He was the last to enter, like a true Alpha wolf who waited for all his pack members to go first. He strolled in slowly, unhurried, shorts clinging to massive thighs and shoulders rolling.
Two smirking meters of walking destruction, pure confidence wrapped in muscle.
And the tattoos. Holy Stephen. An intricate net of dark blue and onyx cracks crawled over his arms and shoulders, marking him for life, like some sort of cosmic lightning storm. The cracks started from his hands and fingers, carving paths up his arms, only to spread across the thoracic plates.
He had more on his legs. A surge of jealousy throbbed in my gut as I noticed a childish heart withK+Linside. Who was K? An ex? His sister? My smile returned when I spotted another tattoo on his calf, this one the footprint of what I first thought was a bird until I realized it might be a dinosaur, maybe a T. rex. Then there was the random hot dog drowning in mustard on his right thigh and, of course, two blackened diamonds stamped right on his kneecaps.
To my great disappointment, he was wearing no necklace. My fingers brushed mine on instinct.
Probably because he doesn’t want to lose it or break it,I told myself, sullen.
In his defense, he wore no protection either. Or shoes. He might as well have been naked.
As soon as he reached his team, some robust man lumbered over with a neon-pink bottle.
Pure Lorea.
My stomach dropped. Oh, no.
I hated that thing with all my heart and all its vessels. The gelthat prevented a werewolf’s fast healing. The rule was simple: The more you applied to yourself, the more you believed in your strength.
Primitive and unnecessary, if you asked me.
And Logan? He didn’t dab it on. He didn’t smear a polite little stripe. He took the cursed bottle and dumped its entire contents down his chest like it was body wash. I watched how the pink sludge oozed over his shoulders, cutting a path down his pecs and slipping into every trench of his abs. A blob got stuck in his belly button like a sinful little pool, some more in that golden trail disappearing under his shorts—thank you, werewolf sight. Logan bent and slathered it on his legs too, like he was marinating himself for a barbecue.
Reckless! Insane! Dangerous!
When he was done, he tipped his head toward our team, lips slowly curling into a smirk. It was as if to say he didn’t need to heal from injuries—because there wouldn’t be any.
Skeleton Guy copied him, using the same exaggerated quantities. My twin, too.
Still, I forgot everything—the crowd, the Pure Lorea, even my twitching knee—when Logan lifted his head and sniffed.
He stilled for a heartbeat.
Then the search began.
Unblinking, he scanned the crowd on the Comets side of the line. My breath snagged between my lungs and throat when our eyes locked across heads and distance. It felt like forever—liketime just gave us a secret pocket to exist in together. He looked at me through half-lidded silver eyes, and I stared right back at him, wide-eyed.
He pulled his phone from his back pocket, spared it one glance, and then put it back in his pocket.
Three seconds later, my own phone pinged.
Logan
I’m gonna score for you, mate
I snapped my head back up. His eyes were already waiting for mine.
The corner of Logan’s mouth lifted, revealing a panty-dropping grin. He watched as heat flooded my cheeks just for him, and before I knew it, I gave him a small smile. Just for him.
The Terminator. The Dark Diamonds captain I’d heard endless stories about. My mate. He was still staring, that expression so unreadable that it frustrated me.
That was when the car door came.
It tore through the air with a metallic scream, aimed straight for the back of his head.
I lurched half out of my seat, ready to warn?—
