolf.
I just hoped I wouldn't end up being the meal.