Stefan’s POV “Wow, wow, wow, what do I owe the pleasure?” It takes a second. A second to get up there, meet him at the top of the stairs where he’s standing with that stupid smirk on his face, and plaster him to the wall with my hand around his neck. His smirk drops while his eyes widen. He hadn’t expected that, uh? What, did he think I came by for a chat? There’s a commotion behind me—likely his men scuffling with Levi, Andreas, and Max. But I know none of them will make it up these stairs. “Human trafficking, really? How low does this pack go, exactly?” I ask, obviously not expecting a reply because my fingers are not letting much air get past his throat, let alone words. But he manages a few. “Fucking. Let. Me. Go.” His hands grab at mine, but he’s no match for my strength. He should have known that on the night he challenged me. He growls, and I glimpse his fangs breaking through his gums. Trying to shift on me? Yeah, I would like another go at that throat of his. Would pr

Gwen’s POV When I was in high school, I liked this guy. Matthew Simpson. Matthew was…well, he was that boy most girls had a crush on at some point. Him having a lot of options didn’t help my case. It also didn’t help that he was from the wrong side of the tracks. Or rather, I was the one from the wrong side of the tracks. I think my crush on him got serious when I was around fifteen. As the school semesters came and went, I became resigned to the fact that he would never notice me. Not that I expected him to. He was from a good family–read wealthy–and he was smart too. He was also the best player on the school basketball team. In short, he had it all. And boys who have it all don’t exactly pay attention to girls like me. Girls who barely pass their tests, girls who are on the teachers’ shit-list for being a little too far off the mark of what model students should be. Girls who don’t exactly have the best fashion sense. So I was certain I would forever be a speck in his periphera

Stefan’s POV When Levi came to me with news that he had found a healer who can help with my little intruder problem, I thought my troubles were over. Of course, that was before I realised that my body had more ideas on how to screw me over. I had it all figured out. Once Mr Nosy Werewolf Prince from Goddess knows when disappeared into the recesses of my mind, nothing could come between me and Gwen. But as things turned out, I don’t need an unwelcome guest in my body to screw up my mate bond. My body is doing that all on its own. Memories of that night in the nightclub flash through my mind, and I cringe internally. Standing there, super aware of Mari next to me. The roaring need that coursed through my veins. The visions that crowded my mind. Visions that should have been my mate. Instead, all I could think of was mating Mari. Marking her with my scent. Making her mine. It was exactly like I had heard in stories of werewolves finding their mates. The body-crushing need to be with

Gwen’s POV “Hey, have you…have you seen Stefan?” I ask Hanna, joining her on the watchtower of the old pack house. The watchtower is at the back of the left side of the house, and it seems to have survived the raid for the most part. The wooden stairs leading to the top are a little rickety and could do with some work before being put to use again. Hanna puts out the cigarette in her hand–this is the first time I’ve seen her smoke–and crushes the stub beneath her boot. “You smoke?” I ask, sidling up next to her. The platform at the top is box-like, with a surrounding walkway shielded by wooden rails. She’s leaning against a corner stilt, and since it isn’t giving way under her weight, I become confident in the strength of the structure and prop myself against the railing. “Rarely,” she says, rubbing her hands along her arms. “Fuck, it’s cold out here.” “Is it?” I ask, frowning. I’m not feeling the chill, and she’s the one wearing a pull-neck sweater beneath a denim jacket. “Ca

Stefan’s POV You would think that after getting jumped by a werewolf high on vampire blood, the first thing on my mind would be addressing this new threat. I mean, sure, it’s right there at the forefront of my mind, but so are two other things as well. One, I’ve never needed to dress a wound, and I’ve received some nasty ones in all the years I’ve spent getting into fights with werewolves. Even the worst ones usually heal within hours, sometimes with a little help from a healer, but I’ve never gone to bed with one and woken up without it at least having formed a scab. The one I have on my chest right now is setting a new record, it seems. It’s still raw and doesn’t show any signs of hurrying up with the recovery. I ended up dressing it up as Gwen advised–I had no choice, really. I could get a balm from the healer, but I don’t want to raise eyebrows around here. As far as everyone knows, I should have recovered from last night’s injuries. And that’s what I’m going to keep them t