Chapter 4 #2
She kisses down my throat, hands sliding lower, tugging at my waistband. She sinks to her knees in front of me, hair brushing my thighs as she looks up with those dark eyes. It’s a perfect picture, one I’ve seen before, one I’ve enjoyed before.
I let her hands work over me, too exhausted to fight her on it. Maybe some head will knock me out better than the whiskey can.
But the second she unbuttons me, all I can think about is him.
Alaric’s mouth on mine, all fury and teeth. His hands shoving, clutching, desperate even as he tried to push me away. The look on his face when he gripped my throat. The way his thighs trembled around me.
Heat spikes in my gut, my cock twitching to life as I think about Alaric flushed underneath me.
She takes me in hand, stroking slow, deliberate. “There’s my good boy,” she purrs.
I stare down at her, frustration gnawing. Her voice killed the mood. My cock stays heavy but uninterested, stubborn as stone. I should have told her to be quiet so I could shut my eyes and pretend it was Alaric’s mouth on me.
She frowns, stroking harder. “Long night?” she teases. “You need more warming up?”
I grit my teeth. “Don’t—”
“What, embarrassed?” She tilts her head, eyes gleaming with mischief. “Big bad Magnus Flint can’t get it up?”
“Stop.” My voice comes out harsher than I mean.
But she laughs, cruel in that careless way she gets when she thinks she has the upper hand. “Guess even the Flame burns out.” She presses her lips to me, hot breath teasing, but still—nothing.
Because it’s not her. It’s not her mouth, her voice, her fire. It’s not Hale.
I pull back from her, tucking myself away. She falls onto her heels, glaring.
“Elena,” I say, voice low, sharp. “Get out. Please.”
Her brows shoot up. “Excuse me?”
“Get out. Give me my key and get out.”
She laughs again, brittle this time. “Seriously? Because you can’t get hard for me?”
“Because I’m done with this game.” My hands curl into fists at my sides. “You don’t get to sit on my couch, pretend we’re a thing, and then mock me when I tell you to stop. You don’t get to walk in here like you own me.”
Her expression shifts, hardens. “Who is it?” she asks suddenly. “There’s someone else, isn’t there?”
I don’t answer. I don’t care enough to give her an answer.
The silence is enough. Her smile twists. “Figures. Whoever she is, I hope she knows you’ll chew her up just like you did me.”
I step forward, holding out my hand. “The key.”
For a second, she looks like she might fight me on it. But finally she digs into her bag, fishes it out, and drops it into my palm with a sharp clink.
“Fine,” she spits. “But don’t come crawling back the next time you feel lonely.”
I toss the key on the kitchen counter, jaw tight. “I won’t.”
She storms out, slamming the door behind her.
I lean against the counter, staring down at my useless hands. The image of her on her knees should excite me. It should frustrate me. Instead, all I can see is Hale’s face. All I can hear is the way he gasped my name.
The apartment’s too quiet. The silence doesn’t soothe me—it needles under my skin. I can still smell her perfume clinging to the couch cushions, sweet and heavy, but I want the scent of his sweat and the smell of sex lingering in my home.
I grab a bottle of whiskey from the counter and drink straight from it. The burn cuts through, but not enough. Nothing’s enough.
By the time the bottle’s half gone, I’m sprawled in the dim light of the living room, phone glowing in my hand. I know it’s a bad idea. I know exactly how pathetic it looks. But I can’t stop myself.
I type his name into the search bar: Alaric Hale.
The first thing that comes up is the Titans’ official Instagram. I scroll through, heart pounding harder with every swipe. There’s Alaric in his gear, stone-faced after a win. A slow-motion clip of him body-checking someone against the boards. A team photo, his jaw tight, eyes hooded.
Christ. Even in curated photos he looks untouchable. Untouchable and—fuck—hot.
I swipe over to TikTok, fingers clumsy. There are fan edits: shaky arena footage of him skating, captions calling him Ice Prince, edits that zoom in on his face in the locker room, a bead of sweat rolling down his temple.
Some fan has slowed down a clip of him smoothing his hair back after an interview. I watch it three times.
But it’s not enough.
I want more. I want him raw, uncurated. I want proof of who he is when the cameras aren’t watching.
It takes me half an hour of digging before I find it. His private Instagram.
My pulse jumps.
Before I can think better of it, I hit Request Follow.
For ten minutes, I stare at the screen, every muscle buzzing. I’m half-expecting silence. Half-expecting him to block me outright. Then the notification pings. Alaric Hale has accepted your follow request.
My breath catches. My lips split into a grin before I realize it.
I scroll through his page greedily. There’s not much—some practice selfies, a shot of him and Kyle at a charity event, a black-and-white picture of him sitting alone at a café table with a book.
A shaggy dog curled at his feet. A blurry night skyline from his condo balcony.
His bio is blank, just his name and a lock symbol.
Each one makes my stomach knot tighter. Each one feels like stepping into a room he didn’t want me in.
I can’t stop myself. I hit Message.
I don’t type anything clear. Just: Still thinking about you.
The three dots appear almost immediately. My heart slams.
His reply: Do I need to block you, Flint?
I laugh out loud, sharp and breathless. He’s playing. He wouldn’t have let me in if he didn’t want this.
I type back, fingers flying: Try. See how long it takes before you let me back in.
Pause. The dots blink.
Are you drunk?
Maybe, I reply.
It’s 1pm...
I smile as I type. On a Saturday ;)
Whatever game you’re playing, pick someone else. I’m not interested.
My laugh is harsh, echoing in the empty apartment. Not interested—yeah, that’s why he approved my request within minutes. That’s why his replies are coming quick, clipped, like he’s trying to prove something.
Funny. You didn’t look “not interested” last night when you were grinding against me.
The dots vanish. A long pause. For a second, I wonder if he really did block me. My chest twists, ugly and desperate. Then—
Alaric: You’re disgusting.
Magnus: And yet you still haven’t stopped talking to me.
Another pause. Shorter this time.
Alaric: Because if I ignore you, you’ll just get louder.
Magnus: Smart. You know I don’t quit easily.
Alaric: This isn’t funny. You could ruin both of us if anyone saw these messages.
Magnus: Then don’t show anyone, baby.
My fingers fly faster, drunk courage spurring me.
You don’t get it, Hale. I’ve been thinking about you all night. The way you came apart in my hands... I want to run you ragged.
I stop, a grin curling my mouth. Type the last part slowly… I want more.
The dots flicker, stop, flicker again. He’s pacing, I imagine. Running a hand through that silvery hair. Fighting with himself.
Finally—
Alaric: What if I don’t want that?
Magnus: Then say you don’t. We’ll go back to fighting on the ice.
I can’t make any promises that it won’t turn me on now.
Alaric: You’re wrong. This is nothing. Just… a mistake.
Magnus: Then why’d you let me follow you? Why aren’t you blocking me right now?
Another long pause. My pulse hammers.
Alaric: Goodnight, Flint.
Magnus: That dog on your page. Yours?
Dots.
Alaric: …You’re still here?
Magnus: Answer the question.
Pause.
Alaric: His name’s Butter. He’s not mine technically. He lives with my sister. I take him on weekends when she has to go out of town for work.
I smirk. Butter. Of course he has a name like that. “God, you’re cute,” I mutter to myself, but my fingers are already moving.
Magnus: Cute dog. Surprised he’s not trained to bite me by now.
Alaric: You’re drunk messaging me about my dog? Really?
Magnus: Maybe I want to know more about you. Is that a crime?
Long pause. Dots flicker. Then I decide to go for it.
Magnus: Saw you and Thorn at that charity thing on your page. You looked happy.
No reply.
Magnus: Also overheard you two this morning. The whole “just us” talk. Cheating on me already, Hale?
I know I’m pushing, but I can’t stop. The image of Kyle’s hand on Alaric’s back keeps flashing in my head like a strobe light.
Finally, he replies:
Alaric: You listen at doors now?
Magnus: When it’s about you, yeah.
Alaric: Stalker.
Magnus: Answer the question. Do you like him?
The dots blink. Stop. Blink again.
Alaric: He’s...nice.
I lean forward, elbows on my knees, phone inches from my face. Nice. That’s all he gives me.
Magnus: Nice isn’t an answer.
Alaric: You jealous?
My grin spreads, sharp and slow. He’s flirting. He doesn’t even realize he’s doing it, or maybe he does and he can’t help himself.
Magnus: I asked first.
Alaric: Maybe I like nice guys.
Magnus: Really? That’s interesting.
I thought you liked guys who pushed you around.
Guys who can make a mess of you. Kyle doesn’t seem like the type.
Alaric: Maybe you’re right.
My heart slams. He’s playing. He’s not hanging up, he’s leaning in.
Magnus: What do you like in a guy then?
Alaric: Wouldn’t you like to know.
I laugh out loud, a sound that bounces off the empty apartment walls. He’s teasing me, throwing my own game back at me, and it’s working.
Magnus: I do want to know. Tell me.
Another long pause.
Alaric: You’re ridiculous. First my dog, then my date.
We send the message at the same time.
Magnus: So it is a date.
Alaric: What next? My blood type?
Neither of us moves for a moment. Letting our messages hang unanswered.
Magnus: Everything. I want to know everything about you.
The dots flicker. He sends nothing. I stare at the screen until my eyes ache.
Inside, something ugly and sweet curls tighter. It isn’t just lust anymore. It’s possessiveness. It’s curiosity. It’s the way his answers come back clipped but immediate, like he’s just as hooked as I am.
While I wait, I scroll back through the pictures—the café shot, the skyline, the dog, the one with Kyle. I pinch and zoom until Alaric’s face fills the screen, lips slightly parted, eyes dark.
My thumb hovers over the keyboard. I want to say a hundred things: Stop seeing him. Come here. You’re mine. Instead, I type slow:
Magnus: You wish I were the one to ask you on the date?
The dots blink immediately. Like they’re just as shocked as he is.
Alaric: You’re obsessed.
Magnus: Maybe. Are you?
Long pause.
Alaric: Goodbye, Magnus.
I smile seeing my first name inked on the screen. Oh, he doesn’t know what he’s done.
I lean back on the couch, phone glowing in my palm, the whiskey warm in my gut. He’s teasing me now, giving me just enough to keep me on the hook. And it’s working.
Because all I can think about is the next time he answers. The next time I push him. The next time he cracks. He doesn’t reply. But he doesn’t block me either.
And that’s all I need.