I woke to an unsurprisingly empty bed. The space Alpha Alexander had vacated was still warm, which meant he had only left a few minutes ago.

I carefully slid out of bed, my back flaring up in sharp waves of pain. I slowly gathered the loosest outfit I could find: a graphic t-shirt dress that fell a couple inches above my knees and had an 80s band logo printed on the front, paired with knee-high socks.

I changed as quickly as my stiff limbs and sore muscles allowed before I stepped into the bathroom to put my hair into two braids and wash my face. I found a first-aid kit under the sink and took out a piece of gauze and tape to wrap around my pitifully damaged hands. I lathered the cuts in Neosporin and wrapped both hands from wrist to knuckles, trying to mimic how they were bandaged before my episode in the shower.

I stared at my reflection, debating with myself whether I wanted to take a peek at my back, but decided against it.

The mark on my neck was displayed easily with the wide collar of my dress and the pigtails closely braided to my scalp. I looked as normal as possible with cuts and bruises sprinkled all over the skin exposed. After a short pep talk to my reflection, I left the bedroom.

My destination wasn't apparent to me until I reached a familiar set of doors, beyond which held the library. As if on autopilot, I stepped into the library, closing the doors behind me and bee-lining it to the shelf that held the book I had stumbled upon less than 48 hours ago.

I quickly pulled Mating Rituals of Werewolves from the shelf and brought it to one of the study tables near one of the tall open windows. The afternoon sun beamed through and a soft breeze filtered into the library. I inhaled a breath of fresh air before sitting on the desk, crossing my legs, and opening the book. I thumbed through the contents pages before finding the section that went over the topic I wanted to comprehend. I hastily flipped to the page listed and started reading:

-

Introduction

The transference of a werewolf's abilities to their human mate is uncommon, but not so much that it is completely unheard of. The possibility of transferring certain abilities—such as healing at a faster rate than the average human, or a fraction of a werewolf's physical strength—depends on the dominance of the werewolf. If a human were to mate with a werewolf with no significant rank in the pack, the possibility of transference is unlikely. If a human mated a Beta or—even more unlikely—an Alpha of any given pack, transference is more likely to occur with specific abilities that are attributed to the werewolf in question (i.e. their ability to run faster than other werewolves) because those abilities are more dominant than others (i.e. sense of smell or healing). However, this is not always the case. There are few, if any, reports to indicate that a human can receive nearly all the abilities of their Alpha mates without the aspect of shifting. A human cannot obtain a werewolf's abilities without causing physical harm to themselves. Because the werewolf species is so advanced, both physically and mentally, it would be nearly impossible for the human mate to control the abilities gifted to them by their Alphas. Transference is a more unfamiliar topic among werewolf specialists—a topic that many wish to understand, but few werewolves are willing to explain. The following section covers the minimal data that researchers and specialists were able to obtain about this topic of transference.

-

I closed the book after skimming through the section, which barely covered an entire page, front and back. I felt a balloon of hope deflate inside of me—all that the textbook revealed to me was that my theory was correct: I was drawing strength and, apparently, violent emotions and tendencies from Alpha Alexander. The book just couldn't properly explain why it was happening. I deduced it to the fact that I was the mate to an extremely powerful Alpha and if my adrenaline reached a certain point—like in the high school or when Ava showed up—his claim on me allowed transference to occur. I also had speculations that his mark made the process of transference possible; it wasn't until he claimed me that I started showing signs of superhuman strength and anger.

Sure, totally logical, Phoebe.

I returned to the shelf and eyed the other books. A second title caught my eye, Volume One of Werewolf Abilities and Disabilities. I pulled it off the shelf and returned to my table before I skimmed through the table of contents. I flipped to a section that could hopefully give me more insight to my Alpha mate.

-

Dominance is key to a pack's social and political structure. The more dominant the werewolf, the better their station in the pack. The most dominant werewolf is the Alpha. The title of Alpha isn't given, it is earned. In most cases, it is hereditary, but every new Alpha must prove their dominance before claiming the title. If an Alpha dies, the offspring with the most dominance (which is not always the oldest, and is not always a son), can claim the title after participating in the ceremony* to prove their dominance and ability to actually become Alpha of their pack. *See "Ceremonies and Traditions," page 117.

The title of Alpha can also be claimed when someone challenges the current Alpha and wins. The challenger can be either male or female, and they are more likely to win if they are more dominant than the Alpha.

-

The book droned on about how someone could challenge an Alpha and then earn the title of Alpha and assume the responsibility of the pack. After reading a couple more pages, I shut the book, more knowledgeable on how to become an Alpha, but with no insight onto the inner workings of my mate. I sighed and slipped off the table to return the book to its proper resting place. I nearly screamed when I found a body standing on the other side of the room. Jason had a backpack slung over his shoulder, his headphones hanging around his neck, and a book in his hand.

He stared at me.

I stared right back at him. I took in his appearance—his face had several long cuts down his cheek and his right forearm had a nasty gash, as though someone tried to bite it off. Even with all his wounds, it looked as though they were already healing. The bruises were more yellow-brown than dark purple, and the gash looked as though it was stitching itself together.

His eyes were guarded and his posture was stiff—as though he was unsure what to do or what to say. My heart sank.

"I'm so sorry," I said softly, breaking the tension.

My words seemed to physically strike him as he took a step back from the verbal blow. He frowned, confused. "What for?"

I sighed, crossing my arms over my chest. "I shouldn't have gone to the school. I forced you to drive me. If I didn't, you wouldn't have gotten hurt and wouldn't have seen me—"

"Oh my god, Phoebe, are you kidding me?" he interrupted me, his voice heavy with annoyance.

My eyes widened at his sudden outburst. "W-What?"

He slammed his book on the table and dropped his backpack on the floor. "You really think I care about that? You think I'm pissed because you needed homework from your locker and you asked me to drive you? You think I'm upset because I protected you and I got a couple scratches?"

"I—I—" I stuttered lamely, at a loss for words.

"Jesus," he sighed. He dropped his face into his hands, rubbing his forehead in frustration—something I'd seen my dad do whenever I did something against his wishes, which wasn't very often. He finally looked up at me again. "If anyone should apologize it's me, Phoebe."

I frowned. "What would you need to apologize for? You saved my life, Jason."

"If I had picked up on their scent earlier, you wouldn't have been in danger."

"If I hadn't asked to go the school, neither of us would have been in danger."

He held up bother hands. "Stop it, Phoebe. You don't understand."

"I understand perfectly!" I snapped. "You got hurt because I'm too stubborn—"

"No, Phoebe. You really don't understand," he snapped back. He rubbed a hand down the side of his face that was uninjured. "It's my job, my honor, to protect you. I failed you because I didn't realize they were there until it was almost too late. I should have walked with you to your locker. I should have been paying attention. I should have been able to pick up on their scent much sooner than I did." He deflated, a mask of horror and defeat overcoming his grim expression. "I failed."

Without hesitation, I stepped forward and wrapped my arms around my friend. After a moment, his arms wrapped around me, carefully avoiding my injuries. "You saved my life, Jason," I repeated. "You took on two wolves by yourself. You stopped me from doing something . . . horrible. You are not a failure. You did your job—I'm alive because of you. I'll never forget that."

His arms tightened around me. "I'm still apologizing."

"Fine. Then so am I."

Finally, he chuckled, and his humor returned. I felt his muscles relax. "Milady, must you be so difficult?"

I grinned. "It's genetic."

We released one another and I made sure to look him in the eyes as I said, "Thank you, Jason. For saving my life and for saving me from going over the edge with that rogue."

His eyes darkened, but his smile remained. "You handled yourself pretty well."

I sighed. "Yeah, I'm still trying to figure out where it all came from." I picked up the book and brandished the title for him.

"Mating rituals, huh?" he smirked.

I shoved him playfully and put the book back on the shelf in its proper place. "I think I drew some of Alpha Alexander's energy when I went psycho on the girl in the chemistry lab."

Jason nodded thoughtfully. "It can happen with dominant wolves."

I shrugged. "That's about all I figured out for now. Also," my expression grew dark, "I met Ava."

Jason chuckled. "I heard."

"So, if I accidentally killed her . . . ?"

"I'll help you bury the body, milady." He bowed for show.

I grinned. "Brilliant, we're on the same page."

Jason returned my grin, but it faltered. "In all seriousness, milady, you need to tread carefully around her. She is the future Alpha Female of her pack, so there is a possibility of the two of you interacting in the future."

I gave him a tight smile. "Then we'll cross that bridge when we get to it."

"All right," he sighed, picking up his backpack. "I have an exam to study for. Thanks for the extra day to cram, by the way."

I was so surprised by the joke, I nearly choked on my laughter. "I'd say anytime, but let's not do that again."

"Agreed, milady." He gave me one last hug before I stepped out of the library and down the stairs. I found the living room, with several teenagers lounging around. Julie called me over and patted the seat beside her on the oversized love seat. I slid under the blanket she had and watched a boy a few years younger than me stand up, holding two movie cases in front of him.

"All right, gals and guys," he started. "What's it gonna be? Iron Man or Stepbrothers?"

The vote was almost unanimous. The comedy was put into the DVD player and the incredibly large TV screen lit up. Someone turned off the lights and closed the blinds and we watched the movie, our laughter joining together and becoming so loud to the point that more teens joined us, sprawling themselves on the couches and the floor.

I smiled at the scene surrounding me. My body ached and groaned, but I tried to push the pain to the back of my mind as I watched the teens around me laugh and joke around with one another.

These were my friends.

They were my pack.

. . .

I couldn't sleep that night. My stomach ached and Alpha Alexander had been gone most of the day, so I spent it with the younger pack members and Julie. We watched movies and played video games. I went to bed around ten-thirty, but found myself lying on top of the comforter, my hands folded across my stomach, my thumbs twiddling against one another. My mind seemed to buzz around Alpha Alexander: What was he doing? Where was he? Who was he with?

My hands ceased their movement and tightened, my knuckles cracking under the pressure. The thought of Ava in Alpha Alexander's office—with him, alone—made a flare of anger rise inside of me.

I sat upright and fiddled with the hem of the black t-shirt I stole from his dresser. My toes curled tightly against the knee-high socks I still wore, the pain at my back throbbed slightly, but I had taken the pain medication moments prior, so their effect was about to kick in. It was then that I realized I hadn't eaten since breakfast. My stomach growled its agreement as I left the bedroom and stepped lightly down the stairs.

It was nearing midnight and the ground floor of the pack house was completely empty. I slid into the kitchen and turned on one of the lights, setting it to its dimmest—enough to see but not enough to disturb the house.

I scanned the contents of the massive refrigerator and the extensive pantry before deciding on quick spaghetti and some sour dough bread with olive oil—a heavy meal for so late in the night, but I needed something in my stomach. I pulled out the spaghetti and brought a pot to boil before dumping the remaining contents of spaghetti into the hot water.

I grabbed a cutting board and a large serrated knife before slicing the loaf of sour dough bread. Food Network definitely made slicing bread seem super easy on TV. I sawed at the loaf as it dented and squished beneath my hold.

"If only I didn't love carbs as much as I do . . ." I grunted, managing to cut one oddly shaped slice of bread before going to work on a second one.

I had no warning. Nothing in my body or my mind screamed that someone was behind me. So when a pair of arms caged around me, stilling my hands, and a body fit against my back gently, I jumped and let out a small squeak of surprise. I glanced over my shoulder as a thrill rattled my insides.

His eyes were glued to the knife in my hand. Slowly, his fingers pried mine away from what I knew he saw as a weapon and a safety hazard, and the knife clattered onto the cutting board. He took my hands in his and turned them over, inspecting the patch-up job I'd done on them earlier in the day. He gently set my hands aside and picked up the knife himself.

In one fluid motion, he sliced another piece of bread before taking the knife and stepping away to drop it in the sink. If my knees hadn't been shaking, I would have said something quirky about how he makes everything seems to easy. Instead, I quietly stirred the noodles and got out a plate for the olive oil.

He leaned against the counter, his arms crossed; his eyes following me as I moved around the kitchen. When I needed to grab something near him, I found myself brushing against him lightly—reaching for something behind him, my breast pressed against his shoulder; opening a drawer next to him, my arm tingled as it slid against his. When I discovered that the strainer was kept in a cupboard above the microwave, I somehow found the courage to stand on my tip-toes and reach for it, knowing with complete confidence that the hem of the t-shirt rose to expose the slightest hint of my bottom.

I had almost reached the strainer when his hand gripped my hip and he pulled me into his chest. His easily reached up and grabbed the strainer, setting it on the counter—all the while glaring at me dangerously.

"I almost had it," I grumbled.

His voice was heavy and low, and it made my stomach drop. "I know what you're doing, Phoebe."

"Yeah." I smiled. "Cooking."

His eyes darkened as he released me. I stirred the noodles once more before grabbing the strainer and turning to put it in the sink. He was there, blocking my path with his wide, sculptured body. His muscles were prominent even under the t-shirt that looked as though it probably came from the same Fruit of the Loom pack as the one I was wearing. He stepped toward me and I instinctively took a step back. When he took another step, I defiantly rooted my feet to the ground. His eyes flared with an emotion that I easily recognized as the same emotion he displayed when he had claimed me—desire.

We stood toe-to-toe with nothing but a strainer between us. His hands reached out and tickled my thigh where the hem of the shirt fell. I took in a deep, stabilizing breath as my mark tingled lightly.

His nostrils flared. "You haven't been taking your medication, Phoebe."

"I may have skipped a dose," I said flippantly and in a surprisingly even voice.

"I told you it was dangerous," he said calmly as his fingers trailed upward, lifting the shirt over my hip. His fingertips toyed with the lacy band of my thong.

"Hmm," I mumbled my own bandaged hand reaching out to tuck a finger into the band of his jeans. "You're probably right."

His eyes narrowed as I started to gently pull him toward me. I lifted myself onto the balls of my feet, my nose brushing against his, our eyes locking as I leaned forward. He moved to meet my lips with his, but at the last moment, I shoved him back.

Surprised, he took a step backwards, his hands falling to his side and his eyes flaring with a range of emotions. I cocked my head sideways as we looked at one another for a dangerously silent moment.

"So maybe you should keep your distance."

I gave him another cheeky smile and moved toward the sink. He grabbed me roughly by the hips and yanked me away from the sink and into his chest. The strainer clattered to the floor as he claimed my lips effortlessly—our bodies molding against one another. His hands slid down my sides, consciously avoiding my back, and massaged my bottom before cupping the back of my thighs and lifting me. My legs wrapped around him instinctively as he carried me to the counter, setting me on top of the cool surface. He broke the kiss to trail his tongue down my neck, his lips latching onto the mark. I felt his teeth graze against the tender skin and I gasped sharply when they penetrated my flesh for the third time. My fingers dug into his shoulders and his hands tightened around my hips.

A warm sense of euphoria settled around me—completely different from the shock of ice that the previous bite had. A fire flared inside of me. I tried to remember how to breathe as his teeth retracted and his lips made their way back up my neck and to my lips. I faintly tasted my own blood on his tongue, but the disgust I would normally have felt was nonexistent as I tugged on the hem of his shirt. His fingers slid up my thighs; excited trembles thundered through my stomach.

He reached the band of my underwear once more, but almost instantly, his hand retracted and he broke the heated kiss. He slowly turned around, his body rigid as he stared at the kitchen entrance.

"Ava."

She stepped into the kitchen gracefully, dressed in a silk nightgown that did nothing to keep Victoria's secret. In her hand was an empty glass that she placed on the counter. Her smile was coy, but her eyes were lit with a dangerous fire I'd never seen before, not even in Alpha Alexander.