7. Lynn
— ? —
Lynn
There’s a man outside my window.
A naked man outside my window.
One who is also my professor, who is also possibly a werewolf, who is also covered in fire extinguisher foam and crouched on a ledge three stories above the ground like this is a completely normal Tuesday evening.
“Lynn,” he says again, his voice muffled through the glass. “I can explain everything.”
“You can explain,” I repeat slowly, “why you just chased me across campus as a giant wolf?”
“Yes.”
“From outside my third-floor window.”
“It seemed… direct.”
“Direct.”
I grab my roommate’s hockey stick from behind her desk, Kayla’s on the volleyball team but she keeps emergency sports equipment around for “vibes,” and brandish it at the window like it’s a sword. Which it absolutely is not. But it makes me feel better.
“Talk,” I say. “Through the glass. And if anything you say sounds like ‘I’m going to eat you,’ I swear to God I’ll call campus police and tell them there’s a naked stalker on my building.”
“That’s fair.” He shifts slightly on the ledge, and I catch a glimpse of, nope, not looking, absolutely not looking at that. “Can I at least have a towel? It’s cold.”
“NO TOWEL FOR WEREWOLVES.”
“Technically, I’m a lycan.”
“Is there a difference?”
“A significant one, actually. Werewolves are cursed - they shift involuntarily, violently, with no control or memory. Lycans are born. We shift at will. We retain full consciousness. And we don’t-” He pauses, catching himself. “We don’t lose ourselves to the beast.”
I lower the hockey stick approximately half an inch. “Born?”
“My bloodline goes back centuries. The Draven pack has ruled the Ashevale territory since before this country existed. We’re not monsters, Lynn. We’re a people. A community.”
“A community,” I echo. “Like… a cult?”
“It’s not a cult.”
“It sounds a little bit like a cult, sir.”
His mouth twitches, that almost-smile I’ve come to recognize, and even through the glass, even covered in foam residue, even naked on a ledge, he manages to look amused.
“We have territory. Laws. Traditions. A governing council.” He pauses. “And yes, the council is called the Circle of Elders, and yes, there are ceremonial robes involved, but that doesn’t make it a cult.”
“Ceremonial robes.”
“For formal occasions only.”
“This is insane.” I press my free hand to my forehead. “This is actually insane. You’re my professor. You teach mythology. And you’re telling me you’re a - a-”
“Lycan. Shapeshifter. Wolf-born.” His gold eyes hold mine through the glass. “And king of the Ashevale pack.”
The hockey stick clatters to the floor.
“I’m sorry, what?”
“It’s a hereditary title. My father ruled before me. His father before him. It’s mostly ceremonial these days - the council handles day-to-day governance - but I am, technically, royalty.”
“You’re wolf royalty.”
I say it slowly, testing whether the words sound as insane out loud as they do in my head. They do.
“Yes.”
“And you teach at a state university.”
“I like the quiet. And the dental insurance.”
I laugh. I can’t help it, it bubbles out of me, slightly hysterical, because nothing about this situation makes sense and yet somehow that last part is the most absurd. Wolf king Miles Draven, terrorizer of my hormones, defender of my essay, is teaching freshman comp for the dental insurance.
“Okay,” I say, lowering myself onto my desk chair because my legs have stopped working.
“Okay. Let’s say I believe you. Let’s say you’re a lycan king with a ceremonial robe collection and a preference for PPO plans.
Why were you chasing me? Why did you-” The memory hits: glass shattering, the wolf landing between me and that man, the way it looked at me.
“That guy in the library. Was he going to…?”
“Yes.” Miles’s jaw tightens, his expression going dark. “I could smell his intent from across campus. I was patrolling - I’ve been patrolling every night since you started working late shifts. I worry about you walking home alone.”
“You… patrol for me?”
“The full moon makes my lycan eager. Restless. It needs to protect.” His voice drops, rough and low. “You’re important to me, Lynn. I couldn’t stand the thought of something happening to you.”
My heart stutters and then races. He patrols for me. Every night.
“That’s why you missed tonight,” I realize aloud. “The library. I thought - I thought you weren’t coming.”
“I was always coming.” His palm presses against the glass, fingers splayed. “I’m sorry I was late. I’m sorry I frightened you. I’m sorry our date was ruined by-”
“D-date?”
He pauses. “Was it not a date?”
“I - we - you never said-”
“I thought it was implied.”
“NOTHING IS IMPLIED WHEN YOU’RE A WOLF KING, PROFESSOR.”
He actually laughs at that, a real laugh, warm and surprised, and the knot behind my ribs loosens despite everything.
“Can I come in?” he asks. “I promise I’ll explain everything. Every question you have, I’ll answer honestly.”
I hesitate. Every instinct I have says this is a terrible idea. He’s my professor. He’s a werewolf, lycan, whatever. He just chased me across campus and scared the life out of me and showed up outside my window like something out of a gothic novel.
But his eyes are steady and warm, and he patrolled for me, and he quoted my essay like it mattered, and-
I unlock the window.
He climbs through with more grace than should be possible for someone his size, unfolding himself into my tiny dorm room like he belongs there. And he’s-
Oh god, he’s really naked.
I try not to look. I really, genuinely try. But he’s right there, all broad shoulders and defined chest and a trail of dark hair leading down to-
Don’t look at his dick don’t look at his dick don’t look at his-
I look at his dick.
It’s huge.
My mouth goes dry. My thighs press together on their own, and I hate that they do. And the worst part, the absolute worst part, is that he notices me noticing.
“See something interesting, Miss Crowe?”
“Absolutely not.”
“Idaho.”
“Possibly Wyoming. I’m not great at geography.”
His cock twitches.
I actually make a sound, something between a squeak and a whimper, and I can feel myself getting wet, can feel my body responding to the sight of him like it has every night in the library, every day in class, every moment since he first looked at me across that lecture hall.
“Do you-” I swallow hard. “Do you need a towel? Or pants? Pants would be good. Pants would be very helpful for this conversation.”
“I left my clothes at the edge of campus.” He doesn’t sound remotely embarrassed. “Shifting destroys fabric. It’s why I have a tailoring budget.”
“Of course you do. Of course wolf kings have tailoring budgets. This is fine. Everything is fine.”
I grab a blanket from my bed and throw it at him. He catches it one-handed, show-off, and wraps it around his waist with infuriating casualness, like he hasn’t just given me enough fantasy material to last the entire semester.
“Better?”
“Marginally.”
“You’re flustered.”
“I’m NOT flustered, I’m PROCESSING. There’s a difference.” I cross my arms over my chest. “Now explain. Lycan rules. What else can you do? Can you read minds? Is that why you always know when I’m-”
“No mind reading.” He actually laughs. “That’s a vampire thing, and even then, it’s mostly fiction.”
“Vampires are REAL?”
“No, I was joking. There are no vampires.”
“You can’t JOKE right now! I don’t know what’s real anymore!”
“I’m sorry.” He’s still smiling, though, the bastard. “No mind reading, no vampires. Just enhanced senses - hearing, smell, some night vision - and the ability to shift.”
Enhanced senses. Enhanced smell.
The memory crashes into me: that night in the library, the way he stepped back, jaw tight. Your hand. Where has it been tonight?
He can smell everything.
He could probably smell me getting wet just now, looking at his-
“Oh god.” I cover my face with both hands. “Oh god, you can smell - all of it. Everything. Every time I’ve-”
“Lynn.”
“This is mortifying. I need to move to another country. Do they have universities in Antarctica?”
“Lynn.” His voice is closer now, and when I peek through my fingers, he’s standing right in front of me, his expression soft. “I’d never use my senses to make you uncomfortable. What your body does is natural. Human. Nothing to be ashamed of.”
“Easy for you to say. You’re not the one who-” I cut myself off. “Never mind. We’re not talking about this.”
“Whatever you prefer.”
“I prefer to discuss literally anything else.” I drop my hands, forcing myself to meet his eyes. “Like, for example, how I’m supposed to trust you when you can apparently smell my every emotion from across campus.”
“You’re not supposed to trust me,” he says quietly. “I haven’t earned that. But I’m hoping you’ll give me the chance to try.”
Before I can respond, a high-pitched shriek cuts through the room.
Mr. Darcy.
I spin toward his cage just in time to see my hamster, my dramatic, ridiculous, emotionally volatile hamster, catch sight of Miles.
His tiny black eyes go wide. His whiskers twitch.
And then, with all the theatrical flair of a Victorian maiden, he collapses onto his back, legs pointed straight up at the ceiling.
“Is he…” Miles stares at the cage. “Is he dead?”
“He’s playing dead. He does this when he’s overwhelmed.”
“Your hamster plays dead?”
“He’s very dramatic. Just wait.”
We both watch as Mr. Darcy lies motionless for a solid thirty seconds. Then, slowly, one beady eye opens. He spots Miles. The eye closes. The legs go stiffer.
“He’s doing it again,” Miles says, sounding genuinely baffled.
“He doesn’t like men. Or change. Or new people in his space.” I move to the cage, tapping gently on the glass. “Hey, buddy. It’s okay. He’s not going to hurt you.”
Mr. Darcy doesn’t move.
“He’s… really committed to this.”
“He once played dead for forty-five minutes when my mom visited.” I tap again. “Come on, Darcy. Show the nice wolf king you’re alive.”
One leg twitches. Then another. Slowly, with the air of someone being deeply put-upon, Mr. Darcy rolls onto his feet. He turns to face Miles through the cage bars. His whiskers twitch.
The glare he delivers would make lesser men weep.
“Your hamster is judging me,” Miles says.
“He judges everyone. You’re not special.”
“I’m a king.”
“He’s a hamster. He doesn’t care about your titles.”
Mr. Darcy makes a tiny, aggressive chittering sound. Miles, wolf king and apex predator, actually takes a step back.
“He’s kind of terrifying.”
“He’s two ounces of rage in a fur ball.” I can’t help but smile. “Don’t take it personally. He’ll warm up eventually.”
“Will he?”
“Probably not. But you’ll learn to live with the disapproval.”
He goes quiet, and his expression turns warm and wondering, as if he can’t quite believe I’m real.
“You’re taking this very well,” he says softly.
“I’m absolutely not taking this well. I’m compartmentalizing so I can have my breakdown later.” I wrap my arms around myself. “But you saved me tonight. From that guy in the library. And you patrol for me every night even though I didn’t know. And you’re looking at me like-”
I stop. Swallow.
“Like what?” he asks.
Like I matter. Like I’m something worth protecting. Like you’d fight the whole world just to keep me safe.
“I don’t know,” I whisper instead.
“Lynn.” He steps closer, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from his bare chest, close enough that I have to tilt my head back to meet his eyes.
“I need you to understand something. If you ever feel unsafe - if anyone ever threatens you, hurts you, makes you uncomfortable - I want to know. Not as your professor. Not as a lycan. Just… me. I want to be the person you tell.”
“Why?”
“Because the thought of something happening to you-” His voice catches. “It’s unbearable. And I’m not entirely sure why, not yet. But I need you to know that whatever this is between us, I’m not going to let anyone hurt you. Ever.”
My heart is pounding so hard I’m sure he can hear it. I’m sure he can hear everything: my racing pulse, my shallow breath, the way my whole body leans toward him like he’s gravity.
“And if you hurt me?” I ask, my voice barely audible.
“Then you can expose me. Tell everyone what I am. Expose how freaky I am to the whole world.”
“That’s…” I laugh weakly. “That’s a big promise.”
His mouth curves into something dangerous and soft. “I’d rather it just be you who knows my freaky side.”
My breath catches.
He reaches out, slow and careful, giving me time to pull away. I don’t. His fingers graze my cheek, feather-light, and I swear I feel it everywhere, in my stomach, my chest, the space between my thighs that’s been aching for him since the moment he walked into that lecture hall.
“I should go,” he murmurs, not moving.
“Yeah.” I’m not moving either. “You should.”
His thumb traces my cheekbone. His eyes are gold and endless, and they don’t leave my face for a second, holding me there.
“See you in class, Miss Crowe.”
And then he drops out of my window.
Just, straight down, three stories, landing on the grass below with a grace that shouldn’t be possible for a human body. He looks up once, finds me in the window, and gives me a smile that’s half wicked, half tender.
Then he shifts.
One moment he’s a man wrapped in my blanket; the next he’s a massive black wolf, shaking off the fabric and looking up at me with those same gold eyes.
He holds my gaze for a long moment, something like a promise in his expression, and then he’s gone, disappearing into the shadows between buildings like he was never there at all.
I stand at the window for a long time after he leaves.
My cheek tingles where he touched me. My body aches for more. And somewhere beneath the confusion and the thousand questions I still need answers to, there’s a warmth that has no business being there.
It sits low in my chest, patient.
It feels dangerously like falling.
“I’m so fucked,” I tell Mr. Darcy.
He glares at me from his cage, clearly unimpressed.
“Yeah,” I sigh. “I know.”