Chapter 13
Professor Alpha
My new home is far more enchanting than I had imagined. The professor’s quarters, perched at the top floors of a sprawling campus building, offer a unique charm. Students occupy the lower levels, and while this arrangement might seem unconventional, it exudes a sense of community. I’ve never experienced college life before, and the transition feels like stepping
into an entirely new world.
The college itself is breathtaking. It’s one of the oldest universities in North America, shrouded
in mystery. Few outside the werewolf community know of its existence. Before classes began,
I spent days wandering the grounds, grinning like an i***t, marveling at the sheer grandeur of
the architecture, and watching students–young and old–interact. Unlike Sparta, which
isolated us with rigid physical training and secretive lifestyles, this place is open, vibrant, and alive with diversity. It feels… freeing.
My excitement for my first class is palpable. I leave my apartment early. The apartment itself
is a blend of old and new–modern studio–style design wrapped in the medieval aesthetic of
large gray stones. It’s plain for now, devoid of decorations, but it feels like a space where I can
build a life. There’s even a small kitchenette and a coffee machine, essentials for late–night
grading or brainstorming.
As I walk to my classroom, I can’t help but admire the campus again. The trees sway gently in
the wind, carrying an array of scents unique to each pack represented here. When I finally reach my destination, I take a moment to soak it all in before setting up my backpack and
scribbling my name on the chalkboard: Mia Holm.
Students trickle in slowly, their expressions a mix of curiosity and confusion. Many of them seem surprised by my age–likely assuming I’m their peer or only slightly older. Some older
werewolves, who must’ve returned to school after years away, also join the mix. It’s comforting
to see the university’s inclusivity.
“Hello, everyone,” I greet them warmly. My voice carries a softhess meant to put them at ease. “My name is Mia Holm, but feel free to call me Mia. Welcome to Leadership, Tactics, and
Training.”
The class progresses smoothly. We break the ice with introductions: names, pack affiliations, and reasons for taking the course. It’s engaging and insightful. By the end of the session, I assign readings–some from the previous professor’s materials and others from my personal recommendations. For those especially eager, I suggest a few of my favorite novels on
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leadership and strategy.
When the class ends, my wolf hums with approval. Her pride and excitement mirror my own. There’s an electric buzz coursing through me–teaching feels like a new kind of
purpose.
On my way home, the serene ambiance of the quad is interrupted by a familiar scent and an overpowering aura. My heart skips a beat as I glance over my shoulder. Alpha Matthew strides toward the main lecture hall, commanding attention without effort. He’s dressed impeccably–a black button–down, fitted slacks, and a blazer. A briefcase swings casually at his side, a stark contrast to his usual rugged Alpha demeanor.
Curiosity gets the best of me. I follow him discreetly into the massive lecture hall, which hums with energy. The room is unlike anything I’ve ever seen–two grand staircases lead to a main stage where Alpha Matthew places his briefcase.
The noise dies instantly as he grips the edges of the desk, his sharp gaze sweeping across the sea of students. Without raising his voice, he commands respect with his presence alone.
“Welcome, class,” he begins, his voice smooth yet powerful, resonating even in the furthest corners of the room. “It’s a pleasure to teach you one of my courses: The History of Lycanthropes–Our Origins and Future.”
My jaw drops. Alpha Matthew teaches here?
I sit in stunned silence as he continues. His tone is calm, yet each word carries a weight that
demands attention. “I strongly believe every student at this university should understand the
history of how we came to be. So, before you dismiss this as a mundane core course, ask
yourselves one question: What are we?”
He stops pacing and turns to the students, his intense gaze piercing through the room. “Not
just as werewolves, but as a society. Who are we, and why are we this way? By the end of this
semester, I hope you’ll appreciate our species–no matter your pack or upbringing.”
The room is captivated, and so am I. Back in Sparta, we were never taught werewolf history. It wasn’t deemed necessary beyond war tactics. Listening to Alpha Matthew feels like uncovering a piece of my identity that was long hidden.
Suddenly, his eyes find mine. My heart pounds as our gazes lock, and a warmth spreads through me, making my breath hitch. His haphazardly slicked–back hair and the confident way he carries himself are undeniably attractive. But it’s more than that. It’s his intellect, his dedication, and the way he weaves his words.
He smirks just barely–before breaking eye contact and returning to his lecture. My cheeks flush as I sit back, trying to process the inexplicable pull I feel toward him.
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For the first time in years, I feel completely out of control, and it’s thrilling.
