I was becoming quite accustomed to lying to myself like that.
“There. Done.” She gathered her diagram and books, noticing other students making their way towards the front to submit their work. “I think we can turn this in and escape?”
I waited while she organized her materials, then followed her down the tiered steps towards the podium.
“I found a celiac-safe restaurant nearby we could try,” I offered as we joined the line of students waiting to submit their assignments. “Are we visiting Hyacinth after this, or would you prefer to get food first?”
I watched her lips purse as she considered, the small movement drawing my attention to her mouth. “I wouldn’t mind trying a new place. We could try to invite Jules to join us again? As long as they have something other than a regular bun. I still haven’t found anything remotely close to a decent gluten-free option in this city.”
“You are in luck.” I stepped closer as the line moved forward. “This place apparently has some of the best gluten-free options in Atlanta. If you are willing to try something new. It is called Cooper—"
I stopped mid-sentence.
The musk of a shifter hit my enhanced olfactory senses like a physical blow—wild and earthy, carrying undertones of fur and forest and something fundamentallyother. My nostrils flared as I inhaled more carefully, tracking the scent to its source.
Instinctively, I listened.
There you are.
A female, a few students ahead of us in line. Her heartbeat was wrong—too fast, running at roughly one hundred sixty beats per minute even while standing still. The rhythm was steady but elevated, as if she’d just finished sprinting or was preparing to fight.
Shifter. Definitely a shifter.
Violet said something I didn’t quite catch, her voice distant and muffled beneath the sudden hyperfocus of my hunter instincts activating.
I needed a better look at this woman. Needed to see her face, assess the threat level, determine if she was the one I’d been searching for.
The she-shifter was maybe five-nine or five-ten and slender, her frame suggesting speed over strength. Dirty blonde hair fell in waves past her shoulders, catching the afternoon light streaming through the windows. She wore a long cream-colored sundress that brushed her ankles, paired with a fitted denim jacket and combat boots. The boots were interesting—black leather with multiple chains wrapped around the ankles, the metal glinting with each step.
“Rowan, are you okay?” Violet’s voice was suddenly closer, concerned. Her hand touched my arm, warm through my shirt sleeve.
I startled, jerking my attention back to her. “Hey, yes. Give me one second.”
I stepped out of line, moving with purpose towards the front. I needed to get closer to the shifter, needed to confirm what my senses were telling me. I shouldered past a pair of students, and as I closed the distance, another scent hit me beneath the wild musk.
Blood.
Metallic and iron-sharp, the scent of fresh blood clung to her despite obvious attempts to wash it away. Not her blood, I’d wager—it smelled far too strong, was far too much. Someone else’s blood. Recent. Within the last twelve hours, I estimated.
Found you.
I picked up my pace and was almost to her, almost close enough to see the side of her face. She turned slightly as I reached for her, and I nearly caught a glimpse of—
A hand grabbed my arm and yanked me backward with surprising strength.
“Rowan!” Violet’s voice carried an edge I rarely heard, sharp. She threw an apologetic look to the students I’d bulldozed past. “Sorry! He’s not cutting in line, I promise.”
She pulled me back towards our original position, and my opportunity vanished as the blonde shifter submitted her assignment and left through the front door. The scent of blood and wild things faded with her departure.
Fuck.
“Violet, that was important.” I kept my voice low, aware of the students around us pretending not to eavesdrop. “I was trying to see her face.” I knew then my mistake.
“Going to talk to that girl wasimportantto you?” Her cheeks were flushed, bright spots of color high on her cheekbones. Her eyes flashed with temper.
Jealous. She was jealous, and it was simultaneously infuriating and adorable.
“I did not mean important in that way—”
