And the worst part is—I don’t want to let him go.
I stay under the water until it runs cold, punishing myself with the sting. When I finally shut it off, my skin is red and raw, my body exhausted. I dress quickly, jaw tight, every movement sharp with anger.
Tomorrow, I tell myself. Tomorrow I’ll bury this. Tomorrow I’ll lock it down, rebuild the walls, pretend it never happened.
Never again. But even as I whisper it under my breath, I know it’s a lie.
Because if Magnus Flint corners me again—if he looks at me with that fire in his eyes, if he taunts me with that voice?—
I won’t be able to resist.
4
Magnus
The storm never quiets.
It howls through the rafters like a beast trying to break in, rattling the old arena glass and filling every corner of the building with restless noise. But even if it were silent, I wouldn’t have slept. Sleep’s not something you get when your body’s still burning, when your head’s still replaying every second of a kiss you weren’t supposed to take.
I sit awake in the dark, sprawled on one of the lumpy emergency cots in the Wolves’ locker room, staring up at the ceiling tiles. Most of the guys are snoring around me, out cold after the game and the news that we’re trapped here until morning. They can switch it off like a light. Not me.
My leg bounces restlessly, muscles coiled tight. My fists ache from clenching and unclenching. The taste of him is still in my mouth, salt and adrenaline, sharp enough that I swear it’s carved into my tongue. Alaric. The fucking Ice Prince himself.
I didn’t mean to go that far in the conference room. At least, not all the way. I went in looking for another jab, another crackin that perfect façade. I told myself I’d get under his skin and walk away laughing. But the second I saw him falter, saw him undone, every plan went to hell.
The sound of him panting. The heat in his eyes when I pressed him down. The feel of his thighs clamping around me. Fuck. My cock twitches even now just thinking about it.
And then I lost it. Came faster than I meant to, like some desperate teen who couldn’t handle himself. The shame stings, but underneath it is something worse: the knowledge that it didn’t matter. Because he wanted me. I saw it. Felt it. He was hard the whole time. He wanted me enough to grind against me, to let me pin him, to moan my name like he’d choke on it if he didn’t.
That image alone could keep me up for a week.
But it isn’t the only thing keeping me awake. It’s what happened after with his little friend.
The memory of Kyle’s hand brushing Alaric’s arm flashes in my head like a slap. A casual touch that felt like a threat on my territory, the kind that means something more. I’ve been in locker rooms long enough to know the difference. And when I walked up and saw Thorn standing between us, chest puffed out like a guard dog, I felt it—this flare of jealousy so sharp it nearly doubled me over.
Mine. The thought came unbidden, feral. He’s mine.
But he isn’t. Not yet. Not even close. And Kyle sure as hell isn’t going to make it easy.
I roll off the bench, restless, and start pacing between the rows of sleeping bodies. The storm moans outside, the fluorescents buzz overhead, and every step grates against the tile. My chest feels too tight, like my ribs can’t contain what’s inside me.
I catch myself smiling—hungry, dark. Obsession, Locke called it. He warned me it’d get me in trouble. Maybe he’s right. But I don’t care. Trouble’s the only thing I’ve ever been good at.
By the time the sun weakly burns through the snow outside, my eyes ache from not closing. The Wolves stir awake in pieces, grumbling about sore backs and hangovers. Phoenix claps shoulders, Jax cracks jokes, and I pull my gear into my bag with mechanical hands.
The Titans are across the hall, voices muffled but distinct. Every time I hear Alaric’s deeper timbre cut through the buzz, my chest tightens. I want to see him. Need to.
I drift closer, quiet as I can, pressing myself against the wall where the sound carries best.
“…wasn’t your fault,” Kyle is saying, voice calm, steady. Always steady. “You played a hell of a game, Al. Don’t hang this on yourself.”
Al. He calls him Al. The nickname twists in my gut like a blade. I’ve never heard anyone else shorten his name.
There’s a pause. Alaric’s voice follows, lower, tight with strain. “Doesn’t matter. I slipped. That’s all anyone will remember.”
Kyle laughs softly. “I’ll remember the block you made in the second. Saved our asses. Funny how you never give yourself credit, huh?”
Silence again, then the sound of movement. I picture Kyle reaching out—maybe that same hand on Alaric’s arm like earlier, brushing his wrist, touching him in ways I’m not supposed to care about. My jaw tightens.
