Chapter 6
1054 Words
Casey does not hear a single word in her morning lecture.
Not one.
Her notebook is open. Her pen moves occasionally. But if someone asked her what the topic was, she wouldn’t be able to answer.
Seven.
Her brain keeps repeating it.
Seven.
Miles is picking her up at seven.
“Casey.”
She blinks.
Her professor is staring at her.
“Yes?”
“Would you like to answer the question?”
She has absolutely no idea what the question was.
“…No,” she says honestly.
A few students laugh softly.
Her face burns.
The rest of the day doesn’t get better.
In her afternoon class, she checks her phone six times in ten minutes. No new messages. Somehow that’s worse.
By the time she meets Molly outside the campus café, she looks like she hasn’t slept.
“You look unhinged,” Molly announces immediately.
“I feel unhinged.”
Molly links their arms as they walk.
“So. The outfit.”
Casey groans. “I haven’t even thought about it.”
Molly gasps dramatically. “You haven’t thought about it? Casey. This is not a grocery store run. This is a future-Alpha, could-claim-you-at-any-moment situation.”
“Stop saying it like that.”
“I will not.”
They sit at a small table.
“What are you wearing?” Molly demands.
“I don’t know. Something normal.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“Casey,” Molly leans forward, deadly serious. “You do not wear ‘normal’ when the most dangerously attractive male in this pack is picking you up.”
Casey drops her head into her hands.
“I don’t want to look like I’m trying too hard.”
“You’re his mate. You could wear a potato sack and he’d still look at you like you’re dessert.”
Casey’s stomach flips.
“Mol.”
“What?”
“He said he could smell that I was fighting it.”
Molly grins slowly. “Good.”
“Good?!”
“Yes. That means he’s paying attention.”
Casey groans again.
By the time she gets home, she changes outfits three times.
Too revealing.
Too modest.
Too obvious.
Too desperate.
She finally settles on dark jeans that hug her curves and a soft, off-the-shoulder sweater that reveals just enough skin to make her feel exposed — but not naked.
Her hair falls loose down her back.
She stares at herself in the mirror.
You are not another girl.
You are his mate.
The doorbell rings at exactly seven.
Her heart nearly stops.
Downstairs, she hears her father’s heavy footsteps.
Right.
Her father.
The current Gamma of the pack.
Oh God.
She moves toward the stairs just as her father opens the front door.
“Evening, Miles.”
Casey freezes halfway down.
Miles stands in the doorway.
And for a second, she forgets how to breathe.
Dark jeans. Fitted black shirt. Sleeves rolled just enough to show strong forearms. Hair slightly messy like he ran a hand through it before knocking.
Mouth-watering doesn’t even begin to cover it.
Her father steps aside. “Come in.”
Miles nods respectfully. “Gamma.”
His voice is calm. Controlled.
But his eyes—
His eyes lift.
And lock on her.
The air shifts.
His gaze drags slowly from her shoulders… down… then back up.
Heat blooms across her skin.
“You look…” He pauses.
Danger flickers in his expression.
“…good.”
Her father clears his throat loudly.
Casey snaps back to reality.
“Dad,” she says quickly.
He studies Miles carefully. “Home by midnight.”
Miles doesn’t break eye contact with her.
“Yes, sir.”
Something about the way he says it makes her stomach tighten.
They step outside.
The door shuts behind them.
The night air feels electric.
For a moment, neither of them speaks.
Then—
“You wore that on purpose,” Miles says quietly.
Her pulse jumps. “Wore what?”
He steps closer.
“The sweater.”
She swallows.
“It’s just a sweater.”
“It’s not just a sweater.”
He stops inches away from her.
Close enough that she can feel the heat radiating from his body.
“You’re nervous,” he says.
“No, I’m not.”
“You are.”
His hand lifts slowly.
Not touching her.
Just hovering near her waist.
“Your scent changes when you lie.”
Her breath stutters.
“That’s not fair.”
“Neither is you pretending you don’t feel this.”
He leans closer.
Not kissing.
Not touching.
Just close enough that she has to tilt her head back slightly to hold his gaze.
“You’ve been thinking about me all day.”
It’s not a question.
She doesn’t answer.
He doesn’t need her to.
His hand finally settles at her waist.
Warm. Firm. Possessive.
Her breath catches.
“This is what you’re afraid of,” he murmurs. “The part where you stop fighting.”
Her fingers curl into the front of his shirt without her permission.
“Casey.”
Her name sounds different in the dark.
Lower.
Rougher.
“I told you I’d be patient,” he says softly. “But patience doesn’t mean distance.”
Her heart pounds wildly.
“Then what does it mean?” she whispers.
“It means I don’t touch you the way I want to.”
Her knees almost give out.
Silence hangs thick between them.
His thumb brushes slightly against her waist.
Not inappropriate.
But intentional.
Her entire body reacts.
“You’re shaking,” he murmurs.
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
He leans down slowly.
This time, he doesn’t ask.
His lips brush hers — barely there.
A warning.
Her fingers tighten in his shirt.
He deepens it just enough to make her gasp.
And then—
He pulls back.
Her eyes flutter open in confusion.
“Told you,” he says quietly. “Dangerous.”
Her pulse is roaring in her ears.
“Get in the car,” he adds calmly.
As if he didn’t just set her entire body on fire.
She swallows and moves toward the passenger side.
One month.
One month until the bond finishes what this night is starting.
And if this is him being patient—
She’s not sure she’ll survive it.
- Writer
