Page 4 of The Werewolf’s Study Date

Then her scent hits me.

My head snaps up.

Every muscle in my body locks tight. A deep, violent jolt slams straight into my ribs.

Mate.

Mine.

Get up. Grab. Touch. Scent. Keep.

No. Sit the fuck down.

I clamp my jaw shut to force my canines back before they tear through my gums. My hands grip the edge of the table so tight the wood grain creaks.

She’s walking down the aisle toward me. Auburn hair pulled into a messy ponytail, bag slung over one shoulder, looking tired and pissed off.

She’s my mate. Zero doubt. My wolf is losing it under my skin, screaming at me to drag her against my chest and claim her right here in the middle of the stacks.

Sit. Still.

I force my fingers to loosen.

She stops in front of me. “Boone Kinkaid?”

“That’s me.” She drops her bag into the empty chair. “You’re the tutor?”

“Yeah.”

Her eyes narrow. “You play football.”

“I do.”

She sits across from me. “So you’re going to explain generational trait bonding to me between practice and whatever else football players do?”

I stare at her. Then I laugh.

“Something funny?” she asks.

“A little.”

“Great.”

“You thought I was a dumb jock.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Rich werewolf asshole?”

She presses her lips together. “Maybe a little.”

“Fair.” I turn the printed paper toward her. “Your writing isn’t the problem. You understand the textbook. But Perkowinski expects you to know how pack bloodlines trigger latent traits, and the book doesn’t explain that because it assumes you grew up around shifters.”

She blinks at the notes I scribbled in her margins. “You actually read this.”

“Twice.”

“And the book really is missing that stuff?”