The apartment is dark when I shoulder the door open, bag thumping against the hardwood. My whole body aches with travel and adrenaline hangover, eyes gritty from no sleep. I want a shower. I want silence. I want to drown in whiskey until I can’t see Hale’s face in my head anymore.
Instead, I flick on the light and find Elena sitting on my couch like she belongs there.
“Jesus,” I mutter, dropping my keys onto the counter. “Ever heard of texting first?”
She smiles, slow and practiced, legs crossed, nails painted blood-red. She flips her red hair over her shoulder. “Missed you, baby.”
I blow out a sigh, throwing my skates in the corner by the rest of my shoes. “Didn’t realize I gave you a key to stalk me.”
“I thought it was to let myself in when you were too lazy to greet your booty call at the door.” she says easily. “And you never asked for it back.”
That’s the problem with Elena. We’re on-again, off-again because she never leaves the door fully closed. Every time I think I’m done, she slides back in like smoke through a crack. And yeah, sometimes it’s easier to let her. Easier to use her body to burn out whatever’s clawing at me.
But today, seeing her there, I feel nothing but irritation.
I shrug out of my jacket, toss it on the chair. “I’m wrecked. Go home.”
She stands, moving toward me with that slow sway of hips I used to like. “I can help you relax.” Her voice drops husky, practiced. She closes the distance, hands sliding up my chest to my shoulders, tugging at the strap of my bag until it falls.
“Elena—”
“Shh.” She presses her mouth to mine before I can finish. Soft, wet, eager. Her tongue pushes against my lips like an invitation I’m supposed to accept.
I don’t. My eyes are open, staring at the wall over her shoulder. For half a second, I let her kiss me, let myself pretend it’ll spark something. It doesn’t.
She pulls back just enough to smirk. “Forgot how stubborn you are after a loss.” Her fingers tug at my shirt, nails grazing skin. “Let me remind you how to win.”
The line’s supposed to be sexy. All I hear is noise. “I won last night. So I don’t need the reminder.”
Elena doesn’t even like hockey. I think she just likes that I come home big, bloody, and hard after the adrenaline of a game.
She kisses down my throat, hands sliding lower, tugging at my waistband. She sinks to her knees in front of me, hair brushing my thighs as she looks up with those dark eyes. It’s a perfect picture, one I’ve seen before, one I’ve enjoyed before.
I let her hands work over me, too exhausted to fight her on it. Maybe some head will knock me out better than the whiskey can.
But the second she unbuttons me, all I can think about is him.
Alaric’s mouth on mine, all fury and teeth. His hands shoving, clutching, desperate even as he tried to push me away. The look on his face when he gripped my throat. The way his thighs trembled around me.
Heat spikes in my gut, my cock twitching to life as I think about Alaric flushed underneath me.
She takes me in hand, stroking slow, deliberate. “There’s my good boy,” she purrs.
I stare down at her, frustration gnawing. Her voice killed the mood. My cock stays heavy but uninterested, stubborn as stone. I should have told her to be quiet so I could shut my eyes and pretend it was Alaric’s mouth on me.
She frowns, stroking harder. “Long night?” she teases. “You need more warming up?”
I grit my teeth. “Don’t?—”
“What, embarrassed?” She tilts her head, eyes gleaming with mischief. “Big bad Magnus Flint can’t get it up?”
“Stop.” My voice comes out harsher than I mean.
But she laughs, cruel in that careless way she gets when she thinks she has the upper hand. “Guess even the Flame burns out.” She presses her lips to me, hot breath teasing, but still—nothing.
Because it’s not her. It’s not her mouth, her voice, her fire. It’s not Hale.
I pull back from her, tucking myself away. She falls onto her heels, glaring.
