Chapter 3
Faye
The human anatomy lab smelled like formaldehyde and impending failure.
I sat on a tall metal stool, staring down at the skeletal model of a hand, trying to memorize the insertion point of the flexor pollicis brevis, but my brain refused to cooperate. Every time I closed my eyes, I didn't see diagrams of muscle fibers or tendons.
I saw gold eyes.
I saw water dripping off a tattooed torso.
I felt the phantom pressure of a calloused hand gripping my wrist, pinning it against a pulse that hammered like a war drum.
If I start, Faye... I won't be able to stop.
The memory of Oakley’s voice, rough with a hunger I didn't understand, sent a shiver down my spine that had nothing to do with the drafty ventilation in the science building. I dropped my pen. It clattered against the linoleum, the sound echoing in the empty lab like a gunshot.
"Get it together, Sommers," I whispered to myself, pressing the heels of my hands into my eyes until stars burst behind my lids.
I was losing my mind. That was the only logical explanation.
I was a rational person. I was a scientist—or at least, I was training to be one.
I believed in biology, in physiology, in the tangible mechanics of how bodies worked.
I did not believe in fairy tales, and I certainly didn't believe in the romance novel nonsense of "fated attraction. "
Oakley Thorne was just a man. A very large, very scary, genetically modified man who happened to be the captain of the hockey team I was assigned to treat. The electricity between us was just... static. It was the biological response to high-stress stimuli. Fight or flight.
My body just seemed confused about which one to choose.
"There you are."
The door to the lab swung open, and Sloane marched in, looking like a storm cloud dressed in leather. My roommate was the antithesis of me. Where I was soft edges and neutral colors, Sloane was sharp angles, combat boots, and cynicism.
"I've been texting you for an hour," she said, dropping her bag onto the desk next to mine. "Why are you sitting in the dark with a bag of bones? It’s Friday night."
"I'm studying," I said, reaching down to retrieve my pen. "Midterms are coming up."
"Midterms are three weeks away," Sloane countered. She leaned against the slate table, crossing her arms. "You're hiding."
I stiffened. "I'm not hiding."
"You are. You've been hiding ever since you got back from the arena yesterday looking like you’d just run a marathon. Your face was flushed, your hands were shaking, and you smelled like..." She wrinkled her nose, sniffing the air theatrically. "Like expensive cologne and bad decisions."
I flushed, the heat creeping up my neck. "It’s just... intense. The rotation. The players are huge, and the coach is demanding."
Sloane rolled her eyes. "Well, take a break from the giants. Tonight, we are going out."
I shook my head immediately. "No. Absolutely not. I have to memorize the carpal bones."
"Faye," Sloane said, her voice taking on a dangerous edge. "It’s the 'First Ice' party. The official start of the season mixer. Everyone is going."
My stomach dropped. "The hockey party? At Blackwood Lodge?"
"Yes. The Lodge. The mysterious, testosterone-filled castle in the woods.
" Sloane’s eyes glinted. "I heard they have a keg filled with something called 'Wolfsbane Ale' that’s technically illegal in three states.
Come on. I need a wingwoman. I have my eye on that backup goalie—the one who looks like he could bench press a Buick. "
"Sloane, I can't," I pleaded, standing up and shoving my textbook into my bag. "I work for them. It’s unprofessional to party with the patients."
"You're a student trainer, not their surgeon," she scoffed. "Besides, you need to desensitize yourself. You're terrified of them. If you go to the party, see them drinking beer and acting like idiots, maybe you’ll stop looking like a deer in headlights every time one of them walks by."
I paused. There was a twisted sort of logic to that.
Oakley had spent the last forty-eight hours trying to intimidate me. He wanted me to feel small. He wanted me to feel like an outsider. If I hid in my dorm room while the rest of the campus celebrated his team, I was proving him right. I was proving that I didn't belong in his world.
But if I showed up? If I walked into his house, drank his beer, and stood my ground?
That was a power move.
Or a suicide mission.
"Fine," I breathed, clutching the strap of my bag. "But we stay for one hour. And I am not drinking the illegal ale."
Sloane grinned, linking her arm through mine. "Deal. Now let's go make you look less 'librarian' and more 'trouble'."
Two hours later, I stood in front of the massive double doors of Blackwood Lodge, regretting every life choice that had led me to this moment.
The house was monstrous. It sat on a ridge overlooking the frozen lake, a sprawling structure of dark timber and river stone that looked like it had grown out of the earth rather than been built. It was surrounded by towering pines that whispered in the wind, their branches heavy with snow.
Even from the driveway, I could feel the bass. It wasn't just a sound; it was a physical vibration that traveled up through the soles of my boots and rattled my teeth.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
It sounded like a heartbeat. A massive, predatory heartbeat.
"Ready?" Sloane yelled over the music, adjusting her fishnets.
"No," I shouted back.
She pushed the doors open, and we were swallowed whole.
The sensory overload was instant and violent. The heat hit me first—a wall of humid, heavy air that smelled of sweat, expensive bourbon, pine, and the underlying, metallic tang of Shifter. It was the same scent I had smelled in the locker room, magnified by a hundred bodies.
The Great Room of the Lodge was packed. The ceilings were vaulted, rising thirty feet high, with iron chandeliers casting a dim, golden light over the crowd. A massive stone fireplace dominated the far wall, the flames roaring high enough to roast an ox.
And everywhere I looked, there were monsters.
Not literally—they were in their human forms—but the energy was undeniable.
The sheer size of the men in the room was staggering.
Hockey players were big to begin with, but Shifter hockey players were built differently.
They took up space. They moved with a fluid, lethal grace that made the human students look clumsy in comparison.
I stuck close to Sloane, keeping my head down as we navigated the crush of bodies. I felt like a mouse scurrying through a herd of elephants.
"Drink!" Sloane commanded, shoving a red solo cup into my hand.
I took a sip. It was cheap beer, mercifully normal. I held the cup like a talisman, scanning the room.
I told myself I wasn't looking for him. I told myself I was just assessing the exits.
But my eyes betrayed me. They swept the room with a hunger I couldn't suppress, bypassing the laughing groups of students, the girls dancing on the coffee tables, the guys doing keg stands in the corner.
And then, I found him.
He was sitting on a high-backed leather armchair near the fireplace, looking like a king on a throne of shadows.
Oakley Thorne.
He wasn't drinking. He wasn't laughing. He held a glass of amber liquid loosely in one hand, resting it on his knee, while he watched the chaos with a look of bored detachment.
He was wearing a black Henley that stretched tight across his chest, the buttons undone at the throat to reveal a hint of the tattoos that I knew covered his skin.
The firelight danced in his eyes, turning the gold irises to molten copper.
As if he felt my gaze—a physical touch across the crowded room—his head snapped up.
Our eyes locked.
The noise of the party seemed to fade into a dull roar, like I was underwater. The air between us pulled tight, a rubber band stretched to its breaking point.
He didn't smile. He didn't wave. He just stared, his expression hardening. His nostrils flared slightly, and I knew, with absolute certainty, that he had smelled me the moment I walked through the door.
He looked... angry. No, not angry. Possessive.
He set his glass down on the side table with a deliberate clack and started to rise.
Panic flared in my chest. He was coming over here. To do what? Throw me out? Growl at me in front of half the student body?
"I need a refill," I stammered to Sloane, who was busy flirting with a guy who had jagged teeth and a charming smile.
"We just got here!" she yelled back.
"Bathroom!" I corrected, pivoting on my heel and diving into the crowd, desperate to put bodies between me and the Alpha.
I pushed through the throngs of people, murmuring apologies, trying to find a quiet corner to catch my breath. I ended up near the kitchen, where the crowd was slightly thinner but the noise was still deafening.
"Whoa there, sweetheart. What’s the rush?"
A hand clamped down on my shoulder, stopping me in my tracks.
I looked up. The guy was human—a frat brother from one of the non-shifter houses. He was tall, blonde, and swaying slightly, his eyes glazed with alcohol. He was wearing a polo shirt with a popped collar, the universal uniform of 'I'm about to be annoying.'
"Excuse me," I said, trying to step around him. "I'm just trying to get through."
"You're Faye, right?" he slurred, stepping in front of me to block my path. His hand slid from my shoulder down to my upper arm, his grip a little too tight. "The new trainer? My buddy on the team said you have magic hands."
I bristled. "I'm a kinesiology student. Let go of my arm."
"Come on," he laughed, leaning in close. His breath smelled like sour beer and onion dip. "Don't be like that. Why don't you show me what those hands can do? My lower back is killing me."
"Let go," I said, louder this time, trying to twist away.
"You're cute when you're feisty," he said, leering. "Tiny little thing. I bet you're fun to throw around."