Chapter 4
Magnus
The storm never quiets.
It howls through the rafters like a beast trying to break in, rattling the old arena glass and filling every corner of the building with restless noise.
But even if it were silent, I wouldn’t have slept.
Sleep’s not something you get when your body’s still burning, when your head’s still replaying every second of a kiss you weren’t supposed to take.
I sit awake in the dark, sprawled on one of the lumpy emergency cots in the Wolves’ locker room, staring up at the ceiling tiles. Most of the guys are snoring around me, out cold after the game and the news that we’re trapped here until morning. They can switch it off like a light. Not me.
My leg bounces restlessly, muscles coiled tight. My fists ache from clenching and unclenching. The taste of him is still in my mouth, salt and adrenaline, sharp enough that I swear it’s carved into my tongue. Alaric. The fucking Ice Prince himself.
I didn’t mean to go that far in the conference room. At least, not all the way. I went in looking for another jab, another crack in that perfect facade. I told myself I’d get under his skin and walk away laughing. But the second I saw him falter, saw him undone, every plan went to hell.
The sound of him panting. The heat in his eyes when I pressed him down. The feel of his thighs clamping around me. Fuck. My cock twitches even now just thinking about it.
And then I lost it. Came faster than I meant to, like some desperate teen who couldn’t handle himself.
The shame stings, but underneath it is something worse: the knowledge that it didn’t matter.
Because he wanted me. I saw it. Felt it.
He was hard the whole time. He wanted me enough to grind against me, to let me pin him, to moan my name like he’d choke on it if he didn’t.
That image alone could keep me up for a week.
But it isn’t the only thing keeping me awake. It’s what happened after with his little friend.
The memory of Kyle’s hand brushing Alaric’s arm flashes in my head like a slap.
A casual touch that felt like a threat on my territory, the kind that means something more.
I’ve been in locker rooms long enough to know the difference.
And when I walked up and saw Thorn standing between us, chest puffed out like a guard dog, I felt it—this flare of jealousy so sharp it nearly doubled me over.
Mine. The thought came unbidden, feral. He’s mine.
But he isn’t. Not yet. Not even close. And Kyle sure as hell isn’t going to make it easy.
I roll off the bench, restless, and start pacing between the rows of sleeping bodies. The storm moans outside, the fluorescents buzz overhead, and every step grates against the tile. My chest feels too tight, like my ribs can’t contain what’s inside me.
I catch myself smiling—hungry, dark. Obsession, Locke called it. He warned me it’d get me in trouble. Maybe he’s right. But I don’t care. Trouble’s the only thing I’ve ever been good at.
By the time the sun weakly burns through the snow outside, my eyes ache from not closing. The Wolves stir awake in pieces, grumbling about sore backs and hangovers. Phoenix claps shoulders, Jax cracks jokes, and I pull my gear into my bag with mechanical hands.
The Titans are across the hall, voices muffled but distinct. Every time I hear Alaric’s deeper timbre cut through the buzz, my chest tightens. I want to see him. Need to.
I drift closer, quiet as I can, pressing myself against the wall where the sound carries best.
“…wasn’t your fault,” Kyle is saying, voice calm, steady. Always steady. “You played a hell of a game, Al. Don’t hang this on yourself.”
Al. He calls him Al. The nickname twists in my gut like a blade. I’ve never heard anyone else shorten his name.
There’s a pause. Alaric’s voice follows, lower, tight with strain. “Doesn’t matter. I slipped. That’s all anyone will remember.”
Kyle laughs softly. “I’ll remember the block you made in the second. Saved our asses. Funny how you never give yourself credit, huh?”
Silence again, then the sound of movement. I picture Kyle reaching out—maybe that same hand on Alaric’s arm like earlier, brushing his wrist, touching him in ways I’m not supposed to care about. My jaw tightens.
“I just…” Alaric sighs, the sound heavy. “I don’t want anyone thinking—”
Kyle cuts him off gently. “No one’s thinking anything except that you’re the backbone of this team. And if they are, they can shove it. I’ll always back you.”
The way he says it—protective, almost tender—makes something snap hot in my chest.
I lean harder against the wall, straining to hear more.
“…when we get back home,” Kyle says after a moment, quieter now, “we should go out. Just the two of us. No noise. No pressure. Just… us.”
My blood roars in my ears.
Just us.
I imagine Alaric’s gray eyes going wide, imagine that uncertain flush across his cheeks. Imagine him nodding, shy, grateful. Maybe even relieved.
It makes me want to tear the wall down between us.
Instead, I drag in a breath through my teeth, steadying myself. I can’t barge in there. But the urge is almost physical—like my fists are itching to break through.
For a long moment, I don’t hear Alaric’s answer. Just silence, the shuffle of feet, the creak of benches. Finally, a muttered, “Yeah. Sure.”
Kyle chuckles. “It’s a date then.”
A date.
The word detonates inside me, sharp and merciless.
I shove away from the wall before I do something I’ll regret. My chest is tight, my throat raw, but one thing is clear: Thorn thinks he’s getting close. Thorn thinks he can protect Alaric from me, maybe even steal him out from under me.
But he doesn’t know what I know. He didn’t see the way Alaric came apart in that room. He didn’t hear the way he gasped my name. He didn’t taste him.
I did. And that means he’s mine.
By the time the Titan’s bus pulls up—tires crunching over ice, engines growling through the storm’s afterbirth—I’m strung so tight I could snap.
We file out of the arena in two lines, Wolves and Titans separated like always.
I keep my head down, breath steaming in the frigid air as I head towards my car. Then I see a flash of silver hair.
He’s moving fast, shoulders hunched, like if he gets on the bus quick enough, last night never happened. And there—fuck—there’s Thorn again, right beside him, hand on his back, steering him up the steps like he owns the right.
The flare of jealousy is instant. Violent.
My fists clench at my sides. I want to wrap my hands around Thorn’s punk ass throat and shove his face in the snow while Alaric watches.
It’s stupid, I know. Kyle hasn’t done anything more than put an arm around him, hasn’t done anything that teammates don’t do when one of them’s wrecked after a loss.
But it’s enough. Enough to make the blood pound in my ears, enough to make me want to storm across the slush and rip Thorn’s arm away.
It should be my arm wrapped around those toned shoulders, my voice in Alaric’s ear telling him how good he is.
I bite down hard, teeth grinding. My eyes lock on Alaric’s back as he disappears into the bus, Kyle right behind him. Kyle catches my eye, a wolfish grin curling on his mouth before ducking his head after Alaric.
Oh, I see.
He thinks he’s won some game. But he doesn’t realize it’s only me and Alaric playing.
My pulse won’t slow. My hands shake, not from cold but from the need to stake my claim.
I tell myself to breathe, to calm down, to let it go for now. There’ll be more games, more nights, more chances to corner him. I’ve already cracked him once. I’ll do it again.
And next time, he won’t be walking away with Thorn’s arm around him.
Next time, he’ll be leaving with me.
? ? ?
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.