Chapter 4

• Ryder takes a step closer, his hands shoved deep into his leather jacket pockets. The firelight dances over his razor-sharp jawline, accentuating every dangerous angle as the crackle of wood sparks between us.
• "The Black Pack," he starts, his voice low and rumble-heavy. "We run this entire territory. My father is the Alpha, but he's stepping down soon. Dante—your sweet, pristine art history professor—is next in line. He’s taking the throne."
• I let out a harsh, dry bark of laughter, shaking my head in disbelief. "Dante? The guy who grades my charcoal sketches with a fountain pen that costs more than my rent? He’s a fucking Alpha?"
• "Alpha heir," Ryder corrects, his dark eyes glinting with a dangerous amusement. "And I’m the enforcer. I handle the dirty work he doesn't want to stain his polished hands with. Which brings us to you, Haven. You’re wolf-born. You knew what I was the second I walked into that room."
• "Yeah, well, excuse me if my life isn't a goddamn fairy tale," I snap, aggressively kicking a stray pebble into the flames. "My parents are Betas back home, so don't act like I don't know how this hierarchy bullshit works. They practically worship the ground the pack leaders walk on, which is precisely why my home life is a complete fucking disaster."
• Ryder tilts his head, his possessive gaze tracking the furious rise and fall of my chest. "Spill it, little wolf."
• "My sister, Tarryn," I spit out the name like it’s poison, my blood boiling all over again. "The golden child. She’s twenty-one, an entitled fucking whore, and my dad's absolute favourite because she's following his footsteps to be a lawyer. Two weeks ago, I walked into my apartment and caught her bent over the couch getting railed from behind by my boyfriend. Ex-boyfriend. Silas, the spineless prick."
• The flames flicker wildly as Ryder’s posture instantly stiffens. A dark, lethal growl vibrates deep within his chest at the mention of another guy, the air around us turning suffocatingly heavy.
• "The bitch had the goddamn nerve to tell me it was my fault because I wouldn't put out," I continue, my voice shaking with pure, unadulterated fury. "Said I was a prude. Fuck her, and fuck him. I came to college to get away from my family's golden-girl bullshit, and now you’re telling me my professor is a fucking Alpha and you are my mate?"
• I cross my arms tightly over my chest, glaring at him through the floating embers. "So yeah, Ryder Black. My life is a total shitshow right now, and I am not in the fucking mood for soulmate fairy dust."
• For a second, the lethal, dark energy rolling off Ryder completely evaporates, replaced by a low, throaty laugh that rattles through the cold midnight air. The sound is surprisingly rich, sending a sharp, unwanted shiver down my spine.
• "Fuck, you've got teeth, don't you, little wolf?" he chuckles, shaking his head as he takes a step closer. "I like it. Let the fucking prick and your saintly sister rot."
• "Oh, they will," I mutter, though my cheeks burn at the fierce, dangerous approval shining in his dark eyes. I clear my throat, trying to regain my footing and ignore the intense magnetism pulling me toward him. "So, how old are you anyway? You look like you've seen a few body bags, and your brother looks like he’s lived three whole lifetimes judging by the stick up his ass."
• "I'm twenty-six," Ryder says, a slow smirk playing on his lips. "Dante’s thirty-two. Old enough to run the pack, old enough to teach your little art class, and entirely too old to be as miserable as he is."
• "Twenty-six," I repeat, rolling the number around in my head. "So you're seven years older than me. Fantastic. Just what I needed—another Black brother taking up space in my head."
• "I'm not just taking up space, Haven. I'm claiming it," he corrects softly, his tone dropping an octave into pure, possessive velvet.
• I scoff, wrapping my arms tightly around myself to hide the way my pulse spikes. "Right. So what does a twenty-six-year-old pack enforcer do when he's not terrifying college kids at frat parties? Do you have actual hobbies, or is being brooding and hot a full-time gig?"
• His dark eyes glint with amusement. "I rebuild vintage motorcycles. Tear them down to the bare frame, fix what's broken, make them roar. And when I'm not in the garage, I'm usually in the ring, beating the hell out of pack recruits who think they can challenge me." He tilts his head, eyeing me up and down. "What about you? Aside from being an angsty art major with a mouth like a sailor?"
• "I paint. Charcoal, oil, canvas—whatever I can get my hands on," I say defensively. "And I don't paint pretty little landscapes. I like raw, messy shit. Real life."
• "Sounds like we're going to get along just fine," Ryder says smoothly.
• "Don't get ahead of yourself. You probably have a trail of pack vixens back at your compound."
• Ryder steps right into my personal space, his broad chest practically brushing mine, the heat radiating off his body suffocatingly intense. "Nope. Single by choice. Always have been. I didn't give a fuck about playing house or taking some fake bitch to my bed just to satisfy pack optics." He reaches out, his warm fingers lightly brushing a stray strand of hair from my hot cheek. "I was waiting for something real. I was waiting for you."