Page 2 of Stalked (Mating Run #3)

Chapter two

Mason

Toby. Twenty. A scholarship student with none of the academy's silver-spoon pedigree.

And fuck if he wasn't the most magnetic thing Mason had seen in years.

Not pretty—striking. All sharp angles and lean muscle under worn jeans that hugged narrow hips. Those blue eyes didn't wander; they cataloged the room like a thief casing a score. Smart. Dangerous, in his own way.

When the kid pushed back a lock of tousled brown hair, Mason's wolf surged forward so violently he nearly growled aloud. His fingers dug into the chair arms, wood creaking under supernatural strength.

Mine.

The thought wasn't rational. Wasn't human. It was pure predator instinct, screaming through his blood like a fever. His canines ached, wanting to descend, to mark.

This close, Mason could smell him. Clean sweat. Cheap soap. Something else underneath—something wild that called to the beast inside him. His nostrils flared, drinking it in before he could stop himself.

Twenty goddamn years old. A boy. His son's classmate.

And his wolf didn't care. It recognized something in Toby that Mason's rational mind couldn't process. Something that resonated on a primal frequency he'd thought dead since he'd buried his mate.

Mine to chase. Mine to claim. Mine to keep safe.

Mason's vision sharpened, the world going crisp at the edges. His wolf clawing for control.

The certainty of it hit Mason like a hammer to the chest. His grip tightened on the arms of his chair. Nonsense. Impossible . He didn’t even know this boy, had never laid eyes on him before today. It was nothing but a trick of his overworked instincts.

No. He would not become this. Would not let the moon's pull override reason.

And yet, his body rebelled.

His gaze dragged over Toby’s frame, unbidden. Lean, but not fragile—cords of muscle subtly defined beneath the stiff fabric of his academy uniform. His hands, elegant but strong, flexed at his sides like he was ready to fight or flee, and the thought of either sent a sharp bolt of heat through Mason’s gut.

His collar sat askew, the barest sliver of collarbone exposed, and Mason’s wolf fixated on the skin there, a sudden, maddening urge rising in him to press his mouth to it, to taste the heat of Toby’s pulse.

Ridiculous.

He exhaled sharply, forcing himself to look away, grinding his molars. This was Caleb’s victim. A human half his age. Off-limits in every way that mattered. This was just… an unfortunate trick of timing. A physical reaction, nothing more. Too many years spent ignoring the pull of the mating run, too many nights pushing down urges he had no outlet for. His body was restless, his instincts coiled tight, looking for any excuse to latch onto something. Someone .

An ugly, bitter feeling settled in the back of his throat like smoke. That was the thing no one talked about, wasn’t it? That even an alpha could be left behind. That even the strongest could rot inside from the hollow ache of losing something they had once been certain of.

Mason forced the tension from his shoulders, shoved the pull down deep where it couldn’t touch him, where it couldn’t mean anything. This was just the itch of long-denied instinct, nothing more.

His wolf stirred in protest. Mason ignored it.

Toby was watching him now, head tilted slightly, as if he could sense something beneath the surface, something Mason wasn’t willing to name.

“Come in,” Sullivan said, oblivious to the fact that Mason’s world had just tilted off its axis.

Toby hesitated. He lingered in the doorway, gaze flicking to Sullivan, then to Caleb. His shoulders tensed, a defensive set Mason had seen before—on men who had learned the hard way to protect themselves.

Without thinking, Mason spoke. “Toby, was it?”

Toby stilled. Then, slowly, he lifted his gaze to Mason’s.

The moment their eyes met, Mason felt it like a live current under his skin. His scent hit Mason a second later—earthy, wild, laced with the faintest trace of woodsmoke. It curled into his lungs, into his blood. His wolf rumbled low in his chest, restless, territorial.

This one. This one is ours.

The image came unbidden, sharp and vivid—Toby beneath him, back arched against the damp forest floor, the moonlight striping his bare skin, his thighs parted in offering. Mason pressing him down, holding him still, spoiling him until every muscle in his body went weak with pleasure. Until there was no doubt who he belonged to.

Mason loved to spoil his mates. Loved to take them apart slowly, thoroughly, until they craved his hands, his mouth, his control. And this boy—this sharp-eyed, defiant human—was in dire need of it.

"Mr. Blackwood." Toby's voice was unexpectedly deep, with a careful politeness that didn't reach his eyes. "How kind of you to learn my name. Most parents don't bother to remember who their kids are assaulting."

This wasn't a boy intimidated by wealth or status. This was someone who'd learned to navigate rooms where no one was on his side, someone used to being surrounded by predators without revealing he knew exactly what they were.

Sullivan bristled, his scent souring with indignation. "Toby! That's quite enough of—"

But Mason held up a hand, silencing the headmaster mid-reprimand. Something warm and unfamiliar kindled in his chest—amusement, appreciation. It had been years since anyone had dared speak to him with such defiance.

“Come closer,” Mason said. The command was there, but so was something else, something softer than he’d meant. His fingers twitched, aching for contact, for the simple proof that Toby was real.

Toby’s gaze flicked down to Mason’s outstretched hand, then back up, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes. Curiosity. Caution. And—just for a breath—something that looked dangerously close to amusement.

The corner of his lips twitched, almost a smile. But it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

Then Toby's slender fingers slid into Mason's palm. The contact was electric, a jolt of awareness that Mason hadn't been prepared for. Toby's hand was unexpectedly warm, his grip firm despite the difference in their sizes. Mason found himself acutely conscious of the boy's pulse fluttering at his wrist, the subtle calluses on his fingertips, the way his thumb brushed—accidentally?—against the sensitive inner edge of Mason's palm.

They held the handshake a fraction too long. Mason should have released him immediately, should have maintained the cold formality appropriate between an irritated parent and his son's troublesome classmate. Instead, he found himself cataloging the exact shade of blue in Toby's eyes, the way his throat worked as he swallowed, the faint scent of something citrusy and clean that clung to his skin.

From the corner of his eye, Mason caught Caleb's baffled expression, his son's face pinched in confusion as he watched the strange tension unfolding between them. It was enough to make Mason loosen his grip, though his fingertips lingered against Toby's palm as they separated, a whisper of contact that shouldn't have felt so significant.

Toby flexed his hand at his side afterward, as if the touch had left an imprint.

Mason’s pulse thrummed. He didn’t know if he wanted to shake the boy or pin him down. And he needed to get that dangerous, impossible, wrong fucking impulse under control. Now .

“My son needs to apologize to you,” Mason said, turning his focus back to Caleb. “Now.”

Caleb shifted in his chair, irritation flickering across his face as he glanced between them. “Do I have to?”

“Yes,” Mason replied firmly.

Caleb huffed but finally stood up, shoving his hands into his pockets as he faced Toby. “I’m sorry for being a jerk.” The words tumbled out awkwardly, devoid of sincerity.

For a split second, Mason caught something unexpected in Toby’s gaze: a brief flicker of something deeper, something almost vulnerable. It was fleeting but enough that Mason recognized it.

Toby wanted to believe that this meant peace—but knew that he couldn't.

But what caught Mason off-guard was the way that Toby's gaze flickered, just briefly, away from Caleb…

And to Mason. It was just for a second, but Mason caught the edge in Toby's gaze. Evaluating. Uncertain—but not scared. Curious .

Toby looked away. “Thank you,” he answered Caleb, his voice soft, polite—and the words lacking any true weight, the same as Caleb's had. The polite smile on Toby’s face didn’t quite reach his eyes. Toby knew Caleb wasn’t sincere. He knew that apology was empty.

Toby didn’t believe this would stop Caleb.

Mason’s blood stirred within him, the possessive, primal instinct flaring up as it registered the challenge. Toby didn’t think Mason could protect him from his son. Didn’t think he could make Caleb fall into line.

"Well, I believe we're done here for today," Sullivan said with a rehearsed smile, gathering papers on his desk. "We won't take up any more of your valuable time, Mr. Blackwood. I know how busy you must be."

Mason gave Sullivan a nod. He turned, striding for the door, his wolf still prowling restless beneath his skin.

"Mr. Blackwood."

The sound of Toby's voice made Mason pause, one hand on the door. He didn't turn, couldn't risk showing what might be in his eyes. "Yes?"

"They say you guest lecture for the business program sometimes." The words were casual, but the intent behind them wasn't. "I'd be interested to hear what you have to say."

Mason allowed himself one glance back, meeting those calculating blue eyes. "Perhaps you will."