Chapter Two: Bad Daddy

Sophie’s POV

My alarm blared at 7 AM, and I nearly fell out of bed reaching to silence it. Every muscle screamed in protest as I moved, reminding me that last night hadn't been some fucked-up nightmare. The first shift was exactly as brutal as everyone said it would be – though I doubted many others went through it alone, crying over their cheating ex while their bones rearranged themselves.

"Fuck," I muttered, catching sight of myself in the mirror. My new dress lay in shreds on the floor, and my carefully styled hair looked like I'd stuck my finger in an electrical socket. Dark circles under my eyes completed the hot mess look.

I stumbled to the bathroom, cranking the shower as hot as it would go. As steam filled the small space, I examined my body for any visible changes from the shift. Nothing obvious – no sudden growth spurt or magical transformation into a supermodel. Just the same old Sophie, complete with the familiar hollow ache of not quite belonging.

My phone buzzed on the counter. Professor Wilson's name flashed on the screen, along with another message about today's assignment. This time, I actually read it:

"High-security assessment at Blackwood Correctional. Be there at 10 AM sharp. This isn't your typical psych eval, Sophie. The subject is... significant."

Great. Because what I really needed after the shittiest birthday ever was to evaluate some dangerous criminal. At least it would keep my mind off Adam and his cheerleader fuck buddy.

Two hours and three cups of coffee later, I walked into Professor Wilson's office, trying to project confidence I definitely didn't feel. She looked up from her desk, her sharp eyes taking in my professional outfit and carefully neutral expression.

"You look like hell," she said bluntly.

"Thanks. First shift was a blast." I dropped into the chair across from her. "So what's this about a high-security assessment?"

"What do you know about Marcus Stone?" she asked.

The name hit me like a punch to the gut. Everyone knew about Marcus Stone – one of the most powerful Alphas in the city, currently imprisoned by the werewolf court for trafficking charges. The rumors about him ranged from terrifying to unbelievable.

"Holy shit," I breathed. "You want me to evaluate Marcus Stone?"

"Language," Professor Wilson chided, but her lips twitched. "And yes. The werewolf court requires a psychological assessment before considering any... adjustments to his sentence. Given your unique perspective, they think you might notice things others miss."

"My 'unique perspective'?" I couldn't keep the bitterness from my voice. "You mean because I'm the freak who can't smell?"

"Because you've developed exceptional observational skills to compensate," she corrected firmly. "And because you're not easily influenced by an Alpha's... presence."

Right. Because I couldn't smell their supposedly irresistible Alpha pheromones or whatever. Usually a disadvantage, but maybe useful when dealing with a notorious crime boss.

The drive to Blackwood was tense. The facility sat like a fortress on the outskirts of the city, all gray walls and razor wire. A beta guard met me at the entrance, his nose wrinkling slightly as he checked my credentials. I was used to that reaction – apparently lacking a scent was as offensive to them as body odor would be to humans.

"Follow me," he grunted, leading me through a maze of security checkpoints. "No sudden movements. No physical contact. Stay behind the red line at all times." He paused, giving me a skeptical once-over. "You sure you're up for this, little omega?"

I straightened my spine. "I'm a professional conducting a court-ordered evaluation. My secondary gender is irrelevant."

He snorted but didn't argue, stopping at a heavy metal door. "Your subject is inside. Remember the rules. And kid?" His expression softened slightly. "Don't let him get in your head."

I'd imagined Marcus Stone would be some aging crime boss – balding, overweight, maybe with a cigar habit and a mean squint. The kind of guy who'd gotten soft behind a desk while letting others do his dirty work.

The man who looked up as I entered was none of those things.

Holy fuck, he was gorgeous. Unfairly, criminally gorgeous. Tall and built like a Greek god, with muscles that stretched his prison uniform in all the right ways. His face was the kind that belonged on magazine covers – perfectly sculpted cheekbones, strong jaw, and full lips curved into a dangerous smile. Dark hair swept back from his forehead with a playboy's careless grace.  Intricate tattoos peeked out from beneath his sleeves, disappearing under the collar of his jumpsuit. But it was his eyes that stopped me cold – intense and predatory, seeming to see right through me.

And suddenly, with perfect clarity, I remembered where I'd seen that face before: in the family photo on Adam's dresser last night.

Godness. Marcus Stone was Adam's father.

My heart thundered in my chest, but I forced my expression to stay professional. He couldn't know about Adam and me. Couldn't know that less than 24 hours ago, I'd been planning to...

"Well," he said, his voice a low purr that seemed to vibrate in my chest. "What do we have here?"

I gripped my clipboard tighter, reminding myself I was a professional. That this was just another assessment. That the way his gaze seemed to strip away my defenses meant nothing.

But as I sat down across from him, watching his predatory smile widen, I couldn't shake the feeling that I was in way over my head.

"Shall we begin?" he asked, and somehow it didn't sound like a question at all.