Chapter 19 Chapter 19: After Hours.

Chapter 19 Chapter 19: After Hours.
The email arrived during dinner, buried between spam and a reminder about unpaid library fines. Subject: Follow-up Scent Calibration – Private Session Required From: Prof. Langford [email protected] (mailto:[email protected]) Sage, Your performance in today’s lab was notable—particularly the emotional associations you reported with certain baseline scents. To refine the class dataset and assist with your emerging sensitivities,

I’d like to conduct a brief private calibration session. This is standard for students showing early markers of heightened olfactory response. Tonight, 7:30 p.m., Physiology Lab 214. The door will be unlocked. Bring nothing; I have all the necessary materials. 

This will take no more than forty-five minutes. Your participation will be noted favorably on your academic record. Regards,
Professor Elias Langford, I stared at the screen until the words blurred. Private. After hours. Just him. My first instinct was to delete it. My second was to forward it to Kieran—then I remembered the way his eyes had gone full gold in Pack Dynamics today, the way he’d watched me submit Morgan without blinking.

If I told him about this, he’d either forbid it or follow me, and both options felt like handing over another piece of myself. I wasn’t ready for that. Besides, it was just a lab. Scent work. I’d done worse things alone in foster homes—sat through “check-ins” with caseworkers who smelled like stale cigarettes and judgment.

This was college. This was supposed to be different. I typed back before I could overthink it. I’ll be there. – Sage
 The reply came in under a minute. Excellent. See you at 7:30. The physiology building was on the far side of campus, tucked behind the old observatory, where the path lights thinned out, and the evergreens pressed close enough to swallow sound. By 7:25, the sky had gone full dark, the kind of black that made the snow on the ground look bruised. I pulled my hood up, shoved my hands into my pockets, and walked faster than I meant to. 

The door to Lab 214 was ajar, warm yellow light spilling into the hallway like spilled honey. I pushed it open. The room smelled like antiseptic, chalk dust, and something sweeter underneath—cloying, almost floral. Professor Langford stood at the long demonstration bench, arranging glass vials in a neat row. He looked up when I entered, smiled the way teachers smile when they think they’re being reassuring. “Sage. Right on time. Close the door, please.” I did. The latch clicked behind me, louder than it should have been. He gestured to the stool across from him. “Sit.

This won’t take long.” I sat. The stool was cold through my jeans. Langford wore his usual button-down and slacks, sleeves rolled to the elbows. His forearms were pale, corded with veins that stood out when he moved. He picked up a small ceramic mug—steam curling from it—and slid it toward me. “Herbal tea,” he said. “Chamomile and valerian root, with a touch of something to sharpen olfactory receptors. Nothing synthetic.

It helps the brain filter distractions so the wolf's senses can surface cleanly.” I looked at the mug. Pale green liquid, faint steam. It smelled clean. Safe. “You don’t have to drink it,” he added, almost gently. “But most students find it eases the process. Your call.” I wrapped my hands around the mug. Warmth seeped through the ceramic into my palms. I brought it to my lips and took a small sip. Bitter at the back of the throat, then sweet. Not bad. Langford nodded approval. “Good. Now, let’s begin.” He started with the same blindfold exercise from class—cotton balls in vials, one at a time. I inhaled, described. Pine. Rain. Blood. Each one made my skin prickle, my canines ache faintly. He took notes on a clipboard, murmuring encouragement. 
“You’re doing exceptionally well, Sage. Most first-years can’t distinguish the emotional undertones yet.” I didn’t answer.

The room felt smaller. The lights overhead buzzed once, softly. After the fifth vial, he set the clipboard down. “Let’s try something more direct.” He moved around the bench, closer. I felt the shift in air pressure before I saw him. He reached past me—supposedly to grab another vial—but his arm brushed my shoulder, lingered. 
I stiffened. “Relax,” he said quietly. “Tension interferes with scent reception.” His hand settled on my shoulder. Firm. Not painful. Yet. I tried to shrug it off. “I’m fine.” His fingers tightened. Just enough. “You’re tense. Let me help.” The dizziness came slowly at first—like the room had tilted half a degree. Then more. The edges of my vision softened. My tongue felt thick. “What…?” “The tea,” he said, almost conversational. “It lowers inhibitions. Makes the wolf more… accessible.” I tried to stand.

My legs didn’t cooperate. The stool scraped backward an inch. He stepped between my knees, close enough that I could smell his aftershave—sharp, chemical—mixed with something sour underneath. Excitement. “Don’t fight it,” he murmured. “You’re safe here.” His hand slid from my shoulder to my collarbone, then lower. Fingers grazed the top of my hoodie zipper. “No.” The word came out slurred. Weak. I shoved at his chest. My arms felt like they were moving through water. He caught my wrists easily, pinned them to the bench behind me. Glass rattled. A vial tipped, rolled, and shattered on the tile. Sharp chemical scent bloomed. “Shh,” he said. “You’ll hurt yourself.

” Panic clawed up my throat. My heart slammed so hard I thought it might crack ribs. Somewhere deep—deeper than fear—something else stirred. Hot. Bright. Gold flickering at the corners of my vision. Claws. I felt them push against my nail beds, sharp and insistent. A low growl built in my chest—not mine, but mine. Langford’s eyes widened. “There it is.” He pressed closer. One hand released my wrist to cup my jaw, forcing my face up. His thumb brushed my lower lip. “You’re going to be magnificent,” he whispered. I jerked my head away. My free hand came up—clumsy, shaking—and raked across his forearm. Nails—longer now, black-tipped—left shallow red lines. He hissed, recoiled half a step. “Bitch.” He backhanded me. Not full force, but enough.
My head snapped sideways. Pain bloomed bright across my cheekbone.
The world spun faster. I slid off the stool, knees buckling. My back hit the bench edge, then the floor. Cold tile. Shards of glass glittered around me like broken stars. Langford loomed above. Breathing hard. Eyes dilated. He reached for his belt. “No,” I rasped again. Weaker. I tried to crawl backward. My limbs wouldn’t listen. The growl in my chest rose—fiercer now, vibrating through bone. Gold flooded my vision completely. He laughed—low, ugly. “Fight all you want. It only makes it better.” He knelt.

One knee between my legs. Hands on my waistband. I screamed inside my head. Claws scraped tile. Muscles burned. Something—someone—snarled. Then—impact. A dull crack. Langford’s body jerked forward, head snapping down. He collapsed across my legs, heavy, limp. Silence.
 My vision tunneled. Gold dimmed to black at the edges. I heard footsteps—quick, retreating—then nothing. The world went dark. I woke to the smell of laundry detergent and pine. My head throbbed like someone had driven nails into my temples. My mouth tasted like copper and chamomile.

My cheek burned. I was in my bed. Blanket pulled to my chin. Hoodie still on, jeans still on. Shoes off, lined neatly by the door. The room was dim—lamp off, only the faint blue glow of Lyra’s charging phone on her nightstand. I tried to sit up. The room tilted. Nausea rolled through me. “Sage?” Lyra’s voice—soft, urgent. She appeared at the side of my bed, hair messy from sleep, eyes wide. “You’re awake. Thank God.” “How…?” My throat felt raw. “How did I get here?

” She sat on the edge of the mattress. Careful. Not touching. “I found you in the library archives around ten. You were curled up in that back corner—the one with the broken light. Asleep. I didn’t want to wake you; you looked exhausted. So I… half-carried, half-dragged you back. You were pretty out of it.” Library. Not the lab. Not the floor with broken glass and Langford’s weight on my legs. I touched my cheek. Tender. Swollen. “That wasn’t a dream,” I whispered. Lyra’s expression flickered—something close to pain. “What wasn’t?” I opened my mouth. Closed it.

The words stuck. If I said them out loud, they became real. Instead, I asked, “What time is it?” “Almost two. You slept through everything.” Everything. I swallowed. “Is… is everything okay?” She hesitated. Long enough that my stomach dropped. “Something happened today,” she said quietly. “After hours.” My pulse kicked. “What?” “Professor Langford. They found him in his classroom. Dead.
” The room went very still. “Dead?” She nodded. “Suicide. At least that’s what they’re saying. He… hanged himself. From one of the lab beams.” I stared at her. “There was a note,” she continued. “They won’t let students see it, but rumors are already everywhere. It was a confession. How he’d… hurt students. Molested them. Over the years.” Her voice cracked on the last word. 

“The bastard deserved it,” she added, fierce. I couldn’t speak. My mind flashed—his hand on my jaw, the belt buckle, the crack of something hitting his skull. Then nothing. Lyra watched me. “Sage… did something happen to you tonight?” I looked down at my hands.
Nails are normal now. No black tips. No blood. But under my hoodie sleeve, faint red lines marked my forearms—like I’d scratched myself fighting. “I don’t know,” I lied. She didn’t push. Just reached over, squeezed my hand once—brief, warm.

“Get some rest. We’ll talk tomorrow.” She went back to her bed. Turned off the phone light. Darkness settled. I lay there, staring at the ceiling cracks I’d memorized weeks ago. My cheek throbbed. My head pounded. Somewhere deep inside, the wolf paced—restless, angry, unsatisfied. It hadn’t been a dream. Someone had hit him from behind. Someone had carried me here. Someone had made sure I woke up in my own bed, clothes on, alive. Kieran? The ghost wolf? Or someone else entirely? I rolled onto my side. Pulled the blanket higher. The note under my pillow crinkled—Kieran’s last one. Three days until prep intensifies.
Breathe, little wolf.
I’m watching.
– K I’m watching. I closed my eyes. But sleep didn’t come easily. Every time I drifted, I felt hands on me—cold, wrong—then the crack of bone against bone. And gold eyes in the dark. Mine. Or his. Or someone else’s. Waiting.