Chapter 10 #2
There’s a sound in his throat, low and throttled back, like he caught it and forgot to swallow it before it escaped. I feel him debate with himself against my mouth: Pull away and retain the high ground or stay and admit the slope we’re on is slippery and he wants the slide.
He stays.
He stares at my mouth. Catches himself. Fails to. “This is insane.”
“Probably,” I agree. “So make it practical. Let me drive you home when you’re done faking this.”
He laughs once, harsh. “And tell Kyle what? ‘Thanks for the champagne, I’m leaving with the enemy?’”
“Tell him you don’t feel well,” I say. “It won’t even be a lie.”
He runs a hand through immaculate hair, ruining it by two degrees. I feel that ruin in my knees. “You don’t get to ask me for this.”
“I know,” I say. “I’m asking anyway.”
His eyes search my face like there’s an answer hidden there. Then his shoulders drop. “Ten minutes,” he says. “Wait by the east valet.”
I step back so he can breathe. “Ten minutes,” I echo.
He stops me with a glance at the mirror. “Magnus—”
“Yeah?”
“Don’t make a scene,” he says, like he knows exactly who I am and still decided to try this.
“I won’t,” I say, and for once I mean it.
I leave by the service hallway, pulse hammering, a laugh caught in my throat like a prayer. Ten minutes. I can do ten minutes.
I wait in the cold, back to a stone pillar, hood up.
Valets choreograph cars like a dance. The ballroom’s music leaks out when the doors open, sterile joy, tuned to a donation pitch.
People flow past me in couture and cologne clouds.
I keep my eyes on the revolving door and count my breaths. Nine minutes. Eight. Seven.
He appears with Kyle beside him. It hits like a slash to the ribs. Kyle’s hand at Alaric’s elbow. Casual, proprietary. Alaric says something I can’t hear, expression composed.
Then he touches Kyle’s arm, small and sincere. Thank you or I owe you or I’m sorry; I can’t tell.
Alaric presses his forehead for a second like it hurts, then smiles a careful smile. Kyle nods, speaks to a team handler at the curb. A car is called, Kyle steps in and peels away.
Alaric rounds the corner, doesn’t look for me. He knows I’m here. He walks straight to the shadows, head down, shoulders loose in a way I didn’t see once inside.
“My cars over here,” I say, leading him to the back alley.
“I feel like a princess,” he mutters, sliding in.
I laugh as swing behind the wheel, pull us into traffic, feel my lungs unclench. The city blurs, a river of black glass and reflected light.
For a few blocks, neither of us talks. Guilt rides shotgun, jealousy in the back seat with its feet on the upholstery. Quiet settles like a verdict, but it’s not hostile. It’s earned.
He breaks first. “You shouldn’t have come.”
“You shouldn’t have ignored me.”
“I was trying to be good,” he says to the window.
“How’d that go?”
His laugh is a small, broken thing. “I spent the whole night imagining you walking in and ruining me.”
“I did walk in.”
“I noticed,” he says, and the corner of his mouth betrays him.
“Did I ruin you?”
He considers. “Not yet.”
“Give me a minute.”
He snorts, finally looking over, tux loosened at the throat like he’s decided to breathe. “Thank you for not… being obvious.”
“I’m capable of stealth,” I say, wounded.
He looks me up and down. “You wore combat boots to a black-tie event.”
“They’re matte,” I say. “They count as formal.”
The smile that sneaks out of him warms my hands on the wheel. I want to hoard it. I want to frame it. I want to be there the next time it shows up.
“I don’t know how to do this,” he says after a beat, quieter. “Not like this. Not with a father who measures affection in column inches. Not with a team watching. Not with—” He stops before he says Kyle’s name.
“Then don’t do it like they want,” I say. “Do it like you want.”
“And what if what I want is the wrong thing?”
I glance over. “You mean me?”
He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t have to.
We hit a red. The car idles. Outside, a couple argues under a streetlight in formalwear—her hands sharp, his mouth apologizing. The light changes. I turn right toward the river and the high-rise that knows his name.
We pull into his garage without speaking. He taps his key fob, and the metal gate rises like a slow eyelid. I park where I did last time, in the corner that pretends to be shadow. He sits with his hands on his knees, tux immaculate again except for the place my night just touched it.
“Do you wanna stay for dinner?”
“Here? Made by you?” I ask, testing.
He blows out a breath that shakes the tiniest bit. “Yes. If you promise not to set anything on fire.”
“I make no promises,” I say, grinning. “I can help in the kitchen, though.”
He rolls his eyes and gets out of the car. “You’re not touching my knives.”
“Afraid I’ll steal them?”
“Afraid you’ll love them and the next time you’re mad at me, you’ll text me a photo of you using them wrong.”
“I would never,” I say, absolutely the kind of person who would.
In the elevator, the mirrored walls throw back versions of us I’ve never seen: the rival in a tux with the top button undone, the asshole forward leaning against polished chrome like he belongs. The doors open on his floor. The hallway swallows sound like wealth.
At his door, he hesitates. “Last chance to run.”
“From you?” I ask. “Not a chance.”
He unlocks the door and lets me in.
His condo glows low—lamps like constellations, the city beyond like a second sky. He kicks off his shoes with immaculate aggression and scrubs a hand through his hair, ruining it just enough to make me ache.
“I need to get out of this jacket,” he mutters, tugging at the sleeves. The words are nothing; the tone is everything: brittle loosening into real. He drapes the tux coat over a chair and moves to the kitchen like a man who lives there only in flashes.
“You hungry?” he asks. “I didn’t eat.”
“Starving,” I admit. “For food. And other things. But food first.”
His eyes flicker—need, gratitude, a joke he swallows. He opens the fridge, pulls out salmon, an indecent amount of butter, a bunch of asparagus tied with twine. He moves with that quiet precision again—oil, salt, heat—like control is a language he speaks when his heart is loud.
“Hand me the lemon,” he says, and I do, fingers brushing. He doesn’t pull away.
The sizzle calms something feral in me. We talk—safe at first. Travel.
The weeks ahead. The way the ice in our arena has a micro-groove on the north end that screws with your first stride, how he compensates for it without thinking.
The team. Leander’s ridiculous pregame rituals.
Phoenix’s captain voice that can stop a brawl at twenty paces.
Then we run out of safe and stand at the edge of true.
“I don’t know what to do about Kyle,” he says finally, plating salmon like an apology. “He’s my friend. He’s… kind. And I’ve been letting him stand where you... I’ve been leading him on.”
“Do you want him?” I ask, because I am done with almosts.
“I want to want him,” he says, eyes on the plate. “I don’t. Not like this.”
“Then tell him.”
He flinches. “He doesn’t deserve the fallout.”
“Neither do you,” I say. “But that won’t stop it.”
We eat at the counter. The food is ridiculous—of course it is—but that’s not what I’ll remember. I’ll remember his bare feet on cold stone, the way he leans on his elbows when he forgets to perform, the tiny lines at the corners of his eyes that only show up when he’s deciding to be soft.
An hour later, the plates are empty, and we’ve both gone a little warm from the wine. He sits curled into one end of his couch, barefoot, glass in hand. I take the other end, slouched, watching the skyline through the wide windows.
Silver City glows below us — clean and untouchable, like it belongs to him. It probably does.
“Your place suits you,” I say, nodding at the view.
“How so?”
“Controlled. Beautiful. Cold.”
He shoots me a look that’s half amusement, half warning. “Thanks. It’s too quiet sometimes.”
“I can help with that.” I lean closer, my arm already around his shoulders. “I’ve always been labeled as too loud. Too much. Always breaking things I don’t mean to.”
He studies me for a long moment, the kind of look that feels like it weighs more than it should. “You’re not as loud as people think.”
I laugh quietly. “Don’t ruin my reputation.”
His smile is small, secret. “Wouldn’t dare.”
The wine hums pleasantly under my skin, dulling edges that are usually sharp. For the first time in months, I feel still. No need to perform. No need to prove. Just sitting in this ridiculous penthouse with the man who’s supposed to be my rival, who somehow feels like gravity.
He shifts closer, resting his glass on the coffee table.
“Do you always do that?” he asks suddenly.
“Do what?”
“Make people think you’re dangerous, then turn out to be… this.”
“This?”
“Sweet,” he says, teasing but soft.
I meet his gaze, a slow grin spreading before I can stop it. “No,” I admit, voice low. “Just for you.”
That earns me a quiet laugh, genuine this time. He shakes his head, half disbelieving. “Is that just a line?”
“No,” I say. “I mean it.”
He looks down, embarrassed by his own expression. “You’re infuriating,” he mutters.
“I get that a lot.”
The air between us changes again, the edges blurring into something warm. He’s close enough now that I can see the faint shadow of stubble on his jaw, the soft line of his mouth. My hand moves before I think, brushing a stray strand of hair behind his ear. He doesn’t pull away.
“Magnus…” he warns, but it’s not really a warning.
“I know,” I whisper. “We can’t be doing this.”
The kiss is slow this time. No sharp edges, no battle for control.
Just quiet warmth and the faint taste of wine.
His lips move against mine with surprising tenderness, like he’s relearning what gentleness feels like.
I match his pace, no rush, no fight, just the soft hum of something that might be peace.
When we break apart, he keeps his eyes closed, resting his forehead against mine.
“This shouldn’t work,” he says softly.
“Maybe not,” I reply. “But it feels good trying.”
The last of the warmth from our quiet laughter fades, replaced by something hotter, electric. Alaric’s gaze fixes on me—steady, bold, almost daring. For once, he isn’t hiding behind sarcasm or control.
I lean in, still trying to play it careful, still trying to hold onto the version of myself that doesn’t scare him. But he doesn’t move away.
He presses his mouth against mine. I grunt against him, pinning my hands to his sides before I can tear into him. Before I can wrap my hands around his neck or slide them into his pants.
“What’s wrong?” He glances down at my hands.
“I don’t...” I stuttered, for once at a loss for words. “I don’t want to scare you away. I’m trying to be...” Kyle? The nice guy he should want? Sweet? “Gentle.”
Alaric laughs. He actually laughs at me. “God, you’re stupid.”
“Hey,” I say warningly.
“No, I mean,” he says. “It’s what I—” He cuts himself off, jaw flexing, but then he meets my gaze dead-on. “I’m drawn to your fire.”
The admission lands like a hit to the chest. For a moment, I forget how to breathe.
He keeps going, voice rough, words spilling like he’s finally too tired to cage them. “That brashness—it’s chaos and confidence, and I can’t stop looking at it. You light up everything around you, and it drives me insane.”
I try to answer, but nothing comes out.
“I don’t want you to dim it for me,” Alaric says, quieter now, almost pleading. “Don’t play soft because you think that’s what I need. I want you. The real you. The one who bites back.”
The words break something loose inside me. I’ve spent so long taming the parts of myself that scare people off—too much heat, too much want, too much everything. But this man? He’s asking for it.
“You sure?” I ask, testing him, my voice a low growl.
He nods, breath hitching. “Please, Magnus.”
My grin starts slow, dangerous. “Careful what you ask for, Prince.”
He laughs, but it’s breathless, his pulse visible at his throat. “I’m not afraid of you.”
“You should be.”
“Then make me.”
That does it.
I grab him by the front of his shirt and drag him closer.
The kiss hits like a collision—heat and motion, teeth and breath.
He moans against my mouth, clutching my hoodie like he’s afraid I’ll disappear if he lets go.
I break away just long enough to look at him.
His lips are flushed, eyes heavy, pupils blown wide.
“Don’t stop,” he pants.
Every ounce of restraint burns off like fog. I grip the back of his neck, pressing him against me, kissing him until we’re both breathless. His hands find their way under my shirt, nails scraping lightly against my skin. Then, clothes are torn off, thrown to the floor.
“Bedroom,” I whisper, voice rough.
He hesitates, not because he wants to stop but because he’s fighting instinct. I kiss him again, softer this time, just enough to melt that hesitation.
“Show me,” I murmur. “Now, Alaric.”
He exhales shakily, then gets up and starts down the hallway. I follow close behind, my hand sliding up his back, fingers tracing his spine. Every few steps, he turns to kiss me again, harder each time, until we’re stumbling through the half-lit corridor, laughing into each other’s mouths.
By the time we reach his bedroom door, my pulse is a drumbeat in my throat. He fumbles the handle, and we fall through the doorway in a tangle of limbs and laughter and heat. The air between us crackles, full of everything we’ve been pretending not to feel for months.
He pushes me back onto the bed and climbs over me, breath shaking, eyes wild. “This,” he says, voice low, trembling with hunger. “This is what I’ve been trying not to want.”
“This is exactly what I’ve been needing,” I whisper.
He kisses me again—deep, desperate, and entirely unguarded. His fingers twist in my hair; my hands find his waist. We move together like the world’s already burning down around us, and neither of us cares.