Chapter 139
Caleb's POV
The brass nameplate outside the Computer Science Department office gleamed under fluorescent lights: Dr. Caleb Martinez, Academic Advisor. I traced the engraving with one finger, allowing myself a moment of satisfaction. The perfect cover—prestigious enough to grant campus access, mundane enough to avoid scrutiny.
I'd imagined showing up twice a week, nodding thoughtfully at a few students, perhaps attending an occasional faculty meeting. Mostly, I'd observe Jackson Wilson and his little girlfriend from a comfortable distance, gathering intelligence for the inevitable confrontation.
The door swung open before I could even knock.
"Caleb! Wonderful to finally meet you!" Dr. Harrison, the department chair, practically vibrated with enthusiasm. Mid-fifties, graying beard, the kind of academic who still got excited about compiler optimization. "Come in, come in! We're thrilled to have someone with your European credentials."
He ushered me into a cramped office that smelled of old coffee and desperation. My designated desk sat buried under a mountain of folders.
"Here's your student consultation schedule—" He dropped a three-inch binder onto the pile. "Course evaluation reports—" Another stack. "Recommendation letter templates, Academic Integrity Committee minutes, and oh! Patricia has your complete onboarding packet."
Patricia emerged from behind a filing cabinet like some kind of administrative ninja. Sixty-something, steel-gray hair in a severe bun, reading glasses on a beaded chain. She looked me up and down with the assessing gaze of someone who'd seen dozens of advisors come and go.
"Mr. Martinez." Not Doctor. Interesting. "Tuesday afternoons are mandatory faculty meetings. Thursday mornings, Student Wellness Workshops—attendance is tracked. You'll need to maintain a minimum of fifteen student consultations per week, four hours of posted office hours, and update your availability on the department portal daily."
She thrust a handbook at me. The spine read: New Employee Orientation Manual - 2024 Edition. One hundred and fifty pages, minimum.
Madre de Dios.
I maintained my carefully practiced smile—the one I'd perfected during interminable pack dinners in Barcelona. "Of course. I look forward to contributing to the department's mission."
I am the Martinez family heir. My father commands three hundred wolves across two continents.
"Excellent!" Dr. Harrison beamed. "Your first student should arrive in—" He checked his watch. "—about five minutes. Don't worry, you'll get the hang of it quickly!"
And I'm about to spend my afternoon babysitting human children who can't decide which coding class to take.
---
The first student slouched into my office at 2:07 PM. Oversized hoodie, unwashed hair, the vague smell of energy drinks and desperation.
"So, uh, I'm trying to figure out if I should take Data Structures in spring or wait until fall, but then Algorithm Analysis might conflict with my gaming club schedule, and also I heard Professor Chen is really hard but Professor Kim gives easier exams, so maybe—"
Twenty-three minutes. Twenty-three minutes of circular reasoning that went absolutely nowhere.
I nodded at appropriate intervals, making notes on my pad:
Minute 12: Still talking.
Minute 18: Has he taken a breath?
Minute 23: Considering whether biting him would violate my cover.
"Thank you for your time," I said finally, standing to indicate the meeting's end. "I recommend starting with Data Structures. It builds the foundation you'll need."
He blinked at me. "Oh. Okay. Yeah, that makes sense. Thanks, dude!"
Dude. He called me dude.
Student number two arrived in tears.
"My roommate used ALL my shampoo without asking and when I confronted her she said I was being dramatic and now the whole floor thinks I'm crazy but it's not about the shampoo it's about RESPECT and I need you to talk to Residential Life because—"
Fifteen minutes of melodrama over hair products.
In Barcelona, I silenced dissent with a glance. Here, I mediate shampoo disputes.
Student three—an eager tech bro with too much confidence and too little self-awareness—pitched his "revolutionary" app idea for forty-seven minutes straight.
"See, it's like a to-do list, but with AI integration that learns your patterns and suggests optimal task completion schedules based on circadian rhythms and weather patterns and it could totally disrupt the productivity space and—"
Another to-do list app. Because the world definitely needed more of those.
My enhanced hearing became a curse. Every sound magnified: footsteps in the hallway, the secretary's phone ringing three offices down, students gossiping about weekend parties, the relentless hum of the ancient HVAC system.
Each noise hammered home the same truth: I am trapped in this tedious performance.
By noon, I'd endured four consultations and felt my wolf nature straining against the constraint of professionalism. The cafeteria offered a necessary escape—and an opportunity.
I selected a Caesar salad and sparkling water, maintaining the "health-conscious European" image, and positioned myself at a strategic table. Three tables away, Ellie Green laughed with her roommates.
She wore a casual gray sweatshirt, auburn hair pulled back in a messy ponytail. Pretty, I supposed, in that wholesome American way. Nothing special. Certainly nothing that should threaten the Martinez succession.
I pretended to review the student project proposal on my tablet while watching her over the edge of the screen.
She threw her head back, laughing at something the girl in front of her said. The motion exposed her throat—that long, slender neck tilted back in genuine mirth.
Smooth. Unmarked. Clean.
No claiming bite. No territorial marks. No visible scars or bruising that would indicate recent marking attempts.
My pulse steadied. The knot of tension I'd carried since arriving in this godforsaken town began to loosen.
Of course.
The analysis fell into place with satisfying clarity:
Werewolf fated mates experience overwhelming instinct. The compulsion to mark, to claim, to make the bond permanent—it's not something that can be resisted indefinitely. Certainly not after the kind of intimate contact that spending holidays together implied.
Jackson Wilson and Ellie Green had clearly progressed beyond casual dating. The campus gossip confirmed as much—matching Halloween costumes, Christmas together.
Yet she remained unmarked.
Therefore: not fated mates. Just two young werewolves drawn together by chemistry and circumstance. Separable. Manageable.
I opened my actual notebook—the one I'd use for my report to Father—and wrote in neat Spanish:
"Target female unmarked. Relationship status: intimate but not fated. Threat level: MEDIUM. Wilson lacks the bond that would strengthen his challenge. Recommended approach: division tactics, not direct confrontation. Exploit the relationship's natural vulnerabilities."
Relief flooded through me like good wine. All this worry, this urgency, this elaborate infiltration—and it turned out Jackson Wilson was just another college boy with a pretty girlfriend.
Not a destined Alpha with his fated Luna. Just a scared kid playing at normal.
I allowed myself a slight smile as I speared a forkful of salad.