Chapter 10
Magnus
The photos won’t stop breeding.
Every time I open my phone, there’s another “analysis” thread pretending it’s journalism. Another edit with soft piano and captions like “Ayle endgame?”
It’s all Kyle’s shoulder brushing Alaric’s on the bench, Kyle’s hand at the small of his back as they duck a camera, Kyle’s dopey grin while Alaric actually laughs. The algorithm thinks I’m a fan. I’m not. I’m a problem.
I tell myself I’m above it. Lasts about a day.
Then I’m streaming Titans games “for scouting” and rewinding micro-moments like a lunatic.
I watch the way Alaric resets after a bad shift, the infinitesimal set of his shoulders when he’s mad.
I watch for cracks. I watch for me. Do you want him, or are you pretending you don’t want me?
He hasn’t answered my last two messages. Three, if we’re counting the one I typed and deleted six times before sending Thinking of you like a coward. Nothing. Not even the read receipt.
The Wolves run practice like Phoenix is trying to drown us in drills. I’m half a beat off, and of course Johnny notices.
“You with us, Flint?” he chirps. “Or you watching your stories?”
“Eat ice,” I growl. It lands flat. Jax snickers. Phoenix’s stare says get your head back or I’ll rip it off and hand it to you.
I do the reps until the lactic acid burns off the edges of my brain.
It doesn’t help. By the time I’m peeling my gear, I’m twitchy with unsaid things.
The locker room chatter turns to weekend plans and sponsorship dinners.
Leander mentions a gala downtown, some foundation thing at the Aurelius Hotel.
Fancy. Old money. Silver City’s favorite costume.
“Isn’t that the Hale charity night?” Jax asks, towel over his head. “Cardiac research, scholarships, tuxedos, bite-sized food?”
Phoenix grunts. “Yeah. They do it every winter.”
I don’t mean to look up. I do. The Hale family’s signature event. Of course. That’s where he’ll be.
Where they’ll be. The thought slots into place like a puck dropping at center ice. Clean. Foregone.
I shower too fast, shove on clothes with damp hair, and leave the rink before anyone can ask why my jaw looks like it’s chewing glass.
By evening, I’m outside the Aurelius, hood up, hands jammed in pockets, pretending the marble pillars and gold leaf don’t make me itch.
Cameras nest like carrion birds along velvet ropes.
Limos exhale heat into cold air. People step out in glitter and tailored smiles.
The lobby glows like a cathedral for the rich.
I slip in through a side entrance, mask in my pocket, shoulders angled so security sees a service worker, not a headline. Money recognizes itself; it pretends not to notice the rest of us until we score forty goals a season.
The ballroom is a curated dream: glass chandeliers, a forest of white flowers, waiters threading between tables like choreography.
A string quartet saws through something expensive.
On a dais, Alaric’s father is talking into a microphone with that particular warmth executives rent by the hour. I scan past him and—
There. Alaric. In a black tux that fits like sin and inheritance.
Hair neat, jaw clean, the exact version of himself his family builds a brand around.
Kyle stands at his side, date-adjacent in a midnight jacket, smiling for a cluster of cameras.
“Ayle” signs don’t make it into rooms like this. The idea does.
The little spike of rage is so pure it scares me. Not because it’s new—jealousy and I are old friends—but because it curls with something else. Hurt. He ignored me and put on a tux and came here with the safe option. Of course he did. This is the world where safe wins.
He looks… tired. No one else would notice. I do. There’s a tightness around his eyes, a half-second drag before each smile. The tells my obsession has taught me.
I don’t think. I move. Through donors smelling like power and dessert wine, past a press knot I’ve dodged in three different cities, keeping him in my sightline. Kyle turns to greet someone. Alaric steps back, breathing room opening around him like a throat. I slide into it.
“Walk with me,” I say quietly, already angling him toward the side corridor.
His head snaps up. Those gray eyes flash relief and fury in the same second. “Magnus—what are you—”
“Question for later,” I murmur. “You can yell at me where the acoustics aren’t excellent.”
He hesitates then lets me guide him. We slip past a curtained arch to a tiled hallway, down another, into an antechamber with too much marble and a door marked Private. I shoulder it open. Powder room with gilded mirrors, lemon soap, a hush that tastes like money.
The door clicks shut behind us. He exhales like he’s been holding his breath for an hour.
“What the hell are you doing here?” he asks, voice low, furious. “This is my family’s event. “
“I noticed.” My pulse is loud in my ears. “You weren’t answering my messages.”
“So you crashed a gala?”
“You left me on read and brought Thorn as your date.”
His mouth tightens. “He’s a...friend.”
“Your father’s favorite storyline,” I add, ugly and accurate.
He flinches, then straightens like he hates that I saw it. “You don’t belong here.”
“I know that,” I say, stepping closer. “But I’m here anyway.”
He looks like he wants to argue with the floor until it opens and swallows us. “You can’t say that to me in a bathroom at the Aurelius while I’m on a date.”
“I can’t say it in your texts, either,” I snap. “They bounce off your walls.”
His eyes flash. “I’m trying to keep my life from exploding.”
Silence. The lemon scent feels violent now. He presses two fingers to his temple like he can massage order back into the night.
“I came to see you,” I add, quieter. “Because I thought maybe you forgot what we are when you’re in there playing pretend.”
That gets him. His gaze snaps to mine—hot, helpless. “I didn’t forget.”
“Then why are you with him?”
“Because it’s easier,” he grinds out.
There it is. The truth in a tux.
I take the last step and crowd his space without touching. “You think I want to be easy?”
He swallows. “I don’t know what you want.”
“You,” I say, everything in me wanting to be clean, not clever. “I want you.
He blows out a breath, slow. “We can’t keep—”
“—doing this. Yeah, you keep saying that.” I step closer.
He says nothing.
“Alaric.”
The glare he gives me could strip paint. “Don’t say my name like that.”
“Listen to me,” I say. “Please.”
His breath does the thing—it catches, just a hitch.
“Why did you actually come?” he asks, voice softer and meaner at once.
“To see if you were still lying,” I say. “To me. To yourself. To Thorn.”
His posture stiffens at the name. “Leave Kyle out of this.”
“You brought him in,” I say. “Or at least your PR team did.”
He turns, finally—eyes narrowed, color high. “Are you jealous?”
“Of course, I’m jealous!” I let it hang there, shameless. “Sometimes I watch his hand on your shoulder, and I want to rip his arm off. I want you! I kissed you first. I touched you first. I want you to be mine.”
He flinches like I slapped him. He recovers fast, but I know the microtells now. I’ve studied.
Jealousy is an ugly teacher; it’s also effective.
“I’m not doing this with you,” he says.
“What is this anyway?” I ask softly. “Because last time I checked, you were the one dragging me into private bathrooms. You were the one locking doors.” I nod at the chain on his entry.
He bites off a swear. “You make it sound like I’m—”
“In charge? You are.” I take another small step. “Say stop and we stop. Say go and—” I spread my hands. “We go.”
He laughs once, sharply. “You don’t stop when people tell you to.”
I cock my head. “You’ve never told me to.”
His mouth opens, shuts. The party hums behind the closed door.
“Tell me about Thorn,” I say, clean; a blade on a cutting board. “Tell me what he is to you.”
He’s quiet for too long. Finally, he says, “He’s good. He’s steady. He makes life… quieter.” He meets my eyes. “That’s appealing.”
I nod. “Yeah.” I let the next sentence be honest because it hurts: “I can’t give you that.”
“I know,” he echoes, and something hurts in him, too.
“Tell me to leave and to never come near you again,” I beg. “Tell me because I can’t keep watching you run to him while I’m staring at my phone waiting for you to message me.”
He looks at my mouth. He doesn’t mean to. He does. His voice drops. “I can’t.”
“Why?”
“Because I can’t get you out of my head. Because I know I shouldn’t want you, but every time I’m near you, there’s fire in my blood. You’re a craving I can’t satisfy.” He looks away from me, a slight blush on his cheeks. “I can’t...I can’t get you out of my head.”
It’s not a declaration; it’s a sick, relief-colored confession. I feel it like a hand on the back of my neck.
“Say it again,” I murmur.
He shakes his head. “Don’t get greedy.”
“Too late.” My smile is a cut.
His laugh is helpless and short. He takes one step in, and then there is no step left but the one that ends the distance.
“Magnus,” he says, warning and welcome at once.
“Alaric,” I answer, and the way his name sits in my mouth is ruin.
For a beat we just look. The room narrows. The music slows.
He closes the gap.
The kiss is the opposite of careful. It’s not obscene.
It’s not anything I couldn’t do on a city street in daylight.
It’s just… not gentle. It’s the kind of kiss that says I’ve been pretending, and I’m tired of the lie.
His hand finds the front of my shirt, bunches the fabric like he needs to anchor himself to something that isn’t money or duty or the long vowel of his last name.
I kiss him like I’m signing my name across every polished surface in this place.