Chapter 8

Before I could drag myself out of bed to drown my burning face in freezing water, the screen of my phone lit up on the mattress beside me. The sudden vibration against the sheet sent a sharp jolt straight to my heart.

I grabbed it, my fingers still slightly trembling, and swiped open the notification.

Unknown Number: Morning, little wolf. Tell me you didn’t sleep a wink thinking about me.

A breathless laugh almost bubbled out of my throat, but I caught it, biting down on my swollen lower lip. My skin flushed all over again, the phantom touch of his heavy hands in my dream washing over me like a hot wave. I quickly saved his contact under Ryder—adding a black heart icon that I immediately tried, and failed, to talk myself out of.

Haven: Bold of you to assume I was thinking about you at all.

His reply was practically instantaneous, the typing bubble popping up before I had even set the phone down.

Ryder: Liar. I could feel your pulse racing from across town. I’m taking you to lunch today. 12:30 at that place just off campus—The Velvet Bean. Don’t eat, don’t make plans with Chloe, and try not to stare at my brother too long in class.

My breath caught in my throat. The sheer audacity of him knowing my schedule was both infuriating and completely thrilling. He was already sliding into every corner of my life, wrapping his heavy, possessive presence around me like a velvet leash.

Haven: Is that an order, Black?

Ryder: It’s a promise. I’ll be waiting in the back booth. See you at 12:30, Haven.

I stared at the screen as the dark glow of the text faded, a fresh wave of heat replacing the lingering tension of my filthy dream. The Velvet Bean was a cozy, dimly lit coffee house nestled two blocks off the main quad—quiet enough for actual privacy, but public enough that he wouldn’t be able to pin me against a wall and devour me the way he had outside my dorm.

Locking my phone, I finally swung my legs over the side of the bed, the cold floorboards biting into my bare soles. My skin was still humming, the mate bond pulsing a steady, hypnotic rhythm beneath my ribs.

I had three hours before I had to sit in Room 204, pretend to take notes on Renaissance art, and try not to flush under the piercing gaze of Professor Dante Black. But now, the terrifying challenge of surviving class was overshadowed by something far more dangerous waiting for me on the other side of noon.

I forced myself off the edge of the mattress and straight into the shower, turning the faucet until the water ran practically freezing. It barely helped. The icy spray did nothing to wash away the phantom press of broad hands against my hips or the lingering heat buzzing beneath my skin. My new wolf senses were dialled to an agonizing frequency—every drop of water felt like a needle point, every breath of cold dorm air sharp and full of detail.

By the time I pulled on a pair of distressed black jeans, an oversized forest-green knit sweater, and my worn combat boots, Chloe was groaning beneath her duvet.

“If you tell me you went home with leather-jacket psycho, I’m calling the police,” she mumbled into her pillow, one bloodshot eye peeking out.

“I’m alive, Chlo,” I said, slicking on a layer of dark mascara and pulling my damp hair into a loose clip. “He dropped me off right outside. Go back to sleep.”

“He gives me the creeps, Haven,” she grunted, rolling over with a dramatic sigh. “Hot creeps. But creeps.”

I grabbed my sketchbook, canvas bag, and denim jacket, slipping out the door before she could grill me further.

The morning air on campus was crisp, smelling of wet earth and crushed autumn leaves. I practically sprinted to the student union stand, grabbing a triple-shot dark roast black coffee that tasted like battery acid, but at least gave my trembling hands something to hold onto. My stomach was a tight knot of nervous energy. Ryder’s scent—crisp pine, cedar, and winter frost—was still faintly clinging to the threads of my sweater, acting like a warm, invisible shield against the chilly wind.

By 8:50 AM, I was pulling open the heavy wooden doors to the arts building, my boots squeaking against the polished floorboards leading to Room 204.

The tiered lecture hall was already half-full, smelling of damp coats, stale espresso, and dry-erase markers. I shuffled up the sloped aisle toward my usual seat in the back corner, burying my face in my coffee cup to avoid small talk with anyone. My heart was thumping a frantic, irregular rhythm against my ribs.

At precisely 9:00 AM, the heavy doors at the front of the room clicked shut.

Professor Dante Black stepped up to the podium.

My breath caught instantly, the bitter coffee turning to heavy lead in my stomach. In person, stripped of the filthy haze of my dream, his presence was staggering. Impeccably tailored charcoal trousers, a crisp white button-down with the sleeves rolled precisely twice to reveal corded forearms, and a sharp, glass-cutting jawline. His icy blue eyes swept coldly across the rows of students, settling the room into an immediate, nervous silence.

He was terrifyingly handsome—and looking at him now, knowing his brother had pressed me against a wall hours ago and claimed my mouth, made my entire body flush with a dangerous, guilty heat.

Dante reached for the podium control to switch on the projector, but as he turned, his posture went instantly rigid. His head snapped toward the upper rows. His piercing blue gaze cut through the dim room, searching with a sharp, lethal intensity until it locked directly onto me.

His nostrils flared slightly, inhaling the air of the lecture hall. His dark brows pulled together, a cold, dangerous flicker crossing his aristocratic face as his eyes narrowed on my face, then down to my sweater.

He smelled Ryder on me. And I was completely, utterly fucked.