Chapter 9 The Project Begins
Malia's POV
The library is more than half empty as I walk in for our first official project meeting.
I grabbed a table in the main study hall—public, neutral territory where Aiden can’t be quite as openly hostile as in our dorm.
I am early, florescent wrapped around me, three different sources already plucked from the stacks. If he wants to treat me like I’m incompetent, I’ll prove him wrong.
My phone buzzes.
July: Good luck with Ice Prince. Remember, if he’s a jerk, you’re allowed to throw a book at his head.
Freddy: A heavy book. Preferably hardcover.
I'm nervous, but I smile.
Then I feel him before I see him.
That change in the air. The way cleaning up after conversations seems to quiet down. The is that itchy knowing creeping up my spine.
Aiden Moonfall strides through the library as if he owns it—well, he probably does since his family donated the entire west wing.
He’s wearing dark jeans and a slim-fit black jumper that makes him look nothing if not intimidating. His blue eyes briefly skim across the room and then fall on me.
No smile.
No greeting. He just goes over and places his bag on the table with a loud thud.
"You're early," he says flatly.
"So are you."
He draws out a chair—not the one that’s in front of me, but the one at the end of the table, letting to immediately established dominance in the work area.
Of course.
"Let's get one thing straight," Aiden says, pulling out his laptop. "This is like, 40 percent of our grade. I don't fail. Ever."
"Neither do I," I say flatly.
His brow rises inquiry. "Then we should be fine. I'll do the research and the writing. You can… proofread or something.”
I am dumbfounded. "Excuse me?"
“You heard me.”
“That’s not the way group projects work—”
"When one person is that much more qualified than the other, it is."
My face is hot. “You don’t even know what I’m capable of.”
“I know you’re a hybrid, on a scholarship, who probably just barely got in to Mooncrest.” His tone is cold and matter-of-fact. "I'm not trying to be cruel. I’m not being cruel. I'm being practical."
“Practical?” I say, leaning forward, my anger stronger than my sense of intimidation. “Or you just don’t want to work with somebody you think is beneath you?”
There’s something flickering in his eyes — surprise perhaps that I’m so pushy.
"I did not say that."
"You don't need to."
Between us, the silence expands, stretches, crackling.
At last, Aiden sighs, running a hand through his hair. "Fine. You want to contribute? Prove you can handle it. We need sources from the restricted archives. Think you can handle that without losing your way?"
It’s a test.
A challenge.
"Try me," I say.
—---
The restricted archives are in the library’s basement — an area most students never access. The librarian, Mrs. Chen, shoots us a long look when Aiden asks to borrow it, her glance sweeping me over with palpable disbelief.
"Both of you?" she queries.
"Both of us," Aiden confirms, his voice brooking no argument.
She hands over two access badges and a stern caution that they must be handled with care.
We go down a tight staircase to enter a low-ceiling corridor, walls lined with shelves from floor to ceiling. The air is redolent of musty paper, worn leather, and something subtly magical—archived time.
It's pretty in a desolate kind of way.
"We're hunting for old pack bond texts," Aiden announces, already reading shelf labels. "Pre-Council era. Any materials on the formation of hierarchy or mate bonding theory?"
I nod and go over to the other side of the room.
Mrs. Chen leads us to a private study room at the back a cramped room with a single table and two chairs, the walls covered with even older texts encased in glass.
The door clicks behind us.
The silence is now stifling.
Aiden begins pulling books without consulting me, piling them on the table with the practiced efficiency of someone who has done this a hundred times.
I roam the shelves by myself, hoping to pick up anything useful. Along the rub-worn spines, my fingers dance, reading titles in faded script:
Hierarchies of the First Packs
Blood Bonds and Territory
The Moon's Call: Unlocking Lupine Instinct.
And then one does, nestled between a pair of fat tomes:
Forgotten Bonds: A Study of Ancient Connections
I extract it from the shelf with care. The cover is dark leather, the title stamped in silver which is fading. When I open it, the pages smell like centuries.
I flip through—and stop.
Whole chapter on something called “Triad Bonds.”
My heart skips.
“Aiden,” I say quietly.
He doesn’t look up. “What.”
“I think I've gotten something.”
“I’m sure you think you did.”
His dismissiveness rekindles my ire. I walk over and place the book open to the chapter in question in front of him.
“Read it.”
He takes a quick look at the page and I see his expression change.
Surprise.
Then something else—something guarded.
He pulls the book closer, and — now actually reading — his brow furrows.
"Where did you get this?" he asks.
"Third shelf, left side. Behind the text on territorial claims."
“This part is meant to be catalogued. How did you…?” He trails off, looking at me with perhaps a hint of respect. “This is exactly what we needed.”
For a moment, his walls drop.
He is not Aiden Moonfall, invincible heir.
He's just a student, surprised and perhaps a little impressed.
Then he catches himself.
The mask slides back into place.
“Good work,” he says stiffly as if his words hurt him physically. “This will be our base source.”
It's not much.
But it's acknowledgment. And with Aiden Moonfall, that feels like a victory.
—---
For the next hour , we work in tense silence, making notes, cross-referencing texts.
Despite everything, Aiden is brilliant—his mind works quickly, making connections I wouldn’t have seen. And I know grudgingly that he notices when I say something helpful too.
The project is taking off now.
When we're done, there's darkness outside, the sun having set, cloaking the library with shadow.
In silence we pack up, our arms stuffed with books that we’ve borrowed.
On our way back up the tight stairwell to the main level, I’m exhausted, preoccupied, thinking about the work—
An uneven step catches my foot.
I lurch forward with a gasp, books cascading from my arms.
But I didn’t fall.
Strong hands catch me—one wrapping around my waist, the other steadying my shoulder.
Aiden.
He lifts me up with effortless strength, and suddenly we’re on the stairs, his hands still on me, our faces mere inches apart.
I can smell him—pine, cold air, something that’s uniquely him and that makes my wolf stir nervously.
His blue eyes meet mine, and for one suspended moment, something shifts in his expression.
The chill breaks.
Beneath, I see something raw, confused, nearly ... vulnerable.
His gaze mingles with mine for half a second, and then he looks back up.
My heart is pounding against my ribs.
"I—" I say nervously.
He releases suddenly, recoiling like I’ve just burnt him.
"Watch yourself," he murmurs, voice raspier than usual. Then he’s crouching down, scooping up the fallen books in rapid, jerky motions.
He stabs them at me, without looking in my eyes.
“I’ll send you the outline tonight,” he says tersely. “Read it before our next meeting.”
“Aiden—" but he is already turning his back on me, running up the stairs two at a time, distancing himself from us as quickly as he can.
I stand there with the books in my hand, my waist still tingling where his hand was.
What just happened?
My wolf whimpers softly, confused by the strange pull toward him, the way my body reacted to his touch.
I shake my head, ostensibly to clear it.
It wasn’t anything.
He caught me from falling. That’s all.
But when I finally climb the last flight of stairs and step out into the crisp night air, I can't help but go over that second again and again, the way he looked at me, as if maybe he was seeing something he didn't want to see.
Like maybe under all the hostility and the cold had been something else. Something he was working very hard to bury.
As I make my way back to the dorm, my phone buzzes.
Aiden: Project outline attached. Don’t screw this up.
I stare at the message—characteristically cold, distant, exactly what I'd expect.
But the firm hands the knives are now tooled with are ones my fingers still remember.
And my heart won’t stop racing.