Chapter 2: Trust me
The alcove was suffocating.
He brought his hand up to her face, cupping her cheek.
His palm was warm, calloused, and she felt the faint tremor in his fingers before he stilled it. Her skin prickled beneath his touch, the heat of him seeping into her like sunlight through frost.
"Anyone could see," she murmured.
"Let them."
His thumb traced along her cheekbone, slow and deliberate, and her eyes fluttered despite herself. She caught herself leaning into his touch, and the realization sent a spike of shame through her chest.
"You're pretty when you're pissed," he said.
Bella's eyes snapped open. He was grinning—a lazy, crooked thing that softened the hard lines of his face and made something dangerous flutter in her stomach.
"You're an asshole," she shot back.
"I've been called worse."
His eyes glowed red again.
The shift was subtle—a flicker, like a candle catching a draft—but she saw it. He brushed a strand of hair from her face, his fingers trailing down the curve of her neck, tracing the silver chain of her necklace. When his finger reached the pendant, the moonstone, it pulsed with a faint blue light that made his breath catch.
Her mark glowed beneath her blazer, warm against her sternum.
She felt it in the ache behind her ribs, in the way her pulse synchronised with his, in the undeniable pull that made her want to close the distance between them even when every rational part of her brain screamed at her to run.
"Dean, get your sister off my Alpha."
Bianca's voice cut through the moment like a blade.
Bella's blood turned to ice. She shoved against Joseph's chest, stumbling back, her hands flying to her blazer to cover the glow still pulsing beneath her collar.
"Oh no," Bella mumbled.
"We have to go. Trust me," Joseph said.
His eyes were on hers, steady and certain. She waited a moment, her heart slamming against her ribs, listening to the rhythm of Dean's approaching footsteps. They were heavier than the others—more deliberate. That was the sound of a brother ready to tear the world apart.
She nodded.
Joseph grabbed her hand, and they ran.
His grip was iron, his pace unrelenting. They burst out of the alcove and into the corridor, and the world blurred past her in streaks of marble and gilt. Students pressed themselves against the walls as they barreled through, shouts trailing behind them like loose threads.
"Hey—!"
"That's the Whitefang—!"
Joseph didn't slow.
He ducked through a side arch, pulling her into a narrow passage whose walls were lined with cracked tile and faded murals. Dust stirred beneath their feet, and Bella's lungs burned with each breath, but she didn't stop. She couldn't. There was a storm behind her, and she could feel it gaining ground.
Two Whitefang pack members rounded the corner ahead of them, cutting off the path.
Their eyes locked onto her blue blazer, and then onto Joseph's red one. Recognition, followed by fury. They dropped into stances, claws extending.
Joseph yanked her sideways, wrenching open the door to the Blackthorn library and pulling her through. He slammed it shut behind them.
The library swallowed them in shadow and dust.
Bella's eyes took a moment to adjust, her chest heaving as she leaned forward, hands on her knees. High shelves stretched into darkness, and the air was thick with the scent of old paper and leather. A single guttering candle somewhere in the depths cast a weak pool of light.
Joseph pulled her back against his front before she could orient herself, bringing his hand over her mouth.
She gasped against his palm.
"Shhh," he whispered into her ear.
The sound of it—warm and low, his lips brushing the shell of her ear—sent a shiver racing down her spine. Her body pressed back against his without permission, her heart hammering so hard she was certain he could feel it through both their layers of clothing.
Her mark glowed blue. It pulsed beneath her blazer, bright enough to penetrate the fabric, a beacon in the dimness.
Footsteps pounded past the door.
The sound was muffled but unmistakable—two sets of boots hitting the stone in synchronized fury. Bella held her breath, her entire body going rigid. The footsteps paused.
A low growl filtered through the keyhole.
Then they moved on, fading into the distance.
Joseph exhaled slowly, his hand falling from her mouth. He stepped back, granting her space, and she immediately turned, putting distance between them. Her lungs were still burning, her heart was still racing, and her skin still tingled where his fingers had pressed against her lips.
"Let me go," she said, backing up.
"Are you sure?"
His voice was low, almost lazy. He took a step toward her, his head tilting slightly.
"Because what's waiting out there is worse than what's in here."
Bella's back hit the edge of a desk. She stumbled over it, the wood scraping against the floor, and found herself sitting on its surface with Joseph hovering above her.
"Worse than you?" she asked.
"Exactly."
The word dropped from his lips like a stone into still water. He leaned in, one hand bracing on the desk beside her hip, the other tracing the edge of the wood near her thigh. His eyes glinted in the dim light, and she could smell him again—pine and leather and something wild, something that made her pulse stutter.
She looked up at him.
"I can't do this," she said.
Her hands came up to push against his chest, and she felt the heat of him even through the fabric. He didn't budge. She shoved harder, and he straightened, letting her scramble off the desk.
She walked toward the door.
"Why?" he asked. "Because you're a Whitefang?"
She turned around.
"Yes." The word came out sharp, defensive. "If anyone finds out that I'm with you—"
She stopped herself.
Her eyes caught on his shirt, where a dark stain was spreading across the white fabric near his ribs. Crimson, still wet, blooming like a rose in the dim light. Her breath hitched.
"Wait—you're hurt," she said quietly.