ALEX POV

“If it isn’t the wolf-less freak.”

Damien Blackthorn’s voice cut through the emptying locker room like a blade, low and mocking, dripping with that smug alpha arrogance that made my stomach twist every time I heard it.

I froze, hand still on my locker door.

He stepped into view, six-foot-five of pure, sculpted menace. Broad shoulders, thick arms crossed over a chest that strained his black t-shirt, dark jeans slung low on narrow hips. His black hair was messy from the post-gym shower, still damp at the ends, and those sharp amber eyes were locked on me like I was prey that had wandered too close to the...