His fingers grip my thighs, pulling me closer as I feel his throat swallowing around me.
Alaric pulls away from me, his lip split, cheeks pink. “You’re...really not gonna let me come?”
I pull my pants up, leaning down to kiss his mouth. “Nope, that’s your punishment. I will next time.” I pause. “If you want a next time.”
The words hang there. I can tell he wants to say more, to push, to run—but the spell’s already breaking. The hallway hums with the faint whir of vents, footsteps echo somewhere beyond the door. Reality seeps back in.
Alaric stands, pulling on his clothes. His cock is angry and large in his pants.
“You gonna let Kyle see you like that?” I ask, smoothing his hair out of his face.
He reaches for the handle of the bathroom, not meeting my eyes. “You need to go before someone sees you.”
I nod, forcing myself to back away, though my pulse is still racing. “You going to pretend this didn’t happen?”
His lips twitch. “I’m good at pretending.”
He opens the door a crack, peers out, then glances back once—just once. The look he gives me isn’t confusion anymore. It’s warning, and promise, and something dangerously close to need.
Then he’s gone, slipping back toward the elevator, hoodie up, every inch of him composed again.
I stay there, breathing the ghost of him in the air, knowing full well this isn’t over.
Not even close.
The door clicks shut behind him, and the silence that follows feels deafening.
For a second, I just stand there—hands braced on the counter, chest rising and falling hard enough to hurt. The marble still smells faintly like him: soap, sweat, and something clean that’ll stick to my memory for weeks.
I push off the counter, rake both hands through my hair, and stare at myself in the mirror. My reflection’s a mess—eyes bloodshot, lips bitten, sweat cooling on my neck. I should feel guilty. I should feel something close to shame.
Instead, I smile. It’s not pride. It’s not regret either. It’s victory.
Because hecameto me. Because every wall he’s tried to build since that first night keeps crumbling the second we’re alone. Because no matter how polished he is in interviews, how perfect he looks on the ice, he can’t hide from what happens when it’s just us.
He can fight it all he wants—he’s mine now. Maybe not in words, maybe not in the way that counts on paper, but in every look, every shiver, every breath. He’s tethered to me. And I’ll tug the line until he admits it.
I grab my jacket, slip out the service exit the same way we came in. The night air hits like cold water, sobering and sharp. The lot’s mostly empty—just a few team buses and a row of sleek cars that scream sponsorship deals and family money.
For a second, I imagine him inside, trying to sleep, lying on his back in that hotel bed while the sound of my voice still echoes in his head. I bet he hates himself for it. I bet he’s replaying every second.
That thought keeps me warm on the drive home. The road stretches long and empty. The headlights carve tunnels through the dark. I roll the window down halfway, let the cold air bite atmy face. The world feels too still, too ordinary, after what just happened.
I tap the steering wheel in rhythm with the hum in my chest—the leftover adrenaline, the low hum of satisfaction that still won’t fade. I should probably feel bad for showing up again, for pushing him when he was trying to do the right thing.
But that’s not what this is anymore. It’s not about right or wrong. It’s aboutreal. About that look in his eyes when I touch him—the one that says he’s been starving for something he can’t even name. The one that says no one else makes him feel like this.
Kyle Thorn sure as hell doesn’t.
My jaw tightens at the thought of him. The guy who’d buy flowers, watch bad rom-coms, and never raise his voice. Alaric deserves better than safe. He deserves someone who can see him—all of him—even the cracks he keeps hidden under those expensive suits and that polished smirk.
I think about the way he whispered my name tonight, like he didn’t mean to let it slip. That’s what I’ll remember. That’s what I’ll chase.
When I hit Frost Haven’s city limits, the neon signs blur by like ghosts. My hands ache from how tight I’m gripping the wheel. The clock on the dash flashes 1:27 a.m. I should sleep. I should crash for ten hours, let my body rest before practice.
But I can’t stop thinking about him. I want to see him again—soon. Push harder. Make him admit it out loud.
Next time, I’ll make sure he can’t leave without saying my name twice.
