This is wrong.

Rose’s POV

The corridor swallowed me whole.

Moonlight sliced through the high arched windows in cold, silver bars, turning the stone floor into a fractured chessboard of light and shadow. My boots echoed too loudly—sharp, betraying clicks that ricocheted off the vaulted ceiling like accusations. Each step felt watched, judged, as if the academy itself had eyes in the walls.

I walked faster, arms wrapped tight around my torso, as if I could physically hold myself together, as if speed could outrun the heat still pulsing under my skin, the phantom weight of his thumb on my pulse, the echo of his praise searing itself deeper with every frantic heartbeat.

Thump-thump-thump.

The rhythm was relentless, a war drum refusing to quiet, pounding in my ears, my chest, my throat. My wolf paced alongside it, no longer frantic or cowering, but alert—ears pricked forward, tail low and still, silver eyes fixed on some invisible horizon only it could see. It wasn’t afraid anymore. It was listening. Waiting. Hungry in a way that twisted my stomach with shame and something darker, something I refused to name.

I hated it.

I hated how his voice lingered in my head, velvet-rough and low, wrapping around every thought like smoke I couldn’t clear.

You did well tonight.

Better than I expected.

The words should have felt like mockery, like a patronizing pat on the head for a disobedient pup. Instead they sank into me like hooks—warm, sharp, tugging at something I’d spent years burying under layers of suppressants, denial, and carefully constructed lies.

I pressed a trembling hand to my chest, as if I could physically push the feeling back down, silence the treacherous warmth blooming there. But my palm only met the frantic thud of my heart, faster now, as if it recognized the danger of wanting his approval—of craving more of those rare, measured words of praise that felt like sunlight breaking through storm clouds.

The academy was quiet at this late hour—most students already tucked into their dorms or out on sanctioned night runs under the moon’s watchful eye—but the silence felt watchful, oppressive. The gargoyles perched along the roofline seemed to turn their stone heads as I passed, their carved eyes following me with ancient judgment.

The runes carved into the walls glowed faintly with old magic, pulsing like slow, deliberate heartbeats in time with my own. Everything here was designed to remind you of hierarchy, of power, of the unbreakable laws that governed wolves: alphas at the apex, omegas at the base, and everything in between fighting not to fall. And tonight, for the first time, I felt those laws pressing against my skin like a second, tighter cage—inescapable, intimate, alive.

I reached the omega dormitory wing faster than I wanted, my breath coming in shallow bursts. The heavy oak door creaked as I pushed it open, the familiar scent of damp stone and faint lavender—someone’s pathetic attempt at comfort in a place that offered none—greeting me like a reluctant embrace.

The common room was empty, the fire long dead in the grate, embers glowing faintly like dying eyes. I moved quietly down the narrow hall, past closed doors where other omegas slept or pretended to, their soft breathing muffled behind wood. My room was at the very end, small and cold, the single window overlooking the misty hills shrouded in fog that never fully lifted.

I locked the door behind me with shaking fingers and leaned against it, eyes closing as I slid down to the floor. My legs gave out completely, knees drawn up tight to my chest, arms wrapped around them like a shield. My heartbeat still thundered, refusing to slow, a chaotic storm that made my ribs ache.

Sweat cooled on my skin in the chill air, raising fresh goosebumps, making me shiver violently. I could still smell him—pine from the deep academy forests, smoke from the hearth, winter steel honed to lethal sharpness—clinging stubbornly to my shirt, my hair, my skin. His scent had marked me without a single bite, without permission, seeping into me like ink into paper.

My wolf whined again, low and needy, a plaintive sound that echoed through my core. It wanted to roll in that scent, to bury its nose in it and inhale until it drowned. Wanted to bare its throat fully, without reservation. Wanted to run back through the corridors, scratch at his office door, and press against his legs until he touched me again—until those strong, calloused fingers mapped more territory, until his voice rumbled approval that made my bones melt.

I pressed my forehead hard to my knees, breath shaking in ragged bursts.

“Stop,” I whispered fiercely to the empty room, voice cracking. “Just stop it. He’s not… we’re not… this is wrong.”

But it didn’t stop.

The wolf ignored me, pacing restlessly, its energy thrumming with anticipation for tomorrow, for more. I stripped off my jacket and shirt with trembling hands, tossing them into the corner as if distance could erase the memory, as if banishing the fabric would banish him. My skin was flushed hot, goosebumps rising sharply in the cold air that rushed in through the cracked window.

I caught my reflection in the small, cracked mirror above the dresser—eyes too wide and dark, pupils blown, lips swollen and red from biting them raw during the lesson, a faint red mark blooming on my jaw where his thumb had pressed with calculated restraint. Not a bruise. Just heat. Just memory. Just proof.

I touched it gingerly with trembling fingertips.

My wolf rumbled, deep and pleased, a low vibration of satisfaction that made my knees weaken further.

I yanked my hand away as if burned, curling it into a fist. “No,” I hissed. “He’s using you. Using us. This is punishment, not… not whatever you think it is.”

The suppressants were failing. I could feel it acutely now—the chemical fog thinning like morning mist under a rising sun, my omega instincts rising like tidewater through widening cracks in a crumbling dam. I’d been so careful for years, dosing religiously, hiding every hint of sweetness in my scent, every submissive urge, every heat cycle that threatened to expose me. So controlled. So safe in my deception. And in one night, one single lesson of stillness and breath and silence, he’d cracked me open without even trying—without force, without pain, just presence. Just power.

I crawled into bed fully clothed, pulling the thin, threadbare blanket over me like flimsy armor against the cold and the chaos inside. The sheets were icy, but my body burned from within, a low fever of unresolved tension that made sleep feel impossible. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw silver eyes watching me with unblinking intensity. Felt the ghost of his knuckles grazing my jaw, his thumb on my pulse counting my betrayals. Heard his voice, low and commanding:

Until you crave the fall as much as the control.

I turned onto my side, curling tight into a ball, trying to make myself small, invisible, forgotten.

But my wolf refused to shrink. It stretched luxuriously inside me, alert and eager, already counting down to tomorrow with impatient energy—tail metaphorically thumping, ears pricked for his call.

I didn’t sleep. Not really. Fragments came in fits—restless dozing plagued by dreams that weren’t dreams at all, but vivid replays: his hand hovering, then touching; his voice demanding words, surrender; his scent enveloping me until I drowned in it. In one, I broke the stillness, moved without permission, and his correction was swift—fingers tightening on my jaw, voice a growl that sent me to my knees. In another, I held perfectly, and his praise was a touch that lingered longer, deeper, promising more.