Three Days Later
The rain in the city didn't wash things clean; it just made the grime slicker.
Elara huddled under the Science Building's awning, water droplets cascading from her umbrella as she shook it. The downpour pummeled the pavement with a sound that should have been soothing—a natural metronome that usually calmed her nerves. Today, each splatter against concrete counted seconds like a merciless clock.
Three days.
Seventy-two hours since that moment in the library when Damien Blackwood—the Alpha of the Shadow Sovereigns—had traced her cheekbone with his fingertip, his steel-gray eyes boring into hers as he promised the hunt was beginning.
Then... silence.
No kidnapping. No interrogation. Not even the crash of her apartment door being kicked in by his security team.
'He is waiting,' Lumina's voice prowled through the recesses of Elara's mind, white fur practically visible in her imagination. 'A wolf like that does not forget. He is letting the prey exhaust itself with worry before he strikes.'
"I'm not worried," Elara muttered, adjusting her backpack strap where it dug into her shoulder.
The mirror this morning hadn't lied. Stress had hollowed her cheeks and painted purple shadows beneath her eyes. The doubled suppressant potion throbbed behind her temples, a constant ache that made her limbs feel leaden. Her skin had taken on the pallor of old paper.
Perfect. She looked exactly like every other sleep-deprived college student.
"Elara! Wait up!"
Her muscles seized at the sound. Sarah jogged toward her, a sodden newspaper held futilely above her head. Her lab partner's hair clung to her face in wet strands, the scent of vanilla latte and innocence cutting through the petrichor.
"Did you hear?" Sarah panted, droplets flying as she shook out her coat. "It's everywhere."
Elara's stomach twisted. "Hear what?"
"Blackwood," Sarah whispered, leaning close enough that Elara could count the freckles across her nose. "He didn't leave. His jet was scheduled for Tuesday, but he cancelled. He's still here."
Elara's fingers whitened around her bag strap. "So? Billionaires change plans. Maybe he's... sightseeing."
"Sightseeing?" Sarah's laugh echoed in the damp air. "He bought the abandoned textile factory yesterday. And this morning? The Dean announced Blackwood is personally overseeing the new bio-wing construction. He'll be on campus every day for the next month."
The world tilted. Every day. For a month.
Cold washed through Elara's veins. Not coincidence. He'd purchased property. Changed his schedule. He was embedding himself here like a tick burrowing into skin.
"Why would he do that?" The question scraped her throat. "He runs a global empire. He can't possibly have time to watch construction workers pour concrete."
"Who cares?" Sarah's sigh fogged the chilly air. "Have you seen him? If he wants to stand around looking like a dark god in that suit, I vote yes. Come on, we're late for Botany."
Elara's instincts screamed to run—pack her meager belongings, point her car north, disappear into Canadian wilderness. But flight would confirm suspicion. Running prey gets chased.
'Stay,' Lumina counseled, though tension rippled through her mental presence. 'If we run, he chases. If we stay, we can prove we are boring. We can bore him into leaving.'
"Right," Elara whispered. "Boring. I can do boring."
She followed Sarah into the lecture hall.
Botany 401 smelled of chalk dust and old wood, the tiered classroom usually filled with students who preferred photosynthesis to socializing.
Today, the air crackled with anticipation.
Elara slid into her strategic seat—middle row, far left, near the emergency exit. She arranged her notebook and pen with surgical precision, head down, aura compressed tight against her body.
Nothing to see here. Just a girl who likes plants.
Professor Halloway shuffled in, the scent of peat moss clinging to his tweed jacket as he clapped his hands.
"Settle down, everyone. Today we're discussing Atropa belladonna and its applications in modern pharmacology. But first..." His fingers nervously adjusted his glasses. "We have a... a guest auditor today."
Elara's pen snapped. Black ink spurted across her fingers. No.
"Mr. Blackwood has expressed interest in our department's curriculum," the Professor continued, voice wavering. "He wishes to observe the academic rigor of the institution he's funding."
The side door opened with a whisper.
The classroom atmosphere transformed instantly—prey animals sensing a predator. Heartbeats accelerated in a symphony of fear and attraction that assaulted Elara's ears.
Damien Blackwood wasn't wearing a suit today. The black turtleneck clung to shoulders broad enough to fill the doorframe, the "casual" attire worth more than Elara's tuition.
His gaze—cutting and methodical—dissected the room row by row.
Elara stared at the ink staining her thumb. Don't look up. Don't look up.
His scanning stopped.
His footsteps made no sound as he climbed the lecture hall stairs, each movement radiating dominance. His scent—rain-soaked forest and raw power—flooded the room, making Elara's inner wolf whine involuntarily.
He passed the front row. The middle row.
He stopped at her row. "Is this seat taken?"
His voice vibrated in the air, a bass note felt more than heard.
Elara's eyelids squeezed shut for a heartbeat before she forced them open. She looked up.
He towered above her, gesturing to the empty chair she deliberately kept vacant to avoid others' scents.
Every eye in the room fixed on them. Sarah's pulse thrummed audibly from the next seat.
"No," Elara managed, the word barely audible.
The chair screeched against the floor as he pulled it out, the sound slicing through the silence.
He sat.
His frame dwarfed the student desk. His shoulders invaded her space. His leg stretched beneath the table, his knee brushing her thigh.
Elara jerked away, the contact burning through her jeans.
"Sorry," he murmured, amusement threading through the word.
The Professor cleared his throat. "Right. Yes. Uh, welcome, Mr. Blackwood. Shall we... begin?"
The lecture started, but Elara registered nothing.
Her world had contracted to the six inches separating them.
His scent enveloped her—midnight forest and primal power. Even with her senses dulled by suppressants, he overwhelmed her. Intoxicating. Terrifying.
And he was watching her.
He wasn't watching the Professor. Wasn't scribbling notes. Instead, his body angled toward her in his chair, his attention fixed on her profile with unsettling intensity.
The weight of his gaze traced her features—following the slope of her nose, the flutter of her eyelashes, the delicate curve of her jaw. His stare felt tangible, like fingers brushing against her skin.
"You're bleeding," he murmured, his voice velvet-soft in the hushed lecture hall.
Elara startled, her plastic pen clattering to the desk. "What?"
"Your hand."
He gestured toward her thumb where the cracked pen had sliced her skin. A tiny crimson bead welled up, mingling with dark ink in a marbled swirl.
Cold dread washed through her veins. Blood. Her blood wasn't merely human—it carried the concentrated magic of the White Wolf lineage. Even a drop could release a sweet, divine scent that no suppressant could fully mask.
She thrust her thumb into her mouth, the metallic tang of blood mixing with bitter ink as she desperately tried to contain both the flow and the scent.
Damien's pupils dilated instantly, swallowing the steel-gray of his irises until his eyes became bottomless pools of black. His gaze locked onto her mouth, the air between them seeming to crackle and thicken.
He leaned closer, the expensive sandalwood of his cologne enveloping her. His voice dropped to a whisper that caressed her ear. "Why do you smell like nothing, Elara?"
Her name on his lips sent a jolt through her spine. He knew her name.
Elara withdrew her thumb, wrapping it in her sleeve. She fixed her gaze on the chalk-dusted blackboard, refusing to meet his eyes.
"I use unscented soap," she whispered back. "I have allergies."
"Allergies." The word rolled off his tongue like he was tasting it. "And that's why your heart is hammering against your ribs right now? Allergies?"
"You make me nervous," she admitted, truth coating her words. "You're... intense."
"I make everyone nervous," Damien acknowledged, his tone matter-of-fact. "But they smell like fear. You smell like... void. It's unnatural."
Under the desk, his hand moved toward hers.
Elara froze. Creating a scene would draw attention—exactly what she couldn't afford.
His hand settled beside hers, his pinky finger barely brushing against hers. The contact sparked between them—not just static electricity, but something profound. A sense of rightness, like puzzle pieces clicking into place. Inside her, Lumina ceased her restless pacing and settled with a purr that vibrated through Elara's chest.
'Mate,' Lumina sighed contentedly. 'He is strong. He can protect us.'
'He will cage us,' Elara countered silently.
"You feel it," Damien whispered. Not a question. "That static. Do you feel it?"
Elara turned to him. Time to become the forgettable, mundane human he would eventually dismiss. She deliberately dulled her eyes, slumped her shoulders, let exhaustion seep into her posture.
"I think you're just carrying a lot of static charge, Mr. Blackwood," she replied flatly. "Maybe it's the wool sweater. Or the carpet."
Damien's eyes narrowed, searching for deception, hunting for any flicker of recognition in her gaze.
She offered nothing but empty fatigue.
He exhaled sharply through his nose, frustration evident in the tightening of his jaw. He leaned back, withdrawing his hand. The absence left her skin aching for his touch.
"You are a terrible liar," he murmured. "But I have time. I'm a very patient man."
The remainder of the lecture stretched endlessly. Elara's pen scratched illegible notes across her paper. Beside her, Damien sat motionless, a brooding presence radiating heat and attention. Though silent, his eyes tracked her every movement—the shift of her hair, the tap of her pen, the rise and fall of her chest.
When the bell finally shattered the tension, Elara was already gathering her things, half-rising before the Professor completed his sentence.
"Excuse me," she mumbled, clutching her bag.
She squeezed past him without waiting, her denim brushing against his knees as she fled down the stairs.
The corridor air hit her face, cooler and diluted with the scents of hundreds of students. The cacophony of voices and footsteps offered welcome anonymity.
Ten steps into her escape, fingers wrapped around her upper arm—not painful, but unyielding as steel. She found herself spun around.
Damien towered over her, his presence commanding the crowded hallway. Students slowed, whispers rippling through the throng. The billionaire Alpha and the scholarship nobody. A spectacle.
"We aren't done," Damien stated.
"I have work," Elara lied. "I'm late."
"I don't care."
He advanced, forcing her backward until her shoulder blades pressed against cold metal lockers. The hollow sound reverberated through her bones. He caged her with one arm against the locker, his face inches from hers. The hallway fell silent, the audience holding its collective breath.
"I looked at your file, Elara," he said, his voice low and dangerous. "Elara Vance. Orphan. Raised in foster care in Ohio. Average grades. No living relatives. No medical history."
"So?" She tilted her chin upward defiantly. "I told you. I'm boring."
"It's too clean," Damien growled. "No one is that ghost-like. No parking tickets? No hospital visits? No social media presence?"
He leaned closer, his nose brushing the sensitive skin beneath her ear. The warm exhale of his breath sent shivers cascading down her spine as he inhaled deeply, shamelessly scenting her in public.
Elara trembled. This was intimate. Primal. A mating ritual.
"Stop it," she hissed, pressing her palms against his chest. His heartbeat thrummed steadily beneath her fingertips, his body unyielding as granite.
"I can smell the chemicals," he whispered, his lips grazing her earlobe.
Elara's heart stuttered. "What?"
"Underneath the soap," Damien murmured, "there is a sharp, chemical tang. Like sulfur." He pulled back, his gray eyes dissecting hers. "You're taking something. Drugs? Medication?"
Too close. He'd detected the suppressants.
"I told you. I have anemia," Elara stammered. "I take iron supplements. They smell bad."
"Iron doesn't smell like magic," Damien said.
The word hung between them, heavy and dangerous. Magic.
He suspected. Not what she was exactly—perhaps a witch, maybe a chemically altered human—but he knew she wasn't normal.
"I don't know what you're talking about," Elara said, genuine fear threading through her voice. "Please. You're hurting me."
Though he wasn't, the accusation struck its mark.
Damien immediately withdrew, his hand dropping from the locker. Guilt flickered across his features—his Alpha nature recoiling at the thought of causing distress to a female.
"I..." He hesitated.
Elara seized her opportunity.
"Stay away from me, Mr. Blackwood," she said, her voice quavering. "I'm not a mystery for you to solve. I'm just a student trying to get a degree. Go buy another building and leave me alone."
She turned away, forcing herself to walk—not run—with her head held high through the corridor of wide-eyed onlookers. His gaze burned into her back, but she sensed he wasn't following.
Yet she knew with bone-deep certainty that he wasn't leaving either.
Around the corner, safely out of sight, she collapsed against the wall. Her lungs burned as she gasped for air, her hands trembling uncontrollably.
'He smelled the potion,' Lumina whimpered inside her. 'The mask is slipping.'
"Then we make it stronger," Elara whispered, brushing away a tear of frustration with the back of her hand. "We make it stronger."