POV: Killian
The school halls of Blackwood Academy are a constant, buzzing hive of noise and smells, but I've learned to tune it all out. To me, it's just background static.
The air here is usually full of the scent of weak Alphas trying too hard to look tough and desperate omegas hoping to catch the eye of a high-ranking heir.
It's a stagnant, predictable soup of ambition and pheromones, and frankly, I don't breathe them in. I haven't truly cared about a single scent in this godforsaken academy since I was old enough to know my own name.
Until she walked through the iron gates.
Victoria Moon.
The second I saw her standing there in that stiff gray blazer, looking like a lost bird in a den of wolves, my own wolf went dead silent. There was no snarling at the crowd, no restless pacing behind my ribs, no urge to snap at the idiots bumping into my shoulders. Just a cold, absolute, and bone-deep recognition that rattled me to my core.
Mine.
I'm watching her now from the shadows of the mezzanine, leaning my elbows on the cold stone railing. From this height, I have a perfect view of the courtyard as she walks toward the faculty lounge.
She moves with a quick, nervous energy, clutching her briefcase as if it could actually protect her from the predators surrounding her. She thinks she's being clever. I can smell the thick, chemical layers of those cheap, over-the-counter suppressants she bathes in every morning.
She's trying so hard to mask the smell of the woods, trying to pass herself off as a boring beta or some packless nobody from a distant territory.
It's endearing, really. It's like watching a deer put on a coat and pretend it's a person. She has no idea that to my nose; a Blackwood nose, those chemicals are like tissue paper.
Beneath the fake floral scent of her soap and the sharp sting of the blockers, she smells like lilies and mountain air after a massive summer storm. It's the cleanest, most intoxicating thing I've ever scented.
The fake papers she filed with my uncle, the "Ms. Moon" persona she wears like a shroud, the glasses she clearly doesn't need; they're just layers of a gift I'm going to enjoy unwrapping, piece by slow, agonizing piece.
She thinks the age gap matters. I see it in the way she flinches when I get too close, the way she reminds herself of her position every time our eyes meet. She thinks that 'Teacher' title is a titanium shield that will keep me at arm's length.
She's wrong. She doesn't realize that to a Blackwood Alpha, laws are merely suggestions for the weak, and "no" is just a starting point for a negotiation.
I've never been told I couldn't have something I wanted, and I've never wanted anything as badly as I want to bury my face in the crook of her neck and hear her heart stop skipping for me.
I'm pulled from my predatory thoughts by a group of Seniors loitering near the water fountain directly below my perch. They're looking in her direction, their posture shifting into something aggressive and foul.
Their eyes are roaming over the curve of her hips, tracing the line of her pencil skirt as she climbs the steps.
"The new Lit teacher is a total ten," one of them, Miller, says with a low, disgusting whistle. He's a Beta from a wealthy family, the kind of kid who thinks his father's bank account gives him a right to anything he sees.
"Bet she's lonely in that staff housing. I give it a week before someone breaks her in. I've got fifty bucks says she screams like a pro."
The other boys erupt into a chorus of snickering, their scents turning thick and foul with the smell of unearned lust. It's a greasy, sour smell that makes my upper lip curl in disgust.
My blood doesn't just boil; it turns to absolute ice. The temperature in the hallway seems to drop ten degrees as I push off the railing and step out of the shadows.
I don't say a word. I don't yell. I don't even growl. I just walk down the stairs with a slow, heavy tread that makes the air grow still. I walk straight up behind Miller and grip the back of his neck, my fingers digging into the pressure points just below his skull.
He freezes mid-laugh. His breath hitches, and his laughter dies in a sudden, choked wheeze as he realizes whose hand is on him. The other boys scramble back, their faces turning a pasty, sickly pale as they look at me.
I can see the reflection of my own face in the lockers; my eyes are already burning a lethal, molten gold. I lean in, my wolf pushing hard against my skin, my teeth aching to drop.
"If I hear her name come out of your mouth again," I whisper, my voice vibrating with a low-frequency threat that makes his knees literally knock together, "you won't have a tongue to speak with. Do you understand me, Miller?"
He nods frantically, his eyes wide and watering with pain. I wait for a beat, making sure the terror has fully sunk in, then I let go. I watch them scatter like rats into the darkness of the locker bank, their pride discarded on the floor.
I turn back, looking at Victoria's retreating figure. She's almost reached the lounge now, blissfully unaware of the conversation she just escaped. A dark, possessive heat curls in my stomach. If they won't respect her position as a teacher, then they will have to fear my claim as her mate. I am a Blackwood, and what I mark as mine is sacred.
I need to make sure the entire school knows she is off-limits before anyone else dares to even breathe her air. I'm tired of the whispers. I'm tired of the way the other Alphas look at her as if she's just another conquest.
By the time the sun sets tonight, everyone in this fortress will know the new rule: touch her, and you deal with me. And no one at Blackwood Academy is stupid enough to want to deal with me when I'm angry.
I track her until the door closes behind her, my mind already spinning with ways to corner her. She can run all she wants, but she's already inside my territory. And I always catch what I hunt.