THE ALPHA'S ANCHOR

MAYA'S POV The first rule of surviving finals week at Blackthorne University was simple: keep your head down, mind your business, and pray you don't fail the one course standing between you and graduation. The second rule was even simpler. Stay away from Julian Blackwood. I wasn't one to believe campus gossip. University students had a remarkable talent for turning ordinary, boring people into urban legends just to survive midterms. But Julian Blackwood? Even I knew better than to dismiss the rumors. They said he’d broken a senior student's jaw with a single bare hand over a minor insult. Someone claimed they’d seen him walk out of a burning fraternity house with zero burns. Another person swore they’d seen him staring down a full-grown German Shepherd on campus until the dog tucked its tail and whimpered. Were any of those stories true? I had no idea. Did I intend to find out? Absolutely not. I valued my unbroken bones, thank you very much. Unfortunately, peace and I had a deeply toxic relationship, and the universe had decided today was the day to test us. Because there I was, hurrying down aisle four of the university library with three heavy textbooks, a stack of loose notes, and an iced coffee balanced precariously on top like a ticking time bomb. I had twenty-three minutes until my study group met, zero patience left, and a desperate need for the library's only remaining copy of Advanced Organic Chemistry. "Please, God," I muttered, shifting my cargo. "Let me find this book before I lose my mind." I whipped around the corner into the next aisle— And promptly collided with a human wall. A very tall, very solid, terrifyingly expensive-looking human wall. My books exploded in every direction. My notes fluttered down like confetti at a disaster zone, and my iced coffee performed an impressive little somersault before landing with a wet thwack directly against a jet-black designer shirt. For one glorious second, I considered lying face-down on the carpet and pretending I’d died of natural causes. Then, I looked up. Oh. No. Of all the people on this campus. Of all the aisles in this monolithic building. Julian Blackwood. He stood towering over me, his broad shoulders blocking out the fluorescent lights. His dark eyes—sharp, heavy, and entirely devoid of human warmth—locked onto mine. Coffee dripped slowly down his expensive shirt. I stared at the dark stain. Then at his jawline. Then back at the stain. "I'm so sorry!" The words burst out of me in a high-pitched squeak. "I wasn't looking where I was going—well, I was looking, just not in the direction of..." I gestured wildly between us. "You." Brilliant, Maya. Truly smooth. If embarrassment could kill, my obituary would be in the morning paper. He didn't say a word. He didn't blink. He just stared down at me with an intensity that felt less like annoyance and more like a predator evaluating its target. Behind him, a guy who looked like his shadow—his friend, Marcus—slowly lowered his phone, his jaw dropping open. Julian. My stomach plummeted straight to the floorboards. I scrambled down onto my hands and knees to grab my scattered papers, desperate to collect my dignity and vanish before he decided to snap me in half. A large, pale hand reached down right beside mine. I froze. Julian was picking up my notes. I blinked. Once. Twice. Was I hallucinating? Julian Blackwood, the campus menace, was currently crouching on the library floor, gently gathering my study sheets. "Um," I squeaked out intelligently. He picked up my notebook, smoothed out a dog-eared corner with surprising care, and handed it to me. "Thanks," I whispered, my voice shaking. He didn't reply, but his gaze dropped sharply to my right palm. "You're bleeding." He said fiercely but weirdly calm. I glanced down. A thin red scratch crossed my skin where a textbook edge had caught me. "Oh. It's just a paper cut." His dark eyes narrowed. The air around him suddenly felt heavy, thick, and suffocatingly hot. His nostrils flared once, sharply, as if he were catching a scent in the wind. "Does it hurt?" His voice was a low, vibrating growl that rumbled straight through my chest. I swallowed hard, suddenly finding it very difficult to breathe. "No? It's literally nothing." He seemed entirely unconvinced. For a second, his fingers hovered inches from my wounded skin, trembling slightly as if fighting an invisible urge to touch me. Then, with a visible jolt, he clenched his fist and pulled his hand back, pressing his jaw tight. I wanted to run. Every instinct I possessed screamed at me to back away. Instead, he leaned closer. I leaned back. He tracked my movement instantly, stepping into my space. His head tilted, his chin dipping toward my neck. He closed his eyes for a fraction of a second, inhaling deeply. The terrifying, razor-sharp edge that supposedly defined him vanished. His broad shoulders dropped. The rigid, lethal tension radiating from his body melted away into something heavy, languid, and terrifyingly relaxed. He looked... comfortable with me? A girl who had just baptized his shirt in cold caffeine. Marcus let out a nervous cough behind him. "Uh... Julian, man? You good?" Julian didn't even glance at his friend. His dark, dilated eyes remained locked on my face, full of a dazed, possessive hunger that made my pulse spike into overdrive. I scrambled to my feet, clutching my bag like a shield. "Well. Thank you for the help. I have to go." He rose with me, fluid and silent as a shadow. When I took a step back, he mirrored it, closing the distance again. "Will I see you again?" The question hung in the quiet aisle, heavy and deliberate. My brain short-circuited. Excuse me? "Hopefully not," I blurted out before my filter could catch up. Silence descended on the aisle. Absolute, dead silence. My eyes widened in absolute horror. Did I actually just say that to a guy rumored to commit felonies for fun? Apparently, yes. Because Julian didn't flinch; he just stared at me with that heavy, unblinking intensity, while Marcus in the background suddenly developed a desperate, intense interest in the acoustic ceiling tiles. "Look," I stammered, backing away fast enough to trip over my own sneakers, "I'm sorry about your shirt. I'll pay for the dry cleaning. And for the record... you're really weird." With that, I turned on my heel and bolted. I didn't care that I was speed-walking through a quiet library. I didn't care that my notes were out of order. I needed space, fresh air, and at least three state lines between me and Julian Blackwood. What on earth had just happened? He hadn't yelled. He hadn't threatened me. And as I sprinted down the stairs toward the exit, completely unaware of the heavy, golden glint that had briefly flashed in Julian's dark eyes behind me, one terrifying thought echoed in my head: Escaping him was going to be a lot harder than I thought.