The bell for first period rings, sounding like a death toll in my ears. The sharp, mechanical clang echoes through the stone corridors of Blackwood Academy, signaling the start of a life I'm not sure I'm brave enough to live.
I've spent the last twenty minutes hiding in the faculty restroom, leaning over a porcelain sink and splashing freezing water on my face until my skin went numb.
I stared at my reflection in the spotted mirror; the wide, haunted eyes of a girl who has spent too much time looking over her shoulder, and I gave myself the only pep talk that mattered.
You are a professional, Victoria. You are here for a paycheck. You are here to survive.
I reminded my wolf, who was still pacing restlessly behind my ribs, that we are here to work, not to find a mate. Especially not a student. Especially not an heir who could have me executed with a single phone call if he ever discovered what I really am.
I take a final, shaky breath and walk into the Literature classroom. I've spent weeks preparing for this moment. I've rehearsed my opening lines a hundred times in front of my bedroom mirror, perfecting the tone of a strict but fair educator.
I've memorized the seating chart. I've polished my lecture notes until they were flawless. I walk in with my chin held high, my spine straight, and my gaze fixed on the podium at the front of the room.
But the moment I step behind that heavy mahogany desk, the oxygen in the room seems to vanish. The words I've practiced so hard die in my throat, turning into a dry, dusty lump that I can't swallow.
He's there.
Killian Blackwood isn't just in my class; he's sitting in the very front row, centered directly in my line of sight. He is a dark, immovable force in a room full of shifting teenagers.
While the other students are gossiping about the summer, slamming lockers, or scrolling through their expensive phones, Killian is perfectly still. He hasn't even opened his bag.
He hasn't taken out a pen. He's just leaning back in his chair, his long legs stretched out under the desk, crossing his ankles with a casual confidence that makes the room feel small.
He is watching me. It's not a casual glance or a curious look at the new teacher. It's an unblinking, predatory intensity that feels like a physical weight on my skin, pinning me to the spot.
Every time I try to look at another student, my eyes are pulled back to him, drawn by the gravity of the bond that is screaming between us.
"Good morning, class," I manage to say. My voice sounds thinner than I'd like, a fragile thread of sound in the heavy silence of the room. I clear my throat and try again, louder this time. "I am Ms. Moon."
I turn to the whiteboard to write my name in large, clear letters, hoping the physical task will give me a moment to collect my thoughts. But my hands are shaking so badly that the marker squeaks against the surface, leaving a jagged, uneven trail of ink.
I can feel his eyes on my back, tracing the line of my neck, the curve of my shoulders. It feels like he's touching me without laying a finger on me.
I turn back around and begin my lecture on The Odyssey. I try to lose myself in the familiar rhythm of the story, focusing on the themes of homecoming, wandering, and the struggle against the gods.
I'm halfway through a sentence about the hero's journey, my voice finally finding a bit of its natural strength, when my tongue suddenly trips.
"And so, the... the inevitability of the fatedencounter..." I stammer.
My mind momentarily blanks, the academic theories vanishing like smoke. A sudden, sharp whiff of cedar-and-rain drifts up from the front row, filling my nose and making my wolf whine in the back of my head.
The scent is so thick, so intoxicating, that for a second, I forget where I am. I forget that I'm standing in a classroom full of witnesses.
"The inevitability of the return," a deep, gravelly voice corrects.
The sound is a low, rich rumble that vibrates through the floorboards and travels straight up my spine, making the hair on my arms stand up. I look down, my breath catching in my chest.
Killian is looking up at me, his head tilted slightly to the side, his eyes dark and knowing. He didn't raise his hand. He didn't ask for permission to speak. He didn't even move a muscle. He just spoke the truth into the room, his voice marking the air between us and claiming the narrative for himself.
"Yes," I whisper, my voice barely audible even to myself. "The return."
The rest of the hour is a blur of pure, unadulterated agony. I try to keep my eyes on the back wall, on the clock, on the dust motes dancing in the sunlight; anywhere but the front row.
But I can feel him. Every time I move to the other side of the room, his head follows. Every time I gesture toward the board, he tracks the movement like a wolf watching its prey in the tall grass. He is the only thing in the room worth seeing to my wolf, and the struggle to ignore him is draining the life out of me.
When the bell finally rings, the sound is a mercy. The other students scramble out, eager to get to lunch or their next class, their voices filling the hallway with a sudden burst of noise. But Killian doesn't move.
He stays seated, his eyes fixed on me as I begin to busily shuffle my papers. I keep my head down, pretending to be deeply fascinated by a stack of syllabi, refusing to look up until I have no choice.
The silence of the empty room stretches between us, heavy and thick, until a shadow falls over my desk. I don't need to look up to know who it is. The scent of the thunderstorm is overwhelming now, wrapping around me like a shroud.
"You're late, Teacher," he whispers.
His voice is a low rumble, intimate and dangerous, intended only for my ears. It's not the voice of a student. It's the voice of a man who knows exactly what he wants and exactly how he's going to get it.
I finally look up, my heart hammering against my ribs so hard I'm sure he can hear it. I try to summon every bit of the professional authority I'm supposed to have. "Late for what, Mr. Blackwood?"
He leans in, his face coming so close to mine that I can see the gold flecks dancing in his dark pupils. I can feel the heat radiating from his body, a warmth that calls to the cold, lonely places inside of me.
"To the pack," he says softly.
Before I can gasp, before I can find the words to tell him how impossible and wrong this is, he pulls back. He gives me one last, lingering look, then turns and saunters out of the room with a lazy, predator's gait.
He leaves me standing there, trembling so hard I have to grip the edge of the heavy mahogany desk just to stay upright, my mind screaming with the realization that the life I spent years building is already starting to crumble.