Chapter 6

Giselle's pulse roared in her ears, drowning out the ordinary noise of campus — the chatter of students, the distant ring of a bicycle bell, the rustle of leaves overhead. None of it reached her. All she could hear was the low, even timbre of the man standing in front of her, sunglasses now folded in his hand, his eyes the color of strong coffee and just as unreadable.

"I—" she started, then stopped, because what was she supposed to say? Yes, I remember, even though I told myself for two weeks that I didn't?

"You don't have to look so terrified," the man said, the corner of his mouth lifting in something that wasn't quite a smile. "I'm not here to make a scene."

"Then why are you here?" The words came out sharper than she intended, fear sharpening into something more like indignation. She glanced past his shoulder — no one was paying attention to them, just two strangers talking near the faculty building. Good. "How did you even find me?"

"Your scent," he said simply, as if that explained everything. "It's distinctive. Harder to forget than I would have liked."

Giselle's stomach dropped. "You're—" She lowered her voice instinctively, even though there was no one close enough to hear. "You know what I am."

"I had a suspicion the night we met. I'm certain of it now." He studied her with open curiosity, the kind that made her want to fold her arms across her chest and disappear into her own hoodie. "Werewolf. Primrose pack, if I'm not mistaken — that car that dropped you off wasn't subtle."

"And you're not exactly subtle either, Mr.—" She trailed off, realizing she didn't actually have his name. Only a scent, a silhouette in the dark, and a stack of money she still hadn't found the courage to think about properly.

"Nightshade," he supplied. "Damien Nightshade."

The name landed like a stone dropped into still water. Giselle had grown up hearing that name spoken the way her parents spoke of storms and wildfires — something to fear, something to respect, never something to invite into your home.

"The Lycan King," she said faintly. It wasn't a question.

"You've heard of me, then." Something flickered across his face — not quite pride, not quite wariness. "I'd ask if that's a problem, but judging by the color you've just turned, I think I already know the answer."

"You're the enemy of my pack." Her voice came out as barely more than a whisper, half disbelief, half horror at her own voice saying it aloud. "I slept with the enemy of my pack."

"Technically," Damien said, with the unbothered calm of a man who had clearly had more time than she did to process this, "I believe I was the one who was deceived first. I was under the impression I'd hired companionship for the evening. Imagine my surprise."

Giselle's face went hot. "You thought I was — I am not —"

"I know that now," he said, and for the first time there was something almost gentle underneath the dry humor. "You were a child playing at being an adult, drunk out of your mind, and you walked into the wrong room. I worked that much out somewhere around dawn."

"I am eighteen," Giselle snapped, stung. "I'm not a child."

"No," Damien agreed, tilting his head as he looked at her, "you're eighteen, and ten years younger than I am, and engaged, apparently, to a man whose pack would very much like to see my head on a pike. So you'll forgive me for finding this entire situation more complicated than I'd like."

The word engaged hit harder than she expected. Vexeon's kiss on her forehead that morning. His hand on hers in the car. We'll figure everything out together. Guilt rose in her throat like bile.

"No one can know about this," she said quickly, stepping closer despite every instinct screaming at her not to. "Please. If Vexeon finds out, if my parents find out — Mr. Nightshade, I am begging you—"

"Damien," he corrected. "If we're going to share secrets like this, you can at least use my first name."

"Damien," she repeated, frustration cracking her voice. "Please. I have a wedding to prepare for, a family who thinks I'm — I can't have this following me. It was one night. One mistake."

He was quiet for a moment, studying her face in a way that made her feel unbearably seen — not just looked at, but read, the way one reads weather coming in over a hill.

"You should know," he said finally, "that I have no interest in following you around, Miss Primrose, or in ruining your engagement out of spite. Whatever happened that night happened because two careless people made a careless mistake at the same hotel on the same night. I have my own reputation to consider. I'm not in the habit of advertising the fact that I slept with a teenager I mistook for a professional."

"Then we agree," Giselle said, relief loosening something tight in her chest. "We never speak of it again."

"We agree," Damien said. Then, after a beat, with that same maddening half-smile, "Though I should mention — I left five hundred dollars on your nightstand. I don't suppose you'd care to return it, given the circumstances were somewhat... revised from what I'd intended?"

Giselle stared at him, mortification flooding back in a hot wave. "I haven't — I didn't spend it, if that's what you're implying—"

"I'm not implying anything. Keep it." He waved a hand, already turning to leave, sunglasses sliding back over his eyes. "Call it an apology gift. Or tuition money. I imagine college isn't cheap."

"I don't want your money," she called after him, voice rising despite herself.

He paused, glancing back over his shoulder. "Then donate it. I don't particularly care what you do with it, Giselle. I only care that this conversation never happened." His eyes, even hidden behind dark lenses, seemed to pin her in place. "For both our sakes."

He walked off toward the row of parked cars without waiting for her reply, leaving her standing there with her backpack straps digging into her shoulders and her heart still hammering an uneven rhythm she didn't have a name for.

She didn't notice, in her relief and her shame, the figure lingering near the hedges a short distance away — a young man from her own pack, a friend of a friend she'd exchanged maybe a dozen words with in her life, who had been crossing the quad on his way to the library and had stopped dead the moment he caught the unmistakable, achingly familiar scent of a Lycan carried on the morning air.

Tyson's eyes followed the black car as it pulled away from the curb, his mind already turning over the conversation he'd just overheard — fragments of it, enough. Lycan King. One night. Keep it secret.

A slow smile spread across his face.

Well, he thought, adjusting the strap of his bag and turning back toward the library as if nothing at all had happened, this is going to be useful.