Chapter 2 #2
It wasn't just fear. Fear I could handle. I had lived my whole life in fear of the monsters on this campus. I knew how to navigate fear—you lowered your eyes, you barred your throat, you made yourself small.
No, the problem wasn't fear. The problem was the pull.
The problem was that when he had grabbed my wrist last night, my body hadn't screamed run. It had screamed stay.
It was a biological anomaly. A cruel joke of genetics.
Sometimes, Latents retained the mating instinct even without the shifting ability.
We could feel the connection, the chemical magnetism of a compatible Alpha, but we didn't have the durability to survive the act of mating.
It was like a moth falling in love with a bug zapper.
And Spike Thorne wasn't just a zapper. He was the entire power grid.
If I spent hours alone with him in a small room... if I smelled that woodsmoke and iron scent... if he looked at me with those burning gold eyes...
Focus, Riley. You are a scientist. Treat him like a lab rat. He is a subject. You are the observer.
I splashed cold water on my face, checked my bun to make sure not a single strand of hair was loose, and marched toward the library.
The University Library was my church.
It was a cathedral of silence and dust, five stories of books that muffled the outside world. The air here smelled of decaying paper, glue, and coffee—a safe, neutral scent.
I went straight to the third floor, the restricted section for graduate students and athletes. It was quieter here. The study rooms were glass-walled cages lining the back wall, overlooking the snowy pines of the forest.
Room B was small. Claustrophobic. A single round table, four chairs, and a whiteboard.
I arrived twenty minutes early. I needed to claim the territory. I set up my fortress: textbook open, notebook aligned parallel to the table edge, three pens (red, black, blue) laid out in a perfect row. I sat in the chair closest to the door, ensuring my escape route was clear.
I opened the textbook, The Great Wars: Territorial Disputes of the 19th Century, and tried to read.
The words swam on the page.
4:00 PM.
He wasn't here.
4:05 PM.
Still nothing.
Relief began to trickle in. Maybe he wouldn't show. Maybe he didn't care about his eligibility. Maybe he was too busy sharpening his skates or hunting deer or whatever Alphas did on Tuesdays.
If he didn't show, I could tell Aris I tried. I could keep my scholarship and my sanity.
4:10 PM.
I started to pack up. "Well," I muttered, a nervous giggle escaping my throat. "I guess that’s th—"
The door to the study room didn't just open; it was shoved inward with enough force that the handle slammed against the wall.
The sound cracked through the silence like a gunshot.
I jumped, knocking my red pen onto the floor.
Spike Thorne filled the doorway.
If I thought he was big in the tunnel, he was monstrous in the library.
The low ceiling and the rows of books seemed to shrink around him.
He was wearing gray sweatpants that hung low on his hips and a black hoodie with the sleeves pushed up, revealing forearms that were thick with muscle and roped with veins.
He looked pissed.
His hair was messy, as if he’d been running his hands through it. His jaw was clenched so tight a muscle feathered in his cheek. And he carried a scent with him that instantly obliterated the smell of old books—rain, cold air, and that sharp, angry spice.
He didn't say a word. He just walked in, kicked the door shut behind him with his heel, and threw a crumpled backpack onto the table.
The room suddenly felt like a phone booth.
"You're late," I said. It was supposed to sound authoritative. It came out as a squeak.
Spike ignored me. He pulled out the chair opposite me—the one furthest from the door, blocking me in—and collapsed into it. He sprawled, his long legs stretching out under the table until his heavy boots bumped against my sneakers.
I jerked my feet back, tucking them under my chair.
He looked at me then. Really looked at me.
His eyes were amber today, not red, but they were simmering. He swept his gaze over my oversized sweater, my tight bun, my glasses. His lip curled in something that looked like disdain, but his nostrils flared, taking in a deep breath of the air between us.
"So," he rumbled. His voice was a low baritone that vibrated in the table surface. "You're the tutor."
"I am," I said, clutching my hands together in my lap to stop them from trembling. "And you're failing Ethics."
He let out a short, dark laugh. "Ethics. Right. Because knowing the moral philosophy of the Wolf Wars is going to help me stop a puck."
"It’s going to help you stay on the team," I countered, finding a shred of courage. "Dr. Aris said—"
"I don't care what Aris said," Spike interrupted.
He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table.
He was so close. Too close. I could see the flecks of green in his gold eyes.
I could see the shadow of stubble on his jaw.
"Let's get one thing straight, Mouse. I don't want to be here.
You don't want to be here. So just sign the sheet saying I did the hours, and I’ll leave. "
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a crumpled attendance sheet, sliding it across the table.
It would be so easy. Sign the paper. Let him leave. Go back to being safe.
But then I looked at his hand. The knuckles were bruised. There was a fresh scrape on his thumb. And I remembered Aris’s threat about my scholarship. If Spike failed the test, I failed the assignment.
I didn't have the luxury of quitting.
I reached out and put my hand on the paper. But instead of signing it, I slid it back toward him.
"No," I said.
The silence that followed was heavy enough to crush bone.
Spike blinked. He looked at the paper, then back at me, as if he couldn't believe the small, gray thing in front of him had just spoken.
"Excuse me?" he said softly. The danger in his voice spiked.
"I said no," I repeated, my heart hammering against my throat. "I need this credit as much as you do. If you fail, I lose my funding. So I’m not forging anything. You’re going to sit there, you’re going to open your book, and we’re going to discuss the Treaty of 1894."
Spike stared at me. The air in the room grew hot, charged with static. I could feel the pressure of his aura, the heavy weight of his Alpha dominance trying to force me to submit, to look down, to apologize.
I didn't look down. I held his gaze, terrified but stubborn.
A minute passed.
Then, slowly, the corner of his mouth twitched. It wasn't a smile. It was a grimace.
"You have a death wish, Bennett?" he asked.
"I have a tuition bill," I shot back. "Open the book."
He stared at me for another second, his eyes narrowing. Then, with a groan of frustration that sounded like a growl, he reached for his backpack.
"Fine," he muttered. "Let's do this. But don't blame me if you get a headache."
"I already have one," I said, opening my notebook.
"Yeah?" Spike leaned back, crossing his arms over his massive chest. His gaze dropped to my neck, lingering on the pulse point that I knew was fluttering like a trapped butterfly. "Maybe you should loosen that hair. It looks painful."
"My hair is fine," I snapped, adjusting my glasses. "Page forty-two. Read the first paragraph."
He didn't move to open the book. He just kept watching me.
"You smell scared," he said, his voice dropping to that intimate, raspy register he had used in the tunnel. "You smell like adrenaline. And vanilla."
My face heated. I could feel the flush rising from my chest to my neck. "That’s irrelevant to the Treaty of 1894."
"Is it?" He shifted in his chair, the wood creaking under his weight. "Because I can't focus on 1894 when the air in here tastes like..." He stopped, his tongue darting out to wet his lower lip. It was an unconscious movement, animalistic and starving.
My breath hitched. "Like what?"
"Like dessert," he finished darkly.
He reached out, his hand hovering over the book, but his eyes never left mine.
"You're playing a dangerous game, Mouse. You think because we're in a library, you're safe? You think the rules apply in here?"
"The rules always apply," I whispered, though I wasn't so sure anymore.
"Not to me," Spike said. He leaned forward again, invading my space, sucking all the oxygen out of the room. "I break things. Remember?"
"Then break the curve," I said, my voice shaking but my words sharp. "Read the book, Thorne."
He stared at me, the conflict warring in his eyes—the urge to crush me versus the begrudging respect for the fact that I wasn't backing down.
Slowly, deliberately, he opened the book. The spine cracked loud in the quiet room.
"Treaty of 1894," he read, his voice bored and flat, but his leg was bouncing under the table, his knee brushing mine with every jittery movement.
He didn't pull away. Neither did I.
The contact was small—just denim against denim—but it felt like a live wire. Every time he brushed against me, a jolt of heat went straight to my core.
I looked down at my notes, the words blurring.
I was trapped in a glass cage with a wolf who was hungry. And the worst part wasn't that I was afraid he would eat me.
The worst part was that, deep down in the dark, traitorous part of my DNA... I wanted him to.