Page 1 of Stalked

Chapter one

Mason

MasonBlackwoodtookthesteps 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 tobe.

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."

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