Page 21 of The Werewolf’s Study Date

Soren D’Arcy is usually the most composed guy on campus. I’ve seen him sit through Tate drunkenly explaining why vampires would dominate professional poker and look mildly bored the entire time. Three centuries of existence have apparently given him enough practice at being unbothered by nearly everything.

Which is why I stop walking when I see him standing beside the high coffee bar.

He isn’t composed.

He is completely, terrifyingly still.

His fingers are locked around a paper cup with enough force to dent the cardboard. His shoulders are rigid. His dark eyes are fixed across the crowded room.

On the girl in the yellow sweater.

She’s sitting near the glass doors with three of the other transfers, campus maps spread across the table while they laugh about something.

“Soren?” I call.

Nothing.

Maisie follows my stare. “Is he okay?”

“I’m not sure.”

That’s a lie.

I know exactly what I’m looking at.

Soren’s head snaps toward us. The careful, aristocratic mask drops over his face instantly, but he’s half a second too late. His pupils are blown wide. His jaw is locked. The paper cup in his hand looks like it lost a fight.

“Boone. Maisie.” His voice is clipped and far too controlled.

Maisie looks at his mangled cup. “Did that latte insult your family?”

His gaze drops to his hand.

For the first time since I’ve known him, Soren D’Arcy looks genuinely annoyed with his own body.

“No.”

Maisie looks at me. “He’s acting weird.”

“I am not acting weird,” Soren says coldly.

“You were staring at that girl.”

“I was surveying the room.”

Maisie snorts. “Sure.”

Across the lounge, the girl in yellow laughs.

Soren’s eyes snap back to her before he can stop himself.

There it is.

Not interest. Not attraction.

Recognition.

The same brutal certainty that hit me in the library when Maisie walked toward my table for the first time.