Chapter 46
WREN
Every single cell in my body screams at me that I need to help him. Just like that day at the dog shelter, I’m overcome with a wave of feeling extremely protective of this massive walking wall of muscle.
It makes no sense. But then again, absolutely nothing in my life as an Omega makes sense these days.
I could put it down to him being my brother’s best friend… but nope. If anything, that’s a red-alert reason why I shouldn’t be drawn to tend to his wounds. So, I shove that thought and the look of my brother on a murder spree against his oldest friend and teammate out of my mind.
“Have you taken those yet?” I jerk my chin in the direction of the pills.
“Renfro and Brennan should be back soon.” His throat bobs as he attempts to neatly sidestep my question.
“I guessed so. Connor texted me straight after the game.” That has me showing him my phone, offering a tiny smile in an effort to try and coax him into relaxing a little. Maybe even dropping a little of the guarded stranger-danger energy he always has in place whenever he’s around me.
If we’re going to be under this same roof, it’s going to be helpful if we can at least get along.
“So… pills?”
He hangs his head and exhales heavily. “Needed a glass of water. Realized I don’t know where shit is in this place.”
“Okay. Why don’t you sit?” I nod and quickly move around, grabbing a glass and filling it with water, before coming back to his side.
“Thanks.” His eyes stay lowered, voice measured. It’s like he can’t even bring himself to look at me.
“Did you drive yourself? In this state?” My brows furrow as I nudge the glass toward his hand, then reach for the pills, placing two beside the water like a peace offering.
“Murph gave me a ride.” He knocks back the painkillers and takes a few big gulps of water.
I do everything in my power not to stare at the way his strong throat works down, swallow after swallow.
All while my cheeks heat at the sight of his dress shirt clinging to his bicep, his abs, the slope of his torso.
That waist leading down to an incredibly muscled ass.
The perfect fit of his dress slacks to show off that rugby butt and those powerful thighs—their requisite after-match attire of suits, designed to make a girl melt on the spot, I swear—god, it all reminds me of seeing him shirtless.
I’m immediately revisiting the sight of that trail of dark hair, knowing that’s what lies hidden beneath the neatly pressed fabric, and how that trail of hair disappears below his waistband.
Then it hits me. What he just said sinks in that my brother dropped him off here. At this house. What if Finch had decided to come inside, too?
Shit.
“Did he… uhh… does he…” I falter over my words.
“Does your brother know you’re here?” Atlas finishes for me, sounding exhausted as hell. “No. Your secret is safe.”
“Okay.” Relief rushes from my lungs with a puff of my cheeks, and a little twinge of hopefulness there that Atlas didn’t rat me out at the first opportunity. Not reading into it. Nope. I’m not. At all. “Thank you,” I add, my teeth pinching the inside of my lower lip.
“Like I said. It’s fine.” Except as he says those words and places the glass back down, the wince of pain slashing across his pummeled face is anything but fine.
If there’s one thing I’m not going to do, is allow this stubborn Alpha to refuse to let me help. I mean, it’s the least I can do, since he is helping me hide this secret from his best friend, after all.
“Your face needs ice,” I point out the obvious. There are probably other parts of him that could also use the same treatment, but I can’t allow myself to think too hard about that prospect.
Focus on his face, Wren.
Although that might be an entirely dangerous thing indeed.
“Wren—” His voice dips lower. Cautionary. Slightly harsh. Far too enticing.
“Come on, you have to at least let me do this properly. Please.” I absolutely shouldn’t be pushing this, and yet I do.
Atlas must be feeling worse than he’s letting on, because instead of fighting me, he groans and twists to rest his ass against one of the stools. Relief briefly flickers in his pinched expression once he takes the weight off, and I’m sure every single bone in his body must feel impossibly sore.
“At least it was a win,” I say, attempting to keep my voice steady.
All I get in reply is a grunt.
My pulse begins to thrum, and my breaths quicken as I lean around his massive arm to pick up the ice pack, then realize this is much closer than we’ve ever been before.
Even in those brief moments at the dog shelter, we weren’t quite so disarmed.
Here and now, with the late hour, an empty house, and my state of undress, this is much more intimate on a multitude of levels.
I gulp back the nerves, waiting, poised for the inevitable rejection or for him to change his mind and decide he’s going to nope out of this and run.
For a heart-pounding moment, Atlas studies me with an unreadable expression.
His hazel eyes flicker back and forth between mine, leaving me dangling somewhere on the edge of an unknown.
He’s impossible to decipher, and that makes me so damn curious in a way I really need to ignore.
Atlas holds my gaze before something crosses his expression. His jaw tics, that muscle jumps madly, then he moves, spreading his thighs wide, allowing me to step close.
Oh my god. I’m standing between his knees, and mine have damn near turned to jelly.
It might seem like a tiny gesture, but I know just how easily he could have outright refused my help or shoved me off and walked away.
Everything about him is powerful. Standing between his bulging quads is mind-alteringly distracting, to say the least. The material of his dress shirt hangs open at his throat, that tattoo up the side of his neck rising from the place where the white collar sits.
The top two buttons have been left neglected, maybe never done up in the first place this evening.
It’s at that moment I realize that whenever they wear their number ones after matches like this, I’ve never seen Atlas in anything but a perfectly fitted, tidy suit, with a tie secured in place, his tailored jacket wrapping those big shoulders.
This… this rumpled, disheveled, slightly roguish look suits him. Damn it.
I’ve always noticed his physique, his powerful build, those tattoos that are so sexy I can hardly breathe, but it’s all accentuated when seen from this close and framed by his shirt sleeves rolled at his elbows.
I shake off thoughts of leaning in to inhale his scent directly from his throat.
“Sorry, but this might be…” I bite my lip and carefully press the ice pack to his eye.
The aggressive hiss he lets out almost has me jerking away, afraid that I’ve hurt him.
“… Cold? Is it too much?” My whisper is as hesitant as I feel.
Except nothing about this is anything approaching cold. Heat radiates off his frame like he’s a giant furnace, and the temperature of my blood keeps rising the closer I get to him.
“Atlas?” I search his eyes. They’re hooded and achingly gorgeous but partially hidden by heavy shadows. Which only makes him look even more beautiful. Terrifyingly so.
My tongue swipes across my bottom lip. His focus swoops faster than a hawk. That greenish-bronze gaze locks on the tiny motion.
“Is this okay?” I’m aware just how breathy I sound right now.
He groans, and for a long moment his hands hover in the air above my sides, as if he doesn’t know what to do with them. Until he reaches out and fists the shirt at my hips.
My pulse takes flight. I can’t help it. I perfume, the thick scent swirls around us. A neon arrow above my head. Horny Omega available. Kill me now.
Fuck. God. I’m an idiot for thinking I could keep this under control. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have…” With a hitch in my voice, I try to back off, but his grip tightens in the fabric.
“Just don’t move.” His eyes squeeze shut. The front of his throat bobs as he swallows, nostrils flaring as he seems to take a steadying inhale but doesn’t ease his hold on my shirt.
I feel lightheaded. Seconds stretch out as I keep the ice slowly moving across the swelling and do my best to avoid his butterfly bandage and split-open eye. “I saw what that asshole did. It was a cheap shot,” I murmur.
One shoulder lifts ever so slightly in an almost imperceptible shrug. “Part of the game.”
“Connor was reckless going after him.” My fingers itch to trace his jaw, to touch his lips and see if they’re as soft as they look, to feel his midnight stubble, to brush over those cuts and somehow ease the pain he must be feeling.
“But I’m not sorry he got carded. I’m glad he did it,” I say with a croak.
It’s barely noticeable, but I think Atlas’s eyes crinkle a little at the corners, maybe, just maybe revealing a hidden smile. “Renfro just wanted an extra ten-minute rest,” he deadpans.
I tilt my head to one side, my lips flattening as I struggle to focus on the ice pack.
“What that bastard did was way worse.” Yep.
There it is again. A surge of possessiveness hits me square in the chest once more.
“He was the one who deserved to be sin-binned. The guy needed to be shown a yellow card at least.”
“Ref didn’t seem to see it that way.”
“One look at your face should have told him everything he needed to know.”
He opens one eye, squinting at me. It makes my cheeks go hot.
“Saying there’s something wrong with my face?”
Okay, now I’m outright blushing all over. “No. I didn’t mean that. Of course not. There’s absolutely nothing wrong with your looks. Like, you own a mirror, right? There’s nothing wrong with it, I mean, your face, normally.” The words rush out of me in a colossal, awkward tumble.
Oh god. And now have I just inadvertently admitted to him that I think he’s hot?
Mayday, Mayday.