Lila sat through the remainder of the Pack Lore and Ancient Texts lecture in a state of rigid, hyper-alert terror. Adrian Wolfhart remained pressed against her, his leg a warm, immovable cage. She couldn't breathe properly, couldn't focus on Professor Valerius's droning voice, and couldn't even risk scratching an itch on her nose without fearing a condescending comment from the True Blood Alpha beside her.
As the class was finally dismissed, the entire room exploded with the sound of released breath and frantic motion. Lila made to bolt, but Adrian's hand shot out, not touching her, but slamming flat against the desk right in front of her. The gesture was a silent, commanding wall.
"You will wait, Assistant," he murmured, rising with slow, powerful grace. "We will leave together."
Lila sagged back into her seat. The class emptied rapidly. Chloe and Tiffany shot her a mixture of envious and pitying looks as they passed, and Rose Williams, with Harry Westwell's protective shadow looming over her, gave Lila a brief, strange look—a mix of confusion and genuine concern—before Harry steered her quickly away.
Lila was left alone with her captor.
"Now," Adrian said, retrieving his pen from his pocket, tossing it casually onto the desk in front of her. "Let us discuss your 'unacceptable' schedule."
Adrian Wolfhart's POV
Adrian didn't need to look at the Omega to know she was trembling. He could feel the fine tremors in the desk they shared, smell the faint, sour spike of adrenaline mixed into her otherwise unremarkable Omega scent. He found the combination utterly fascinating.
He rarely paid attention to the pathetic politics of the Academy. His focus was on the powerful artifacts, the ancient texts that held the key to consolidating his True Blood dominance. The social hierarchy of Alphas, Betas, and Omegas was a predictable, boring script—until she arrived.
His first notice of Lila Blackwood had been at the Moon Festival. She was a Blackwood, daughter of a high Alpha, and yet she was hiding behind a pillar like a scared child. She wore that impossibly arrogant, wine-red gown, but the aura she projected was neither the icy scorn of the rumored Lila, nor the expected submissive awe of a new Omega. It was raw, frantic terror.
Then came the peculiar, anomalous scent. It wasn't the sweet, heavy scent of an Omega near heat, nor was it the clean, neutral scent of a normal Omega. It was something other. A metallic tang of absolute, primal fear, yes, but mixed with a faint, unusual note that his True Blood senses couldn't categorize—like dust and aged paper, completely alien to the natural pack smells.
The rumors about Lila Blackwood were legion: gorgeous, petty, entitled, and obsessed with Alpha Harry Westwell, the heir to the Westwell Pack.
Yet, Adrian had seen the true anomaly. At the festival, she had bumped into Harry, the very man she was supposedly stalking, and she had fled from him like her life depended on it. She looked at Harry, not with lustful obsession, but with wide-eyed dread, as if he were a ticking clock counting down to her doom.
This Omega, this stunningly beautiful porcelain doll, was acting like a fugitive.
Then came the physical evidence. The uncontrollable whimper in the lecture hall when the seating chart was announced. The utter, paralyzing submission his presence elicited, a reaction far more extreme than even lower-ranked Omegas. And the fleeting, involuntary flashes in her eyes.
The Blue Flash.
Adrian leaned back in his chair, his gaze finally meeting hers. He watched the way her beautiful, coffee-colored eyes—eyes that were supposed to be soft and haughty—were wide and dilated with panic.
"You look terrified, Lila," he stated, his voice devoid of warmth, yet laced with that strange, flirty amusement he reserved only for her. "Why are you so afraid of me? Is it merely my rank, or is it something... personal?"
Lila finally found her voice, a shaky, desperate breath of defiance. "I—I don't know what you're talking about, Alpha. I'm not afraid. I'm just annoyed by your ridiculous assumptions!"
Good, Adrian thought. The fire is still there. It was that fragile, desperate resistance that made her so compelling. Most Omegas would be on their knees, offering submission. Lila, though trembling, was still verbally snapping, using her fear as fuel for insolence. It was a fascinating paradox.
He remembered the Blue Flash at the festival, and again today. He had only read about that involuntary Omega reaction in the most ancient of texts—a reaction of extreme distress, usually only seen in Omegas who had faced prolonged, horrific trauma, or... when sensing a True Blood of an exceptionally dominant, foreign bloodline. Adrian knew his bloodline was rare, but the reaction was too much.
The girl is hiding something of critical importance, he concluded. She is either an extraordinary actress, or her internal chemistry is irrevocably damaged.
"Your denial is charming, Lila," Adrian drawled, picking up the gold pen she had dropped. He turned it slowly in his fingers, his eyes focused on the light reflecting off the engraved metal. "But your body betrays you. You tremble when I speak. Your heartbeat races when I approach. And in the lecture hall, when you thought no one was looking, your eyes flashed. A peculiar color. A beautiful, peculiar color. What was that, Lila?"
He watched her face drain of color. Checkmate. He knew he had her now.
Lila swallowed hard, searching desperately for an excuse. "It—it's a contact lens trick," she stammered, the lie clumsy and transparent. "A fashion statement."
Adrian let out a soft, amused chuckle—a rare sound that sent shivers down her spine. "A True Blood is not blind, little Omega. Nor am I stupid. You are an anomaly. You reject the hero, fear the villain, and your scent tells a story that the notorious Lila Blackwood would never live to tell."
He stood up, towering over her. "You are my research project, Lila. You are not my prisoner, but my key. I need to understand why you are so different. Why the established script, which everyone else follows so diligently, is terrifying you into silence and flight. Until I have my answers, you will be by my side, under my observation."
He leaned down, placing his hands on the desk on either side of her, trapping her. His face was inches from hers, and his silver eyes commanded her full attention.
"And yes, the whispers say I was supposed to torture you," he murmured, his voice dangerously low. "But torture is for confessions. I prefer exploration. And I suspect, Lila Blackwood, that your terror is far more satisfying when it is close enough to taste."
He finally stepped back, that unsettling, playful smirk firmly in place. "The servants will have your Suite ready. Come, Assistant. I believe you owe me an explanation for the 'clumsy' attempt to touch me."
Lila, still shaking from the confrontation, grabbed her pen, clutching it like a weapon. Torture is for confessions... I prefer exploration. This wasn't the slow, drawn-out execution from the book, but a terrifying, intimate dissection. It was worse.
"W-what explanation do you require, Alpha?" she asked, her voice a desperate squeak.
"Why, the one regarding your dinner," Adrian said, turning toward the door. "I require you to join me for all meals in the Third Floor Suite's dining area. It is vital to my research that I monitor your caloric intake. Hurry, Assistant. I do not like to be kept waiting."
Lila stared at the empty space where he had been standing. He wasn't going to kill her immediately. He was going to study her. And he was starting with dinner. She had traded her death sentence for a life of forced proximity with her executioner. Her heart sank. Why it has to be me? Indeed.