Page 49 of Alpha Varsity

I never attached a human face to Asher’s wolf. Never imagined what that particular male looked like in human form.

How utterly bizarre that I didn’t note their similarities the first time I saw Asher on the full moonrun. Even when I caught his cedar and soap scent and suspected he was my mate, I didn’t make the connection. I’m so out of touch with my wolf nature, I missed all the clues Fate was dropping for me.

“So you suppressed your wolf at art school, and this is how she emerged.” Asher’s voice is a comforting rumble above my head.

I don’t want to lean back against his sturdy support because it feels too good. I don’t want to get used to something I don’t get to keep. My body doesn’t obey my wishes. I’m melting into him, drinking in how marvelous it feels to have the corded muscles of his forearm holding me up.

“Yes. She became my artistic muse.”

Asher releases me and walks closer to examine a 48 x 48-inch painting of my wolf standing in a mountain meadow surrounded by delicate gold Mexican poppies. I had this painting in my bedroom in the dorm-style apartment I shared with Andy and two other seniors last year. Having her close kept me from feeling like I would go crazy.

“She looks…” He tilts his head, as if he’s trying to read the mind of my wolf on the canvas. “I think she’s mad at you.”

A choked sort of laugh comes out of my mouth. “Mad?” I walk to his side.

“Don’t you see it?”

“Well…I would’ve said she looks wise. Or strong.” I, too, tilt my head and try to see her through Asher’s eyes.

“Maybe she is mad.”

“She looks bitter.”

“I might call it repressed.”

“The repression made her bitter.”

That gnawing guilt I have over suppressing my wolf comes to the surface. I elbow him. “Don’t judge.”

Asher picks me up and sits me atop the step ladder I use to paint the upper region of the canvas. I don’t see any of that resentment or rage he usually holds for me. Nor do I see the condemnation of my parents. His face is relaxed–his expression soft. When his hands come to rest lightly on the sides of my thighs, a trembling starts in the center of my being.

“It just seems like a…violence you enacted on yourself.”

I want to react with the habitual defensiveness I reserved for every conversation I had with my parents while I was in school, but Asher’s thumbs lightly stroke the tops of my thighs, and I can’t concentrate.

“What made you do it?”

I sweep my arm to indicate the paintings. “Art, Asher.”

His brows furrow. “You suppressed your wolf, so you could paint her?”

My laugh is bitter. “No. But I couldn’t have both. I chose art.”

Asher stares at me so long with a look of confusion that I start to question my own premise.

“My parents say shifters don’t care about art. They wanted me to stay and work at the brewery, like everyone else.”

A look of scorn flits over Asher’s face, and I want to hug him. “That’s…really dumb.”

“All the best art schools and art scenes are in major cities. Places where a wolf can’t shift and run. I applied to the Art Institute of Chicago, anyway, and I was lucky enough to be accepted.”

“Oka-ay.” Asher draws the word out, implying he still doesn’t get it.

“My parents forbade me from going. They said it wouldkill my wolf, but I was an adult. I pretty much gave them the middle finger and went anyway.”

Understanding dawns on Asher’s face. “They wouldn’t pay. That’s why you can’t afford to keep meat in the house.”

Tears spring to my eyes, and I blink them back. After hiding so much of who I was at college and feeling so caged, it feels incredible to be seen. Understood.

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