#Chapter 2: A Private Encounter

The instinct to scream was there—lodged somewhere behind my teeth—but it was like the rest of me had short-circuited. Every reflex froze.

His muscles were carved, like someone had sculpted them out of stone and left them slick and glistening. Defined forearms, taut stomach, the faint dip between his hipbones where the crisp, white towel began. But it was his hands—veined, precise, impossibly strong-looking—that held me hostage.

Water dripped from his jaw, trailing down his chest. I followed the drops—over his pecs, down the ridges of his abs—until they disappeared into the soft white terrycloth. I could feel the heat crawling up my neck, into my cheeks.

"Think you’ve seen enough now?"

My head snapped up. My body reengaged. And then—oh no.

Oh god, it was Richard. King Richard. My best friend’s father.

Gorgeous, aloof, incredibly off-limits, Richard.

He scowled. "How the hell did you get in here? This is a private room."

I could tell he didn’t recognize me, which disappointed me somehow.

I opened my mouth but no sound came out. I met Richards sharp, questioning eyes, the shame of being caught like that, of having just ogled the King of the Werewolf Kingdom, hit me all at once. I fumbled for something—anything—to say, but he was already looking me up and down.

His eyes landed on my stained uniform. I wanted to disappear into the floor.

I hated that this was how he was seeing me—creased shirt, smudged apron, cheap fabric clinging in all the wrong ways. I hated the way I looked even more under the weight of that stare. It wasn’t just that I felt small—it was that I felt disposable. Like background noise. Like someone he’d forget existed the second he walked away. And the worst part? He wouldn’t be wrong.

Not even when Adam had seen me like this—sweaty, tired, underdressed—had I felt this exposed. With Adam, I’d felt like I could brush it off. With Richard, I couldn’t even breathe.

"Don’t tell me you’re the maid service that I didn’t order," he said flatly. "Coming in here to clean up? I’ve had enough of these tricks."

Tricks?

"I—I’m not—" I stammered, my throat dry. "Jenny told me to come here. She said I could change in this room. I didn’t know anyone would be in here. I swear."

He didn’t respond right away. Just stared, arms crossed, expression unreadable. The weight of his gaze made my skin prickle.

"And you didn’t think to knock?"

"I thought it would be empty," I blurted. "I didn’t even think—God, I wouldn’t just walk in if I knew—"

He stepped forward and it was like being hit with a wave.

Patchouli. Peppermint. Clean skin and heat and power.

I swayed slightly under the weight of it all. My body wasn’t listening to me. My mind was struggling to form coherent thought.

Not that it ever had, not around him.

Ever since I was fifteen and saw him for the first time in person I hadn’t been able to look him in the eye. Not for more than a second.He’d been handsome then, intimidating in that distant, untouchable way. But now? He was older, sharper, more carved from stone than flesh. He carried a kind of gravity that made everything inside me tilt.

Not even Adam made me feel that way.

I looked down, away from his eyes. "J-Jenny," I stammered. "She sent me up here to change. For the Ball. She didn’t say anyone else would be... here."

He tilted his head slightly, those steel-blue eyes narrowing.

"Jenny? Changing clothes?" He took a breath, then nodded slowly, the barest shift in his expression softening his scowl into something closer to amusement. "You better not be lying."

Then, with a flick of his fingers, he gestured toward the closet. "Get changed. You’ve got two minutes."

He disappeared back into the bathroom and I exhaled for what felt like the first time.

The dress Jenny had left was easy enough to find. Blue satin, elegant but clingy. It slipped over my hips with ease, cool against my skin, whispering promises I wasn’t sure I wanted kept. I tugged it into place and reached around to zip the back—

Stuck.

I twisted, pulled, tried again. Nothing.

Too tight in the bust. Of course.

I glanced at myself in the mirror and flinched. The dress clung in ways that didn’t feel like flattery. My arms looked soft. My stomach had lines I didn’t want to see. My makeup was melting. My hair—ugh, the humidity had ruined it hours ago. The old uniform I’d been wearing was still lying in a heap on the floor, and for a second I actually missed it. At least that shirt had felt like armor. This dress felt like a dare.

I left my phone downstairs. My zipper was jammed. And now I was standing here, half-dressed, red-faced, and utterly failing to disappear into the wallpaper.

That’s when the bathroom door swung back open. I took one step back, then another, as he stepped out of the bathroom.

Steam drifted into the bedroom as he emerged—dressed now, but somehow even more dangerous like this. His white shirt clung slightly to his chest from the residual dampness. The scent of him hit me again, stronger than before. I could almost taste it—peppermint and something wilder, something that buzzed at the base of my skull.

He stopped a few feet away, his eyes locking onto mine, then trailing lower. I tried to speak but the words wouldn’t form.

"Do you think you could, uh—" I cleared my throat, gesturing weakly behind me. "Could you help me with the zipper?"

He nodded once and stepped forward. Every movement was measured, intentional. He circled behind me, close enough that I could feel the heat radiating off him.

His fingers brushed my lower back and then paused.

I stiffened, he hesitated, and then I remembered. The mark.

The neckline of the dress dipped low. Too low. It revealed the faint crescent scar just beneath my collarbone—the bond mark that tied me to Adam.

I felt, more than saw, the change in Richard. His voice dropped to a murmur. "You already have a mate?"

I turned slightly, just enough to glimpse his expression.

Confused. Tense. Like something was clicking into place he hadn’t expected.

Why was he asking that? Did he know something I didn’t? Was that disappointment?

His jaw worked, like he was biting back a thousand words. But none of them came.

Instead, he reached for the zipper again, more gently this time. The back of his hand brushed my spine. My breath hitched.

A memory struck me then. Not a huge one—just a flicker. The first time Adam had kissed me. We’d been lying under the bleachers after some school event, and he’d reached over and touched my hair and said something sweet and awkward. His hand wandered toward my spine as our lips met. When he kissed me, I remembered thinking it was... nice. Familiar. Comfortable.

This wasn’t that.This was nothing like that.

His fingers tugged the zipper again. The satin shifted and tightened against my chest. My skin felt too hot, too bare.

Still stuck.

His hand came to rest on my waist for balance. I could feel every one of his fingers, steady and warm through the thin fabric.

He leaned in and his breath traced the edge of my neck.

"Now," he said, voice like velvet wrapped in something sharper, "I’m going to give you one more chance. Are you sure my daughter sent you in here with this dress?"

I thought I might melt. Or faint. Or combust. My knees buckled.

His arm caught me, again—strong and sure.

I pressed my hands against his chest to steady myself. Too late. I was already dizzy.

That’s when we heard it.

"Girl, what is taking so long to get changed?"

Jenny.