Chapter 50

Andrew

Don't look up. Don't look up. Don't look up. I kept chanting the mantra like a prayer to the Moon Goddess, desperately trying to summon an ounce of restraint. Truly, be a gentleman, Andrew. Do not look up.

She already viewed me as the bane of her existence, and I certainly didn't need to hand her fresh ammunition for one of her razor-sharp snarls. Speaking of which, the way she arrived – that look of pure, concentrated venom directed entirely at me – was classic. I snickered and shook my head, fighting the urge to laugh. I feared I might be losing my mind, but there was something undeniably captivating, something almost adorable, about the way she wore her hostility like armor.

Suddenly, the ladder shifted as if she stumbled, and a jolt of alarm forced my eyes upward – instinct taking the wheel before my brain could stop it in case I had to catch her or something.

Fu.ck. My. Life.

My gaze locked onto the view, and my entire nervous system short-circuited. There were her perky, defiant as.s cheeks, framed by bright red cotton panties. My brain simply checked out, leaving me standing there with my mouth slightly agape, staring like an idiot. It was so damn aggravatingly se.xy that I felt an almost feral urge to bite down on those cheeks.

With a graceful whoosh, she was back on the ground, already moving to the next pile to hang the display. I snapped back to reality, forcing my legs to move the ladder toward her. I felt the tell-tale heat of a semi in my jeans, and I cursed under my breath. This was not helpful. Not in the slightest.

Lone wolves are not sexy, I told myself, a pathetic attempt at a lie. No, never, not at all.

***

I try to channel every ounce of frustration into the training session – jab, jab, sidestep, grab, drop, pain. Repeat. Again.

I’m giving it everything I’ve got. I really am. But no matter how hard I punch, no matter how sharp the burn in my muscles gets, my mind keeps betraying me – dragging me right back to her.

She lives just one damn wall away from me, sits next to me while we drive to school. We eat together, now we have detention together. Red panties and perky ass cheeks flash my mind. But I can't touch her. No. Not her. It's just that every damn hallway reeks of her delicious scent. The dining room, the library, even the training mats – everything smells like her. I swear, it’s like she sprints laps around the entire packhouse just to make sure her scent stains every corner. Like some sick, twisted game of mental torture. Her own brand of territory marking. And I’m the idiot falling for it. And knowing her – I bet she’s playing. Damn, she is even winning.

I should hate her. I want to hate her. I want to plot her rejection down to the second. But no. My body doesn't get the memo. If I ever really got my hands on her... I’m not sure I’d strangle her. I’d probably end up kissing the attitude off her smug little mouth. Or devouring her. Entirely. Which is ridiculous. And dangerous.

But the bond – Goddess, the bond – is poison. I once wanted to feel it so bad. I thought it would be beautiful, grounding, exciting. Now, I’d tear it from my own chest if I could. She makes me feel unhinged. Restless. Weak. And horny – so stupidly, constantly horny I feel like a damn walking hormone bomb. I swear I could jerk off every half an hour and still want more.

So, I keep myself busy: training, shifting, assignments. I practically beg my father to give me tasks. Of course, the idiot thinks it’s because I’m suddenly “embracing my role as future Alpha now that I’ve found my mate.” If only he knew.

She rejects me at every chance she gets. Me – Andrew Silverstone. The guy half the girls in school daydream about. And she? She’s a lone wolf with a chip on her shoulder the size of a mountain. And yet… I can’t stop thinking she’ll be the one to reject me in the end. That burns. I hate that feeling. I wanted to reject her. A pathetic lone wolf.

Night is the worst. Every time I close my eyes, it’s her I see. Her voice, her lips, the way her hips move when she walks. The way her eyes sparkle when she’s being a menace. I imagine what it’d be like to touch her, taste her, bury myself in her body and never come back up. I want to know what the sparks feel like if she sleeps on my naked body with her naked body.

Even now, during sparring, I can sense her. Her scent clings to me like my own damn shadow. I hear murmurs and glance up – and then, I freeze. She is here.

Strutting toward the training field like sin in stilettos. Red leather crop top. Black... no, that’s not even a skirt. That’s a belt. It’s practically defying gravity to stay on. And she walks like she knows exactly what she’s doing to me. Like seduction is her second language.

She sits on the bleachers, crosses one leg over the other, and pulls a pencil from her loosely made hair bun, letting her hair fall in lazy waves over her shoulders. Goddess, she looks way too se.xy for my already raging hormones. She starts sketching in a notebook, and I stare like a fool. I want to look away – need to – but my eyes are glued to her like she’s gravity and I’m dust.

Goddess help me, if she farted I’d probably still find it se.xy. That’s how messed up this bond is.

Then she does it – she looks up, directly at me. And that wicked, dangerous smirk curls across her lips. My blood goes hot. She lets her gaze drift across the field, eyeing the other warriors. She starts sketching again. What the hell – is she doodling him? I snarl instinctively.

“Don’t look at her!” I bark, voice thick with Alpha command. The air shifts instantly – every guy bows his head or glances away, instincts overriding curiosity. Though everyone still questions why she lives in our pack – and the excuse that "her pack of origin requested to do that for a moment" doesn't seem legitimate to most of them – I’m glad no one has started to suspect that there is something between us. Even when I sniffed her out and there was that scene in the cafeteria, the other wolves just thought it was me struggling to control my anger toward a lone wolf; they assumed the resulting fight was me being a "gentleman" who refused to actually strike a lady.

My Beta raises an unimpressed eyebrow at me but doesn’t comment. Smart man. I know exactly what he’s thinking, and yeah, I thought I might give it a shot, but her crappy attitude killed that idea real fast.

Why the hell did she come here? To drool over other guys? To make me jealous? To completely unravel my sanity? Well, if that was the plan, she was nailing it – because I was feeling every da.mn bit of it.

I throw myself back into sparring, fists flying, adrenaline pumping. But she’s still there. Still smelling like heaven and hell wrapped in leather and trouble.

Ten minutes pass. I’ve stretched my ability to ignore her to the maximum – like a cheap rubber band on the verge of snapping.

I peek again. She’s still sketching., still smiling. Still looking around all the other fu.cking wolves. And then... her eyes locked with mine. A small smirk bloomed on her too pretty face. She stood up. Oh no.

She walks toward me. Slow. Predatory. Like a lioness stalking her kill. Definitely a turn on. I was looking at her with my mouth open – panting from the training.

The world blurs into nothing. It’s just her and the sound of my own heartbeat going ballistic. She stops just in front of me – so close I can see the golden flecks in her eyes. I’m still panting, sweat dripping down my back. Her lips part in a faint smile – teasing. Tempting. Fu.cking dangerous.

She reaches up – my reflexes twitch – and I flinch slightly, but all she does is slip one of her wireless earbuds into my ear. Her fingers brush my skin and the world tilts sideways.

Music.

I recognize the song – vaguely. Something old. Tarantino vibes. Now that I hear the song, I realize – she had been moving to its rhythm all along. Even now, every movement she does is slow, subtle, almost effortless seduction, but perfectly in sync with the beat pulsing in my ear. Does she want me to listen to the lyrics? Is there a message?

After Dark.

Her eyes stay locked on mine as there is small smile exactly at those words. Is she inviting me to something? Is this a game? She smirks again. My knees almost give out. And then, without a word, she turns and saunters off the field. I watch her go like a man possessed. She disappears around the corner, and the music cuts out with her exit.

I’m left breathless. Confused. Furious And absolutely horny. What. The. Hell. Was. That?

Someone whistles, snapping my attention toward the group of guys. Suddenly, everyone's avoiding my gaze, pretending like nothing happened – but I know better. The rumors will be flying through the dorms and dining hall in no time. Honestly, who came up with the title Gossip Girls? It's the guys who are the real experts – digging for juicy details like starved men at an all-you-can-eat drama buffet.

I crave control – so naturally, I hate her games and the chaos she drags into my life like a storm cloud over my head. But in some sick, twisted way, I find it exhilarating as well. After everything she’s pulled so far? My mind doesn’t scream this has to stop. Instead, it hums with anticipation: what’s next? And damn it, the thrill of not knowing might just be what’s driving me mad. So let's see what happend tonight after dark.