He leans against the door, casual and immovable all at once. The blue of his eyes is too sharp in the dim light, cutting into me until I want to look away. His mouth—bow-shaped, almost soft—doesn’t fit with his expression. Scruff shadows his jaw, darkening angles already too defined. His nose, crooked just enough to hint at a past fight, keeps him from being conventionally perfect, and that only makes him worse.
He isn’t hulking—built more for speed than brute strength, the lean strength of a swimmer’s build—but the bathroom feels smaller with him inside it, average height or not. His dark hair falls carelessly across his forehead, framing a face that shouldn’t look this composed when he’s cornered me the way he has.
His fingers slip into his pocket. He draws out his phone. A flicker of motion as he focuses on the screen. A muted click.
A camera flash.
He shows me his screen, my face taking up the whole thing, before he flips it back to himself.
“Beautiful,” he murmurs, eyes trained on the picture instead of me.
Something cold slithers down my spine. He looks up, blue eyes calculating.
“What do you want?” The words leave my mouth steady, though my pulse is anything but.
His brow furrows, as if confused by my reaction. The silence stretches, thick and stifling. I take a step back, bumping into the sink. Cool porcelain meets my palms as I grip it, fingers tightening. My mind runs through options—any way to get out of here.
It’s ridiculous. Normally, I’m not afraid of him. Not even close. But locked in a bathroom, with no one else around? That’s different. Very different.
“Don’t be scared,” he whispers. Soft—velvet over steel.
His scent slips in after, woodsy and clean, the very breath of air that comes before dawn. Muted in this space, but still enough to tease, to pull at my senses.
I try to steady my breathing, calculating an escape. When he’s just a fan in the crowd, he’s harmless. But here, in this room, there’s something else lurking beneath the surface. Something dangerous.
He twists his lips into a reluctant smile. “I can see I went about this all wrong.” He shrugs, casual. “I do that sometimes.”
His calm, measured movements don’t put me at ease. They do the opposite.
I can smell the shift in my own scent, fear spiking, souring the peach as it seeps out of my pores. I raise a hand instinctively, pressing my fingers against his chest as he steps closer. The only warning I have.
“Don’t,” I breathe.
He exhales my name, a prayer coming from his lips. “Jinx.”
His gaze drinks me in, deliberate and slow. He inhales deeply, his nostrils flaring slightly. If he catches the fear curling off me, he doesn’t mention it. Some betas can’t smell omega perfume at all, so it wouldn’t be shocking if he can’t.
“Congratulations on winning today,” he says, making it sound normal. As if this is any other conversation, and he hasn’t pulled me into a bathroom with him.
“Finn—”
His face lights up.
“You know who I am.” He’s crazy. That’s the only explanation for whatever this is. He tilts his head, studying me, as his dark hair flops over his forehead. “It’s nice of your father to let you skate.”
My blood chills.
“I’ve studied Mr. Delong,” he continues. “Brilliant businessman. And the strength it must have taken to move on after losing your mother…” he trails off, shaking his head. “But you know all about that, don’t you? Moving on after losing someone so important…”
He’s more than just a fan. He knows me. Not just Jinx, but Willow Delong. Not even my teammates know my real name, or if they do, they don’t use it.
I go still, as if being motionless will make me invisible. If I could crawl into the sink, slide down the drain, and disappear into the walls—I would.
His knuckles skim my cheek, featherlight. My stomach jumps at the contact.
“Your skin is flawless. I could touch you all day.”
A whimper escapes my throat, unbidden. He shushes me, trailing his fingers down the curve of my throat. He twirls a lock of pink hair around his finger, considering it.
