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A few seconds later, I entered his apartment, which was basically nothing more than a spacious flat of his own.

The large windows let in light and offered a beautiful view of the winter-kissed gardens and the adjacent meadows, which were currently slumbering under a deep blanket of snow but, in the light of the setting sun, resembled a winter fairy tale.

I didn't have time to stare, even though the temptation was strong. Instead, I walked past the brown leather couches to one of the countless bookshelves that formed the framing heart of this place. The walls were covered with them. Books sorted by genre – surprisingly the only thing he owned that was more or less tidy, and also the one thing I bitterly envied him for.

I stopped in front of the right part of the shelf, bent down, pulled the novel out of my jeans, and put Hemingway's book back in its place.

Usually, I reached for the books at the bottom, because they didn't catch his eye so quickly. The chance that he would ever look for the exact book I was reading at a certain moment wasn't very high. I could bet my future Alpha title on it never happening.

Quickly, I glanced at the clock hanging above the stone fireplace, framed by ancient oak wood.

Damn. I'd been gone for five minutes and should be hurrying. Who knew how long they would be arguing.

Admittedly, I hated it. As exciting as it was to have this little secret, I never had enough time to read the synopsis on the back of a book.

I understood how people could spend hours in bookstores. I hadn't had that privilege myself, and probably never would unless I went to Vancouver on my own.

Soon, preparations for my position as Alpha would begin. Half the pack was already gathering around me, draining my social battery, making moments of peace like this rare and precious.

I scanned the titles one by one, already familiar with almost all of them.

Perhaps I should try somewhere else.

Squatting down, I moved to the next shelf and scanned more titles.

No luck.

What did I expect? That he refilled his shelves from bottom to top in record time?

I had no choice, so I straightened up.

It actually made a difference from which angle you inspected a bookshelf like this. American literature suddenly became English. First editions of Jane Austen cried out to me with their elegant bindings, but I couldn't give in. These were the books he read over and over again, like a man possessed. Like this Batteries of Ink book, which was completely out of the ordinary for him.

I would be an idiot to pick up one of these books. He would probably even smell it. Another reason why I had to get out of here as quickly as possible.

Of course, I could have read them all in my e-book app, but where was the appeal if I couldn't read old classics from the family collection the way people used to back then?

I quickly moved on to the next two shelves and decided that there was enough space between me and the Austen works.

I stood on tiptoe and read through the titles at the top. A slight thrill ran through my stomach as I came across titles I didn't know.

In the end, however, I decided on The Great Gatsby. A work by Fitzgerald, which Alarik had always described in English class as the worst book in American literature. He would never read it again. And I was sure I would enjoy it.

I wasn't being picky at the moment. And even if I couldn't show it, his seminars had sparked a slight enthusiasm in me.

I wasn't ashamed, but no one could find out about this. Because what no one knew couldn't become a problem for me. Just like the fact that I used the notebook he had handed out to us as a reading diary or to jot down new entries for my blog.

I laughed dryly at this part of my double life.

Two years ago, it had been easy to separate my pack self from the other. But since my father had dragged me deeper into business with the Russians, the Americans, the Kazakhs, the Africans, and the European small packs, these two parts of me threatened to collide.

And ever since Dimitrio Rolanow and his insufferable son had become our long-term guests – who, unfortunately, as Code tradition dictated, disappeared back to Russia every two weeks – things had only gotten worse.

The only Rolanow I got along with was Tania. The Alpha's sister, who couldn't have been more different from her unempathetic brother.

She often invited me on walks through the woods, went hunting with me, asked about my well-being and my studies, and had even brought me two translated books by Alexander Herzen and Nikolai Berdyaev, two Russian philosophers, from Russia, without knowing that I enjoyed reading.

It had thrown me off a bit, but with Tania I felt relatively unjudged, which was why I had gratefully accepted the books.