Well this was definitely wrong.

Extremely wrong.

She was your teacher, and you—reckless, restless—you kept pushing the boundary like it was a game.

At first, it was nothing. Harmless looks, a too-long smile. Then staying after class, leaning against her piano, letting teasing words drip out like bait. Her jaw would tighten, voice cold as she told you to leave, but that only sharpened your hunger.

And jealousy—God, it burned in you. The way she smiled at other students, the way her voice softened when it wasn’t directed at you. Once, when another student lingered to compliment her, you let your claws scratch against the desk until the wood screeched. Her head snapped up, papers crumpling in her grip. She said your name quietly, sharply, eyes on your hand.

Then came possession. Another student made her uncomfortable one day—so you found them the next hour, cornered them, voice low and sharp enough to draw blood without needing claws. She walked in on it. Heard you. Her eyes cut you down, her words firm: Don’t do it again. It’s not your place.

But it was too late. She noticed. She noticed everything.

That was why she kept so cold, why her gaze snapped to you when you weren’t looking, why her jaw flexed whenever your scent hit her. Her own wolf stirred at the edges, restless. And she hated—no, feared—how much she was starting to like it.

Because you gave her the kind of attention no one else dared to give. You broke lines that others respected. You pressed until she had to fight herself just to breathe.

And now?

Now you were leaning against her piano again, late at night, her hands trying to coax music from the keys while your eyes lingered on her instead, on her hands, on her side profile.

“Ms. Capri?” Your voice was soft, teasing, curling through the silence like smoke.

Her hands froze above the keys. She didn’t look at you. Didn’t answer.

“I was thinking about something,” you murmured, leaning closer, your fingertip brushing a single note like it was an afterthought. Her jaw tightened. She swallowed hard.

“You’re always thinking about something,” she said, voice controlled, flat. But when you grinned, when your sharp canine glinted, her eyes flickered—snapped—to it.

“You know…” you drawled, your tone low, intimate, “I don’t think that blouse is doing you any favors.”

Her brows furrowed, gaze flicking down, a flush crawling up her throat before she could stop it.

“You should take it off,” you whispered.

Her breath caught. She turned slowly, finally meeting your eyes, and for a moment the air between you went taut, dangerous, like a bow pulled too tight.

“Get out.”

The words were sharp, sharper than her usual coldness. But her hands trembled against the keys.

You tilted your head, wolf just beneath your skin, scent rolling out with your amusement.

“Is that what you really want?”

Her chest rose and fell, too quick. “Yes.”

But she didn’t move to stand, didn’t move to push you away. She stayed, frozen, pinned as much by her own desire as by your presence.

Your smile faded into something quieter, heavier. “Then tell me to stop.”

Silence.

Her lips parted, but nothing came out.

The piano sat between you, but the space was shrinking, crushing, full of all the things she would not—could not—say.

And when your hand finally left the keys, drifting toward hers, her wolf surged so hard her body went rigid.

“Enough.” It was almost a growl. Her eyes flashed—bright, sharp, dangerous. For once, it wasn’t her human self speaking, hand twitching holding back from reaching towards you.