Page 42 of The Werewolf’s Study Date

He is massive. Broad-chested, powerful, his shoulders nearly reaching my chest on all fours. His coat is a dense, gleaming mix of charcoal and dark brown-black, brushed with lighter amber highlights along his ruff.

And then he looks up at me.

Those same heavy, molten-gold eyes stare straight into mine.

I just stand there, staring.

"Holy shit," I breathe.

His triangular ears twitch forward.

"You're enormous."

Another ear twitch, his tail giving a single, subtle sweep behind him.

"You know, somehow this feels deeply unfair," I tell him, fighting a grin. "You're ridiculously hot in both forms."

Wolf-Boone tilts his head, giving me a dry, deeply unimpressed look that is so quintessentially him I nearly laugh out loud.

With a low chuff, he spins and explodes into the forest.

It's breathtaking. He doesn't just run; he tears through the underbrush like a force of nature, kicking up dry leaves and vanishing between the dense pines at terrifying speed.

Watching the dark blur of his coat disappear into the woods, I finally understand what he means when he talks about the wolf pacing beneath his ribs. Boone spends his whole life in rigid, measured control. He's the star quarterback, the tutor with six color-coded pens and study schedules, the disciplined future alpha who holds himself back so he doesn't overwhelm the human girl in his lap.

Out here, there is nothing to manage. He just moves.

I lean back against the bench, the chill in the air forgotten as I wait.

About twenty minutes later, the branches rustle, and Boone trots back into the clearing. His dark coat is damp with mist, his pink tongue lolling out the side of his mouth, the frantic vibration completely gone from his gait.

"Feel better?" I ask.

He closes the distance and bumps his massive, furry head straight against my stomach, nearly knocking the wind out of me.

"I'm going to take that as a yes," I wheeze, laughing.

I sink both hands into the thick fur behind his ears, scratching the exact spot where his skull meets his neck.

Boone melts. His eyes close, a deep, rumbling purr-growl vibrating in his chest as his heavy head sags completely against my thighs.

I grin. Ammunition for the rest of his natural life.

I drop down to my knees on the grass so we're level. I slide my hands around both sides of his massive jaw, looking right into those familiar amber eyes.

The wolf looks back, calm and steady.

There you are.

A quiet wave of relief settles deep into my chest. Changing form didn't erase him. He is still Boone inside all that fur and muscle. And tonight, whatever the mating bond does, I won't lose myself either. I'll still be Maisie Pope.

Boone licks my cheek—one giant, sandpaper swipe that covers half my face—before trotting back toward the shadow of the trees where his clothes are waiting.

I turn around respectfully, hearing the soft crackle of his shift and the rustle of denim.

A minute later, a warm, heavy arm wraps around my shoulders, pulling me back against a very human, very solid chest. He smells like pine needles, damp earth, and clean soap.

"Thanks for waiting," Boone murmurs, his voice back to its deep, human rumble as he rests his chin on top of my head.