Gideon's next move wasn't charm. It was a trap.
The invitation came that evening, delivered as the sun was setting and casting long shadows across my dorm room. Not a text this time. A formal note delivered by a student messenger—a nervous-looking freshman who couldn't meet my eyes.
Miss Bennett,
I've been thinking about your training. The best way to assess your current abilities would be a practical demonstration. I'd like to propose a friendly sparring session. Nothing formal. Just an opportunity to see what you can do and identify areas where focused training could help.
Tomorrow evening. Private training room three. Just you and me.
No pressure. No expectations. Simply a test.
G.W.
I read it twice, my wolf bristling with unease, hackles rising beneath my skin like a warning. The paper was heavy cardstock, expensive like the previous note, but this one smelled of ink and leather—masculine and deliberate.
