The auditorium is dark except for the spotlight on stage. The audience claps politely as the dancers appear, but I can barely pay attention.
All I can think about is him.
The jerk in the box.
Katie is sitting beside me, totally enraptured by the opening sequence. She has that dreamy, faraway look on her face that tells me she's already choreographing her own routine in her head.
I wish I could focus like that.
Instead, my eyes keep flicking upward, to the private box.
He's sitting there, sharp and composed, like he owns the whole damn theater. His posture is perfect, his chin tilted just slightly, his gaze fixed on the dancers below. He doesn't fidget, doesn't move. It's like he's carved from stone.
But every now and then, I feel it.
That prickle on the back of my neck. That rush of heat in my chest.
He's looking at me.
I don't even need to check to know it.
The connection is electric, like static in the air, and no matter how hard I try to ignore it, it pulls me back to him every time.
---
After the performance ends, the audience rises to its feet. Katie is clapping like her life depends on it, practically vibrating with excitement.
"That was amazing!" she gushes, turning to me. "Did you see that pas de deux in the second act? Aisha Miller is a goddess."
"Yeah," I say weakly, though I barely saw half the show.
Katie squints at me. "What's up with you? You were spacing out the whole time."
"Nothing," I lie.
She narrows her eyes. "Max…"
But before she can press, the crowd starts moving toward the exits.
As we shuffle along, I glance back toward the private box.
It's empty.
For some reason, that makes my stomach sink.
---
We spill out onto the street. It's dark now, and the neon glow of Times Square paints the night sky in shades of pink and electric blue.
Katie is still buzzing, talking a mile a minute about the performance. I nod along, smiling when I should, but my mind is elsewhere.
"Let's grab some ice cream before the train," she says, tugging on my sleeve.
"Sure," I reply automatically.
As we head toward the stand, a strange sound cuts through the noise of the city. It's low, guttural. A growl.
I freeze.
Katie doesn't notice. She's already placing her order.
But I hear it again.
The hairs on my arms rise. My wolf is alert.
I glance around, scanning the street, the alleyways, the rooftops.
And then I see him.
The jerk.
Standing across the street under a flickering lamppost, his hands shoved in his pockets, staring right at me.
Our eyes lock.
Mint. Citrus. Cherry blossom.
That scent slams into me again, flooding my senses.
He tilts his head slightly, like he's studying me. Testing me.
And then, without a word, he turns and disappears into the shadows.
My heart is pounding so hard it feels like it might burst out of my chest.
"Max?" Katie says, holding out my cone. "Are you okay?"
"Yeah," I lie again, taking the ice cream.
But I can't stop shaking.
Who the hell is he? And why does it feel like my whole world just tilted on its axis?