I stand to the side as more and more teammates trickle out and the area gets crowded. I never waited here for Dillon. I met him at the car after the game. Looking back now, that should have been a very large red flag, but I was a very dumb, naïve teenager.
A trait that still gets me in trouble from time to time.
Tessa said Cole doesn’t have anyone who waits for him here, but considering there are at least three people here with “Sinclair” on the back of their sweaters, I think she might be wrong.
Maybe I can just loom in the shadows. Make sure he’s okay from afar when he emerges, then leave.
Yes. That’s a good plan.
Multiple members of the Sinclair Fan Club suddenly perk up. I follow their eyes and find Cole emerging through the sea of players coupled up with a duffel bag slung over his shoulder. A white bandage bisects his eyebrow like a slash mark. His thick brown hair is still damp from the shower.
His eyes lift up. A woman with his jersey steps in front of him, and my heart actually hurts—which is awfully dumb of it. We’re not dating. She’s beautiful. I should feel nothing. Instead, I want to give her an oatmeal raisin cookie but tell her it’s chocolate chip and then watch from a distance as she bites into it and is horribly disappointed. Heinous, I know.
A soft smile appears on Cole’s face as he touches her shoulder. Then, he steps around her. Okay, so I guess he’s picking another of the girls. That’s fine.
He keeps his eyes down like he’s trying not to make eye contact with anyone else. I keep my stare locked on him, trying my best not to be a creep, but failing. Suddenly, his cerulean eyessnap to mine. They widen, slightly—and then a slow, cocky smirk crooks his lips as he detours his path over to me.
“What are you doing here? Did you hire a hitman for me and wanted to make sure he finished his job?” Cole’s voice says in a low gravel, half-exhausted, half-amused.
“No. I—” I pull at my fingers, then blow out a defeated breath. “I wanted to see you and make sure you’re okay.” I scan him for any other bruises or cuts besides the obvious eyebrow one. I was never this anxious with Dillon. Hockey is a tough sport, and these things happen, but with Cole it feels… I can’t really explain what it feels like without sounding overly dramatic, but since I am, well… him getting hurt feels like the end of my world.
His eyes flicker to my fist clenched at my side. “Were you worried about me, baby?”
I chew my bottom lip, finally relenting and reach for the bandage covering his stitches. “I—no.”
“Mmhmm.” He knows I’m full of shit. “It’s okay if you care about me—your boyfriend, you know. I won’t use it against you.” He leans down with a mischievous grin. “Much, anyway.”
“I just don’t want to have to take care of you for a whole week. I’ve seen Caden when he’s hurt or sick. I bet you’re a baby too. Are you sure you’re okay?”
He grabs my hand that’s gently brushing his bandage and rubs circles into the palm of it. “I’ve taken tougher blows from you, don’t worry.”
His lips are less than an inch from mine. My chest slides against his. My hand falls to his hair, tangling in it. Concern melts to something deeper. Relief that he’s okay becomes charged with needing something more.
Or maybe it’s the thousands of hormones that are suddenly in the air around us, I don’t know, because I don’t think. I justact. I push up on my toes and press my lips to his, stealing his sharp intake for my own.
I should pull away. Apologize for attacking his face. I even try to pull back a fraction, but as I retreat, Cole follows, cupping my jaw and holding me like I’m his life force. A thud echoes in my ears—the sound of Cole’s gym bag dropping on the cement floor.
His free hand finds its way to the small of my back, steadying me.
If someone had told me that kissing Cole Sinclair, Prince of Blood, felt like an all-consuming fire, I’d have thought they meant the hellish flames that forged him.
But I would have been dead wrong.
Kissing Cole is more like…
A crackling fire in a cozy hearth.
Blazing.
Incinerating.
But somehow comfortingly intimate.
Despite the frigid air this close to the rink, my body melts against him like it’s returning home from a long journey in the cold. The warmth of the fire licks my deadened limbs alive.
A little moan escapes my lips, and somewhere the self-respecting part of me groans, knowing I’ll never be able to live that sound down. He has to know how much this kiss is knocking me off my axis.
Ishouldstop. There’s no way being devoured into submission doesn’t lead to me getting third-degree burns, but I can’t. I don’t want to.
