9
Alaric
I’m still breathing too fast.
Every step from the lobby up to the third floor has been a fight with my body—heart hammering, throat tight, adrenaline still pulsing under my skin like static. The night air should’ve cooled me down. It didn’t. It just made the heat inside me sharper, meaner.
I can still taste Magnus.
The word itself is a curse and a craving. His name is the pulse that won’t die down, drumming in my head in sync with the rhythm of my racing pulse. God, what the hell did I just do?
I lean against the hallway wall outside my room, rubbing a hand over my face. The hallway’s quiet except for the low hum of the vending machine at the far end. My palms smell faintly of hotel soap and him. My stomach knots tighter.
I shouldn’t have gone down there.
I shouldn’t have let him get that close again.
And Idefinitelyshouldn’t have let him touch me like that—shouldn’t have responded. But my body betrayed me the second I saw him waiting in that lobby, dark hair mussed, eyes lit like he’d been carved out of midnight and sin.
I push off the wall and shove the key card into the lock. The door flashes green. Inside, the air smells like the aftermath of cheap takeout and men’s deodorant. The blackout curtains are drawn tight. The only light is from the muted TV playing some late-night sports recap.
Johnny’s sprawled across his bed, mouth open, snoring softly, dead to the world. Kyle’s sitting up in his own bed, hoodie half zipped, scrolling his phone with that little frown he wears when he’s thinking too hard. His head snaps up when the door shuts.
“Hey,” he says, too softly. “Where were you? You okay?”
My throat dries. “I’m fine. Just went for a walk. Needed air.”
He studies me for a second, eyes narrowing slightly. Kyle’s always been good at reading me. Too good.
“It’s past one,” he says. “Coach’ll murder you if you’re dead on the ice tomorrow.”
“I’ll survive.” My voice sounds flat, clipped. It’s the best I can manage.
I head for my duffel, pretending to look for something. If I keep my hands busy, maybe he won’t see the tremor in them. My reflection flashes in the dark TV screen—hair messed up, collar wrinkled, pupils blown too wide. I look wrecked.
Kyle slips out of bed quietly, motioning toward the bathroom. “Come here a sec.”
I hesitate, glancing at Johnny’s sleeping form. He’s out cold, but still—I lower my voice anyway. “Why?”
“Just—come here,” Kyle says again, tone gentler now. There’s something worried in his eyes.
Reluctantly, I follow him into the bathroom. The light flicks on, painfully bright. The tile floor chills my bare feet. Kyle shuts the door behind us, muffling the TV hum. For a moment, we just stand there, facing each other. The air between us feels thick, awkward.
He leans against the sink, arms crossed. “You’re shaking,” he says quietly.
“I’m fine.”
“You keep saying that, but you look like you’re about to snap.”
I meet his eyes briefly, then look away. “I just… needed to clear my head. The game?—”
“The game ended four hours ago,” Kyle interrupts, stepping closer. “What’s going on with you, Al?”
The question hits like a slap. If he knew—if he evenguessedwhat I’ve done—he’d never look at me the same. I swallow hard, forcing my voice calm. “It’s nothing. I couldn’t sleep. Thought I’d walk it off.”
Kyle’s gaze drifts down and pauses. His voice lowers. “You sure it’s just the game?”
I follow his eyes before I can stop myself. He’s staring at the telltale tension in my body, the leftover evidence of Magnus’s touch that is tenting itself in my sweats. The flush creeps up my neck instantly. I cross my arms, defensive.
