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Chapter One
Lotta
The approach of a full moon is making me light-headed.
No one can sit still today. No student in Wolf Ridge High wants to listen to a teacher on the afternoon before a full moon run.
Especially not for the subject I teach. Art isn’t remotely revered by the shifter community. It’s considered a human thing–pointless. Pretentious. Which is why I got the hell out of here as soon as I could.
Every class today has been a nightmare, but this last period–the class with the hulking alpha-hole of the school, Asher Martin–is the worst. He and his football buddies sit at the back table and heckle me.
This afternoon, the smell of teen pheromones fills my classroom, and I’m as restless and horned up as my students. My skin prickles with heat. There’s a slow pulse between my legs that I haven’t felt in years. I haven’t thought about sex this much since I was a teen walking the Wolf Ridge High hallways. Which, admittedly, wasn’t all that long ago.
I clear my throat and infuse as much alpha command as I’m capable of into my voice. “I’m waiting for your full attention.”
Of course, the last to stop speaking is the deep, swagger-infused voice attached to my nemesis. He turns a baleful look on me. I’m disconcerted by how striking those hazel green eyes are against his tanned skin. How his long and thick lashes frame them. The way they pop under the swath of sun-bleached hair that falls across his forehead. He’s in need of a haircut although I’m sure the shaggy length that curls up at his nape and around his ears is a conscious choice. Part of his rebel-without-a-cause persona.
But Asher’s disdain isn’t just for show.
I viscerally feel the linebacker’s hate for me. It burns my skin. Takes my breath when he sends a blast of it my way.
I’m careful to hide my reaction. I may be smaller than many of the students in this class, but I’m their teacher–at least for the rest of the school year. I have to maintain alpha status in my classroom, or I won’t survive.
I force myself to stop shifting from foot to foot in my high-heeled sandals, widen my stance, and put my hands on my hips.
Asher’s gaze flicks to my legs, and the sight of them only seems to make him angrier. His eyes track higher, and he glowers at my breasts.
I’m careful not to give any attention to his table as I speak. “Yesterday, I asked you to think about what medium you will use for your self-portrait. Today, I want you to write a paragraph describing what you’ve chosen and how you plan to execute your vision. If you don’t know or are having trouble deciding, sign up on the board for a five minute consultation with me about it.” I point to the numbered slots on the board.
“Also, everyone should have turned in their charcoal drawings by now. I’m missing three. If they’re not turned in by the end of today, you will get a zero on the assignment, which will affect your grade.” I steel myself to look at the back table. “Those of you who need to maintain a C in order to play in this weekend’s game might want to think about that.”
I shouldn’t even warn them. I should just knock their grades down and let them suffer the consequences. But something in me still doesn’t want Asher to fail.
I make brief eye contact with him, but the anger blazing in his gaze is too much to hold, and I quickly look away.
He was unnerving as an angry, rebellious thirteen-year-old. Now that he’s twice my size and carries the dominance of an alpha wolf, that rage is more than intimidating–it’s downright scary.
He folds his arms across his chest and lifts his upper lip in a snarl. “I turned mine in.”
My gaze bounces back for a moment and narrows. It’s a lie. Asher hasn’t lifted a pencil in this class since the day I took over for Margarita Adams, the human art teacher who went out on medical leave two weeks ago.
He’s daring me to call him on it.
I frown and point at the loose pile of drawings on my desk. “Find it and show it to me.”
He slowly unfolds from his chair, making a show of his size. Making me feel the full force of the extra foot in height he has on me. The hundred-pound difference in our weight. The solid sculpted muscle that wraps his long, sturdy bones.
He’s an incredible specimen of manhood–and that’s not just the full moon talking. Fate may have fucked him with ashitty, abusive father, but it’s been kind to him in the looks and size department.
He saunters forward, and I pretend I don't register the threat, even though everyone in the room with shifter blood feels the pulse of his aggression.
I keep space between us, walking to the window to draw the shade against the afternoon sun. There’s a predatory edge to his movements. Despite his size, he has the grace and agility of a large cat, rather than a wolf.
He starts shuffling through the charcoal drawings on my desk.
I stay near the window, angled toward him like any cornered animal, ready to bare my teeth if necessary.
After he sorts through all of them, he turns to me and lifts his brows. “You must’ve lost it, Ms. James. I turned it in yesterday.”
