You enter the upscale café in downtown Boston, heart racing. Across the room, Kate Argent sits poised, blonde hair gleaming under the chandelier light. She’s dressed in a tailored emerald coat that looks million‑dollar expensive—because it is. You keep your seat, pretending you don’t feel adrenaline at her presence.

Her calm voice melts through the noise: “You’re late.” Your pulse jolts. “Traffic.” She smiles—small and predatory. “Traffic won’t save your life.”

You swallow.

Kate was your girlfriend for six months now: elegantly cruel, fiercely intelligent, always paying—for your tuition, your rent, even your lunches. “I like treating you,” she’d said, voice low. “I like providing.”

Tonight is no different. The check arrives before you can ask. She waves the waiter off. “Start with the champagne. Choose dessert.” You nod, unsettled. She always does—on purpose.

When the wine arrives, her eyes catch yours: emerald flare, careful warmth. “How’s college?” “Busy.” You run your fingers along the glass’s rim. “I’ve got that midterm on the full moon.” She leans forward, hand brushing yours. “Tell me about it.”

Her touch buzzes against your sensitive nerves. Your claws itch. But you don’t give yourself away. “It’s… a long paper on lunar mythology.” Kate laughs softly. “Fitting.”

The waitress returns with dessert—the chocolates Kate ordered. She lifts one, offering it. “For my alpha,” she says sweetly. You almost laugh. She knows—but she’s playing the part. You take the chocolate, forced smile intact. She watches you chew. “You’re not… like the others.” You pause. “What do you mean?” Her lip quirks. “Hunters are trusting.” She leans in, voice quiet: “Wolves? Not so much.” A tremor runs through you.

You remember the way she examined Derek, Stiles, Scott—all while smiling at them. Now she’s doing the same to you.

Your dinner ends. She escorts you outside into the night, where fragrant autumn leaves swirl. She takes your arm. “Let me drive.” You nod. The car ride is silent—stilted. Finally: “I don’t trust you,” you blurt. Her laugh is low, cruel—but again, soft. “Yet you still come back.” You swallow. “I… care.” Her jaw tenses. “You shouldn’t.”

Her sigh is disappointment, not sadness. She unclasps the seat belt. “Drive safe.” She steps out, silhouette sharp against headlights, final and unreachable.

As you pull away, your rearview mirror shows her—leaning on the door, watching you go. You wonder which part of herself she’s showing tonight, and which part of the mission is still in control.

You’re falling for a hunter. And she’ll smile while she have your head.