ISABELLA’S POV
I woke with a start, my heart thudding, the dream’s heat lingering on my skin. In it, I’d been tangled with a man—rugged, green-eyed, his lips claiming mine, his body moving inside me. I blinked, the dim light filtering through the half opened window greeted me. The duvet was twisted around my legs, my body aching in places it never had.
“Where am I?” I asked no one in particular. I turned my head, and my breath caught. A man lay beside me, his dark black hair tousled, his chiseled jaw slack in sleep. The stranger. The dream wasn’t a dream. Last night, I’d given my virginity to a stranger in a bar’s private suite, his touch burning away Jake’s betrayal.
I propped myself on an elbow, studying him. His bare chest rose and fell, muscles carved like stone, a faint scar tracing his collarbone. His face, even relaxed, held a raw edge—high cheekbones, stubble shadowing his jaw, lips I’d kissed until I couldn’t breathe. A thrill sparked in my chest. I’d done it—landed a man this gorgeous, not Jake with his nerdy glasses and fake smile. Sebastian was a god compared to him. But dread crept in, cold and sharp. We hadn’t used protection, and I was ovulating, my body ripe for consequences. I shoved the thought away. No, I wouldn’t ruin this moment with panic.
My phone buzzed on the nightstand, snapping me back. I grabbed it, the screen glowing with Mia’s texts: ‘Bella, where are you? Heard about Jake’s party—u okay?’ My stomach dropped. It was Monday, and I’d spent the night out. If Karen knew, she’d flay me alive. I scrambled off the bed, my bare feet hitting the hardwood, the room’s black sheets rumpled from our frenzy.
My blue dress, torn and dry, lay in a heap. I snatched my panties and bra, my hands shaking, and dressed, wincing at the soreness between my thighs. He stirred, eyes flickering beneath the lids—but didn’t wake. Or maybe he was pretending not to.
The streets were gray, dawn barely breaking. I ran, my sneakers pounding pavement, my breath puffing in the chill. At home, I crept to the back door, praying. Maria’s face appeared, her gray bun tight, her brown eyes soft with worry.
“Bella, child, where have you been?” she whispered, opening the door.
“Don’t ask,” I muttered, slipping inside. “Mom up?”
“Not yet.” She squeezed my arm. “Go, quick.”
I raced up the attic stairs, my room’s musty air greeting me. The shower’s lukewarm spray stung my skin, washing away Sebastian’s scent—jasmine and musk. I dressed in jeans and a faded sweater, my red hair damp, falling in waves. Downstairs, Maria had started breakfast, eggs sizzling, bacon curling in the pan.
“You saved me,” I said, hugging her.
“Always, child.” She smiled, handing me a spatula. “Plate it up.”
I worked fast, setting the dining table with Mom’s china. Footsteps thudded—Mom, Dad, Dylan, Lucas. Mom swept in, her blonde hair sleek, her blue eyes narrowing. “You’re late, Isabella,” she snapped. “Still scrubbing off your shame?
My cheeks burned. Dylan smirked, his brown hair mussed. “Mom, she actually caused a scene at Jake’s.” Lucas chuckled, elbowing him.
I clenched the serving spoon, my knuckles white. “It wasn’t like that,” I said, my voice low.
Mom scoffed, her fork scraping her plate. “You’re a disgrace. Throwing yourself at boys, embarrassing us. You’re lucky I don’t lock you in that attic for good.”
I swallowed, the sting of her words dulled by last night’s memory—Sebastian’s hands, his moans. It hadn’t all been bad. I served them, my hands steady, then retreated to my pantry corner with a cold pancake, its edges tough. I ate quickly, the house’s tension suffocating. Karen and Mark left for work, Dylan and Lucas piling into Mark’s car for school. I grabbed my backpack, the bus was my only ride, another reminder that I wasn’t one of them.
At the bus stop, Mia waited, her blonde ponytail bouncing, her blue eyes wide. “Bella, oh my God, where were you?” She hugged me, her jacket soft. “I heard about the pool, the photos—”
“Long story,” I said, climbing into the bus. We sat, the seats creaky, and I spilled it all, my voice shy, cheeks hot. “It was awful, Mia. Jake betrayed me, spread fake nudes. I ran to this bar, got drunk, and… I slept with a guy.”
Mia’s jaw dropped. “You what? A stranger? Bella, that’s—”
“Crazy, I know.” I grinned, a flush creeping up my neck. “But he was… gorgeous. Like, movie-star hot. Green eyes, muscles, the works. I’m kinda proud I bagged him.”
She frowned, her fingers twisting her scarf. “But what if you get pregnant? You don’t even know his name! What if he’s… you know, a werewolf?”
I laughed, waving it off. “No way. He’s not—” I froze, the memory flashing: Sebastian’s speed, the way he’d floored those men in a blink, unnatural, almost feral. “Okay, maybe,” I admitted, my voice small. “But he seemed… human.”
Mia shook her head. “You’ve got to be careful, Bells? This town’s weird.”
At Crestwood, Mia split for her literature class, leaving me alone. The campus buzzed, students whispering as I passed. Vanessa’s voice cut through, sharp as glass. “Look, it’s the slut!” She blocked my path, her black hair gleaming, her clique circling like vultures. “Nice show at Jake’s, Ginger. Those pics? Chef’s kiss.”
Tears stung my eyes, but I squared my shoulders, last night’s courage flickering. “They’re fake, Vanessa. You know it.”
She smirked, shoving me. ““Poor Bella,” she purred. “Still chasing validation with your legs wide open? I’d be embarrassed too.”
Her friends laughed, tugging my hair, spitting insults—‘freak, whore.’
I pushed through, my chest tight, and ducked into history class, my sanctuary. I sank into a back-row seat, my backpack thudding on the floor. My eyes were red, my nose sniffling, tears threatening to spill. I rummaged in my bag for my notebook, my fingers fumbling, avoiding the stares of classmates whispering about the photos.
The room quieted, a low hum of anticipation. A voice broke the silence, deep and gravelly, sending a shiver down my spine. “Good morning, class. I’m Sebastian Wolfe, your new history professor.”
My head snapped up, my heart stopping. There, at the podium, stood Sebastian—my Sebastian. His dark brown hair was neat, his green eyes piercing, his black blazer hugging his broad shoulders. He was impossibly handsome, his presence commanding, but his gaze found mine, and shock flashed across his face, mirroring my own. My mouth went dry, my notebook slipping from my hands. The man I’d fucked last night, the stranger who’d claimed my virginity, was my professor. And I was his student.
His eyes widened, a flicker of recognition, then something deeper—hunger, maybe, or fear. My body burned, the memory of his thrusts, his moans—You’re mine—flooding back. He cleared his throat, his voice steadying, but his hands gripped the podium, knuckles white.
“Let’s, uh, begin,” he said, but his gaze lingered on me, a silent question hanging in the air, his voice a thread pulling me back to last night’s heat—his lips on mine, his body thrusting, claiming.
And just like that, my one night of freedom turned into a ticking bomb. My professor. My secret. My mistake.
