Page 1 of Stalked (Mating Run #3)

Chapter one

Mason

Mason Blackwood took the steps two at a time, his long legs eating the ground effortlessly as he climbed without hesitation. His Oxfords were silent against the stone, smooth and polished just like the rest of him—every inch deliberate, immaculate. It was a look designed to convey absolute control, though underneath the tailored suit, he felt anything but.

The wolf in him thrummed with unrest. It always did this close to the full moon. The pull crept through his muscles, his blood—a reminder of the part of him that no amount of tailored suits or decades of discipline could bury. Soon, it would hit its peak, that mad ache he couldn’t outrun.

The mating run.

The hunt, the chase, the fever of it all. It used to send adrenaline coursing through him, used to make the night stretch on in a heady blur of wilderness and instinct. The snap of twigs underfoot, claws sinking into dirt, the pulse-racing thrill of scenting a mate just ahead. It had once been everything to him. The sound and fury of what it meant to be .

Now, it was nothing. He felt the call, sure—felt it every year—but the ache didn’t burn like it used to. Because he’d already chased.

More than that, he’d already caught.

Once, the moon had lit the path to everything he’d ever wanted: his mate . A ghost stirred in his mind at the thought; a flash of wild rain, the scent of honeysuckle clinging to his senses like a cruel memory.

That was all it was now. Memory.

His wolf snarled at the loss every damn full moon, but Mason silenced it the same brutal way he silenced everything that clawed too close. What was the point in remembering what couldn’t be undone? There were no second chances. There was no great fate, no divine plan. The mate he’d sworn himself to was gone. And whatever belief he’d once had in the whole romantic mess of it had been buried alongside them.

Now, the mating run was just another annoyance in a line of many. Wolves still ran, still chased, still howled as primal instinct demanded, but what was left for him to claim? Nothing. He had no faith in the promise of a mate—not anymore.

Control, though. That he trusted.

And control meant focusing on the present. Not the past, not instinct, and certainly not the hollow ache in his ribs. It meant shutting it all down, stepping into Silverridge Academy’s pristine halls like he owned them, and dealing with what needed to be dealt with.

For now, that meant his son.

Mason pushed through the heavy double doors with a sharp flick of his wrist, catching the polished brass handle just before it could slam behind him. The faint scent of old wood and floor polish greeted him as he stepped into the sharply lit building, and the familiar bite of irritation crawled up his neck before he even reached the headmaster’s office. His wolf bristled, restless and on edge—as usual. On the outside, though, Mason was calm. Controlled.

Always controlled.

Mason ran his fingers along the smooth oak paneling as he strode down the corridor. That's how he'd always operated—see, assess, claim. No hesitation. No doubt. When he identified something he wanted, he simply moved worlds into alignment until that thing fell naturally into his possession. The same calculated precision that made him alpha of Silverridge Pack made him a force in the boardroom, the bedroom, and everywhere in between.

That trait had once made his mate look up at him with both challenge and surrender. Now it just got him through each day.

The sharp click of his Italian leather shoes against marble announced his arrival before he even reached Sullivan's door. He exhaled sharply, rolling his shoulders, shaking the ghosts loose. This wasn’t the time for memories. He was standing on the steps of the Academy, not running through moonlit grass. The scent in the air wasn’t smoky cedar and salt, but floor polish and leather furniture.

Reality.

And reality meant dealing with his son. Again .

He let himself pause just for a moment outside the office door, adjusting one stiff cuff until the gleaming silver of his cufflinks caught the light. The metal glinted almost the same color as the streaking of silver in his dark hair. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he thought absently about how he needed a haircut. Not that he minded the way the salt-and-pepper strands tempered the tough edge of him. He’d seen the way people reacted to him, the way heads turned—it was a power of its own, and he wasn’t above using every weapon in his arsenal.

He didn’t knock. He never did.

Pushing the door open, Mason stepped into Headmaster Sullivan’s cramped but stately office. Headmaster Sullivan barely looked up from behind his mahogany desk, fingers steepled, resignation written all over his face. "Mason," he sighed. "I won’t waste your time. I know how busy you are."

Damn right, he did. The Blackwoods funded half this school.

"This is about Caleb," Sullivan continued, hesitant. "His behavior is… becoming a problem."

Mason’s jaw tightened. Irritation flared, but beneath it, something darker stirred. A low growl rumbled in his chest, barely leashed. The wolf wanted out. It could feel the moon’s pull, the inevitable hunt, the claim that waited just days away.

His voice came out low, rough. Dangerous. "What did he do this time?"

"He's been bullying other students," Sullivan replied, not flinching under Mason's intense gaze. " Again . If it were just high spirits, a little boyish rough-housing… Well, we usually let boys get that out of their system. However, we’ve now received multiple complaints regarding Caleb's behavior toward a mundane student—a scholarship boy. You understand how this reflects poorly on the academy. I had no choice but to call you in."

Mason exhaled slowly through his nose, his wolf bristling at the words, at what they meant. Not just a weaker boy, not just another werewolf at the bottom of the pecking order—a human. One of the few allowed into Silverridge under the academy’s carefully maintained program. A symbol of the truce between their kind, of the fragile balance they maintained with humans.

They weren’t supposed to be animals anymore.

And yet his son had chosen to hunt like one.

Something cold settled in his gut, sharper than anger, heavier than disappointment. This wasn’t dominance. It wasn’t strength. Preying on the weak wasn’t power… That was failure.

Before he could respond to that thought, the door swung open. Caleb slouched inside, his blond hair falling over his forehead, smirk firmly in place. Like he had better things to do. Like this was a joke.

"Dad, you're here? Oh man, this is ridiculous," Caleb muttered, avoiding eye contact with both men. "Why do I have to be here?"

Mason’s eyes narrowed. "Sit down."

Caleb flopped into a chair with exaggerated defiance, arms crossed. "It’s not like I did anything wrong."

Mason leaned forward, his voice low, measured. "Is that so?"

Caleb shrugged, smug. "Some people just can’t take a joke. That nerd is weak—"

Mason didn't raise his voice, didn't make a scene—he didn’t need to. He simply loomed, all calm, controlled power, his presence enough to make the headmaster tense. "Bullying a human to impress your friends?" His voice was quiet but edged. "That’s what you consider being a proud werewolf?"

Caleb’s smirk faltered for half a second. "Toby’s just a nobody. Who even cares?"

Mason’s jaw tightened. This was a boy playing at power—and playing poorly. "When my son acts like an unmannered mutt, I care. Whoever this human is, you will apologize to him. And you will mean it."

Caleb rolled his eyes, but Mason saw it—that flicker of hesitation beneath the bravado, the tiny crack in his confidence.

Then it was gone. Mason still remembered the boy who used to look up at him with wide, trusting eyes, who used to hang on his every word. But now? Now his son barely heard him at all.

“Fine,” Caleb muttered insincerely, slouching deeper into his chair.

Mason exhaled slowly, the weight of fatherhood pressing down like a mountain. He had wanted more for his son: more integrity, more discipline. Not this posturing, not this desperate need to prove himself at someone else’s expense.

After his partner had died, Mason had done everything he could to raise Caleb right. He’d tried to teach him that real strength wasn’t about how hard you hit, but how well you carried your own. That leadership was earned, not taken.

But the older Caleb got, the less he listened. Somewhere along the way, his son had stopped looking to him for guidance and started looking to his peers instead—the privileged little wolves at this academy, all vying for their own version of power.

Mason could feel him slipping away. And the wolf inside him hated it.

The full moon’s pull gnawed at the edges of his control, his blood running hotter, sharper, restless. The instinct to correct, to command, to take coiled deep in his gut, barely held in check beneath the crisp lines of his suit. He wasn’t a pup. He didn’t let his wolf rule him. But it was there, watching, waiting.

And right now, it was pissed.

His son—his blood—had turned into something he didn’t recognize. A boy who thought strength came from tearing others down, not from standing unshaken. It made something dark churn in Mason’s chest. If he couldn’t reach Caleb, if he couldn’t get through to him…

Headmaster Sullivan cleared his throat. “Let’s bring Toby in now. Alexandra, if you could?”

The door creaked open. Mason barely looked up at first, too caught in his own thoughts—until the scent hit him.

Fresh rain. Crisp autumn air. Something warm underneath, like a fire just starting to burn.

His wolf went silent. Mason’s body went tight, the tension snapping through his spine like a pulled wire.

A slender young man stood in the doorway, his dark curls slightly mussed, his uniform a little too big in a way that suggested it had been handed down. Bright, sharp green eyes met Mason’s—and didn’t flinch.

Mason’s wolf lunged forward, slamming into the cage of his ribs. Heat licked down his spine, something deep and primal crackling through him like lightning. Want. Pure, instinctual want.

He forced himself to breathe, clenching his fists so hard his nails bit into his palms. This was his son’s victim. A human. A young man half his age.

He had no right to react like this.

And yet—he couldn’t look away.

What. The. Fuck.