Chapter 3
Headmaster Callow hadn't moved.
He stood directly at the edge of the deepest fissure, his hands clasped behind his back, his head tilted downward into the darkness. In the dim, pre-storm light filtering through the belltower, his gentle pastoral smile was gone.
His face was completely flat, his eyes fixed on the hollow depths below as if counting the minutes until the concrete arrived.
***
The corridor was quiet, smelling of cold stone, beeswax, and damp wool.
As soon as the courtyard was out of sight, Vaughn pulled me into the shadow of an arched alcove beside the empty tapestry gallery. The moment the stone wall was at my back, his hands came up, framing my face with a ferocity that stole the air from my lungs.
His thumbs traced the edges of my jaw, trembling slightly.
“Does it hurt?” he breathed, his amber eyes searching mine, frantic and possessive. “Tell me where else he hit you, Waverly. I swear to God, if he bruised your ribs—”
“Vaughn, stop,” I said, resting my palms against his chest. His heart was hammering like a war drum beneath his shirt, wild and ragged. “I’m okay. He just caught my cheek. The stone scraped my arm, but it’s nothing.”
“It’s not nothing,” he growled, leaning down until his forehead rested against mine. The contact sent a golden shockwave through my blood, silencing the remaining fear from Julian’s attack and replacing it with a thick, dizzying warmth. The scent of him—crushed pine needles, fresh rain, and the dark, iron musk of a wolf entirely devoted to me—wrapped around my senses like a heavy blanket.
“He shouldn't have touched you,” Vaughn whispered, his breath hot against my lips. “The second he laid a finger on you, my wolf wanted to rip his throat out. I didn't care about the rules. I didn't care about Ashford. I just wanted him dead.”
“I know,” I murmured, threading my fingers into the soft, dark hair at the nape of his neck. “I felt it. Through the bond.”
He shuddered, exhaling a shuddering breath that sounded like surrender. “The bond. You… you really feel it, don't you? It wasn't just my imagination this morning?”
“I’ve felt you pulling on my soul since six o'clock this morning, Vaughn,” I said, offering him a small, crooked smile that pulled at my cut lip. “You’re stuck with me.”
A fragile, breathtaking smile broke across his rugged features, softening the harsh line of his jaw. He leaned in, his lips hovering a millimeter from mine, hesitating, asking for permission with quiet reverence.
I closed the distance.
The kiss was sweet heat—soft, protective, yet underlined by an ancient, untamed hunger that left my toes curling in my boots. It wasn't rushed. It was a promise. A silent vow forged in an alcove while the academy above us bustled with pureblood arrogance.
When he finally pulled back, resting his chin on the top of my head while wrapping his heavy arms around my shoulders, we stood in the quiet darkness for a long minute, just breathing each other in.
“Callow saved us,” I murmured against his collarbone. “Julian would have forced your shift. The council would have expelled you, and I would have been left alone here.”
Vaughn was silent for a beat. His hand stroked down my spine, slow and rhythmic.
“Callow was quick,” Vaughn remarked, his voice taking on a thoughtful, guarded edge. “Almost too quick.”
I pulled back slightly to look at him. “What do you mean? He was patrolling the grounds.”
“Maybe,” Vaughn said, frowning down toward the floor. “It’s just… Julian’s been hanging around that courtyard for three weeks. Picking fights. Pushing the lower-tier wolves into the corners. And every time, Callow shows up right at the breaking point. He gives Julian a slap on the wrist, preaches peace to us, and now… now he’s condemning the entire yard.”
“It’s dangerous, Vaughn,” I pointed out, remembering the deep chasms in the flagstones. “You saw those cracks. If an unshifted student fell down there, they’d break their neck.”
“I suppose,” Vaughn murmured, though the tension hadn't fully left his shoulders. “Still. Fifty tons of concrete? That’s not a repair, Waverly. That’s a burial.”
I looked down at the handkerchief in my hand, stained with a single dot of my crimson blood and smelling of lavender.
Yet, beneath that soothing scent, my wolf’s tracking memory stirred—remembering that sharp, biting whiff of industrial lime drifting up from the dark, hollow belly of the Belltower foundation, fighting against something older, fainter, and cold as grave-dirt.
“He’s protecting us,” I said, reassuring both Vaughn and myself as the distant rumble of thunder rolled over the academy spires. “He’s the only one who ever has.”
The apothecary smelled of steeped valerian and dried coltsfoot, but neither was potent enough to cut through the intoxicating scent of my mate.
Nurse Hattie had merely tutted, pressed a stinging swab of witch hazel against my split lip, and muttered something about “young wolves needing muzzles before they tear the roof down.” She didn’t suspect the bond. To an unshifted elder, the heat radiating off Vaughn’s skin might have looked like lingering adrenaline.
Only I knew the truth.
Every time Vaughn’s knuckles brushed the sleeve of my sweater, static leaped between us, hot and prickling. His wolf was prowling right beneath the surface of his skin, golden irises bleeding into his dark pupils whenever another male walked past the apothecary window.
“Drink this,” Vaughn murmured, handing me a paper cup of sweetened willow bark tea once the nurse retreated to her back pantry.
He didn’t sit on the adjacent stool. He stood between me and the door, his massive frame naturally blocking any sightline from the corridor. It was classic dominant-mate posturing, instinctive and raw, yet when his gaze dropped to mine, the harshness vanished into something so tender it made my throat ache.
“I’m fine, Vaughn,” I said, cradling the warm cup. “Really. It’s just a scrape.”
“He touched your face,” Vaughn said, his voice dropping an octave into that low, chest-rattling pitch. He leaned down, placing one warm palm flat against the examination table beside my thigh. The wood creaked under his weight. “I should have torn his shoulder out of the socket before Callow showed up.”
“And then you’d be chained in silver in the lower precinct,” I whispered, reaching out to catch the cuff of his jacket. “Is that what you want? To leave me here alone with Julian’s pack?”
That hit him like a physical blow. His jaw clenched, the corded muscle jumping beneath his tan skin, but the feral fire in his eyes softened. He rested his forehead against mine again, taking a slow, deep breath, drinking in my scent—sweet clover and river stone, now laced with the faint metallic tang of dried blood.
“No,” he breathed against my skin. “Never alone. I’m not leaving your side, Waverly. Not anymore.”
A quiet thrill coiled in my stomach. For two years, we had been ghosting around the edges of Ashford Academy—two charity students keeping our heads down while the high-born heirs played their vicious territorial games. Now, the bond had bound our fates together with an iron clasp.
