Chapter Seven
Grease and salt perfumed the air around the concession stand. Behind smudged glass, pizza slices wilted under heat lamps, cheese congealing into abstract art. French fries sat in metal baskets, glistening with enough oil to fuel a small car. Everything looked questionable and perfect.
“A large pepperoni pizza, nachos, and two baskets of fries,” Jamie ordered then glanced at Sloane. “Unless you have standards?”
“Standards are for people who don’t appreciate fine dining.”
The teenager behind the counter—different from the one at admissions, this one sporting aggressive acne and a Metallica shirt—ran Sloane’s credit card. Jamie grabbed napkins while Sloane waved off his mate’s protests about paying for everything.
Finding an empty table required navigation through birthday party debris and abandoned cups. They claimed a corner booth with cracked vinyl seats and initials carved into the laminate tabletop. Jamie slid in first, and Sloane followed, their thighs pressing together in the narrow space.
Their pizza arrived at their table twenty minutes later, grease pooling on the paper plates, cheese stretching in long strings when they pulled slices apart.
The fries were soggy, the nachos covered in fluorescent orange cheese product that probably wasn’t legally cheese, and Sloane couldn’t remember the last time food tasted this good.
“This is terrible,” Jamie announced, biting into his third slice. Orange cheese stuck to his fingers. “Absolutely awful. I want more.”
Sloane grabbed another handful of fries, salt coating his fingers. His hip still ached from the fall, but watching Jamie demolish bad pizza made the pain irrelevant.
Jamie took another bite. A drop of grease escaped, running down his chin.
Without thinking, Sloane reached across, thumb catching the drop before it could fall. Jamie’s breath hitched, eyes widening as Sloane’s thumb lingered against his skin for a heartbeat longer than necessary.
“Thanks,” Jamie managed, voice rougher than before.
The music changed to something with heavy bass that vibrated through the booth. Kids shrieked on the rink, racing past in packs. Rainbow lights swept across their table in lazy circles, painting Jamie’s face in shifting colors—blue, then green, then gold.
Heat coiled through Sloane’s gut, his wolf purring at the contact. He pulled his hand back, focusing on his own pizza to give Jamie space to breathe.
“So,” Jamie said between bites, “what made you look up roller rinks? Besides temporary insanity?”
“You needed a distraction.” Sloane pushed his fries closer to Jamie, an invitation to steal more.
“Most people would’ve suggested a movie. Or drinks. Normal things.”
“Normal’s overrated.”
Jamie’s laugh came softer this time, almost wondering. “You’re not what I expected.”
“What did you expect?”
“I don’t know.” Jamie dragged a fry through ketchup, considering. “Someone who’d disappear after that first night. Or turned out to be secretly terrible. That’s usually how it goes for me.”
The admission twisted something in Sloane’s gut. His mate expected disappointment, had been trained by experience to anticipate abandonment. William and whoever else had come before had carved those expectations deep.
“I’m not going anywhere,” Sloane said quietly. He said it like a fact. Like a bone-deep truth he couldn’t stop from spilling out.
Jamie’s gaze snapped to his, searching for the lie, the catch, the fine print. When he found none, his expression shifted into something vulnerable that made Sloane want to pull him close and never let go.
“We should skate more,” Jamie said, deflecting from the moment. “You’re finally getting the hang of it.”
They finished eating—or attempting to eat, since calling it food felt generous—and returned to the rink. Sloane’s muscles had stiffened during the break, making his movements even more awkward. But Jamie stayed close, one hand on Sloane’s elbow, steadying him through each wobble.
“Bend your knees more,” Jamie instructed, skating backward again. “And stop death-gripping my arm. I need circulation.”
“You’re my only lifeline between dignity and disaster.”
“Your dignity died the third time you hugged the wall.”
Sloane loosened his grip marginally, focusing on the rhythm Jamie had shown him. Push, glide, push, glide. His body started to remember how to cooperate, muscle memory building with each lap.
By the fifth circuit, he could manage short stretches without Jamie’s support. Not graceful, not even competent, but upright. Progress.
“Look at you go,” Jamie teased, but pride colored his tone. “Almost like a real skater.”
“Your faith in me is overwhelming.”
“Would you prefer lies? 'Oh Sloane, you’re amazing, a natural, you should go pro—'“
Sloane reached for him, trying to catch his arm, but Jamie darted away laughing. The sound echoed off the walls, bright and genuine, and Sloane would’ve chased him around this rink forever just to hear it again.
Challenge sparked in his mate’s hazel eyes. “Come on. You can make it to me.”
Trust. His mate was asking him to trust, just as Sloane had asked earlier. The irony wasn’t lost on him. Pushing off, Sloane rolled forward, arms out for balance, probably looking ridiculous but not caring. Jamie stayed just ahead, matching his pace, drawing him forward with that smile.
Pushing off hard, Jamie built speed, weaving between other skaters with fluid grace. At the far turn, he dropped low, one leg extended in a move that shouldn’t have been possible on wheels. Then he sprang up, spinning twice before landing smoothly, never breaking stride.
Sloane’s mouth went dry. His mate moved with an easy confidence that transformed him, all that careful guardedness replaced by pure joy. Jamie on skates was poetry, physics, and temptation rolled into one.
Beautiful. Alive. Mine.
The thought slammed into Sloane with enough force to make him stumble. His skate caught wrong, sending him careening toward the wall again. This time, he managed to catch himself before impact, palms slapping the surface, but he stayed upright.
“Impressed?” Jamie asked, rolling up beside him, barely breathing hard.
“Very.” The word came out rougher than intended, weighted with want.
Pink bloomed across Jamie’s cheekbones. “It’s just muscle memory.”
“Still impressive.”
They completed another circuit, Jamie’s hand finding Sloane’s whenever he wobbled. Each touch sparked through Sloane’s system, his wolf practically vibrating with the need to claim, to protect, to keep Jamie close enough that nothing could hurt him again.
By the time they turned in their skates, Sloane’s hip protested with every step. He tried to hide the limp, but Jamie noticed immediately.
“You’re limping,” Jamie observed as they headed for the exit.
“I’m walking with character.”
“You’re walking like you got your ass kicked by a children’s activity.” Jamie’s voice carried gentle teasing, but his hand found Sloane’s elbow, offering support without making it obvious. “Next time we’re getting you hip pads.”
He went for the jugular but with a velvet glove.
His wolf growled, “Mate happy. Mate smiling. Need more. Must give mate universe.”
“Skating is not just for children.” Sloane held the door for Jamie. “Besides, you had fun.”
Jamie stopped on the sidewalk, turning to face him fully. Something shifted in his expression, vulnerability cracking through the sass. “I did. I really did.”
The words were simple, but emotion weighed them. After the day Jamie had endured, after violence and fear, Sloane had given him this—laughter and terrible pizza and the chance to just exist without looking over his shoulder.
“Anytime,” Sloane said, meaning it.
I will break myself, my hip, the rink, the city, the earth itself if it means making you laugh again.
Outside, late afternoon had shifted toward evening. Clouds pressed lower, heavy with the threat of rain. The parking lot sat mostly empty, just their car and a few others scattered across cracked asphalt.
Wind ruffled Jamie’s hair, messing it worse than before. Without thinking, Sloane reached up, smoothing it down. His fingers lingered against Jamie’s temple, careful around the bruise.
His mate’s breath hitched. Color bloomed across his cheekbones, pink spreading down his neck. But he didn’t pull away. Instead, he leaned into the touch, eyes fluttering half-closed. “Thank you. For this. For everything today.”
“You don’t need to thank me.”
“Yeah, I do.” Jamie’s hand rose, fingertips grazing the edge of Sloane’s jaw. “You didn’t have to do any of this. Show up at work, take me skating, put up with my disaster of a life.”
“Your life’s not a disaster.”
“My ex is a psycho, I got assaulted at work, and I can barely keep my apartment clean. That’s pretty much the disaster trifecta.”
Sloane caught Jamie’s hand, keeping it against his face. “You’re also brave, funny, and gorgeous. That cancels out the rest.”
Jamie’s breath stuttered. “You can’t just say things that.”
“Why not?”
“Because I don’t know what to do with them.” Vulnerability flickered across Jamie’s features. “With you. You make me want things I told myself I couldn’t have.”
“What things?”
Instead of answering, Jamie rose up on his toes, closing the distance between them.
The kiss started soft, just a press of lips, testing.
Then Jamie made a small, whimpering sound, and Sloane’s control shredded.
His hand found Jamie’s jaw, angling him closer, deeper.
Jamie’s fingers twisted in Sloane’s shirt, pulling him in, and everything else ceased to exist.
When Sloane’s teeth caught Jamie’s bottom lip, his mate made a sound that went straight to Sloane’s cock, needy and perfect.
Breaking apart left them both breathing hard. Jamie’s pupils had blown wide, his lips kiss-swollen and tempting. Everything in Sloane demanded he claim his mate, completely, until everyone knew exactly who Jamie belonged to.
“Come home with me,” Sloane said.
I want you near me.
I want you safe.
I want you where I can see you.
I want you in my space because you fit there.
Jamie’s pulse jumped visibly in his throat. “To your place?”
“Yeah.”
For a moment, Jamie just stared at him, conflict written across his features. Then he nodded, decision made. “Yes.”
Relief and want tangled in Sloane’s ribs. He opened the passenger door, waiting until Jamie was settled before rounding to the driver’s side. The engine purred to life, and Sloane pulled out of the lot, very aware of Jamie beside him, of the energy crackling between them.
Jamie was quiet during the drive but not tense. He rested his head against the window, watching scenery blur past. Exhaustion had started to creep in, visible in the way his eyes grew heavy, blinks lasting longer each time.
“You okay?” Sloane asked, glancing over.
“Mmm. Just tired.” Jamie’s voice came out soft, drowsy. “Today was a lot.”
Understatement. Between the assault, the police, the emotional upheaval of everything, Jamie had to be running on fumes. Add in the physical activity of skating, and exhaustion was inevitable.
By the time they reached the mountain road leading to the pack house, Jamie’s breathing had evened out, deep and steady.
His face had relaxed, worry lines smoothing away, making him look younger. Vulnerable. Trusting.
Sloane’s throat tightened. His mate felt safe enough to sleep in his presence, to let his guard down completely. After everything Jamie had been through, that trust felt sacred.
The pack house appeared through the trees, sprawling and solid. Sloane killed the engine then moved around to the passenger side. Opening the door carefully, he caught Jamie before he could tip out.
“Hey,” he said softly. “We’re here.”
Jamie mumbled something incoherent, burrowing deeper into the seat.
Sloane slipped one arm under Jamie’s knees, the other around his shoulders, and lifted. His mate weighed less than expected, fitting against Sloane’s body like he belonged there. Because he did. He’d always belonged there.
His mate deserved to be carried, to be cared for, to be cherished.
Jamie’s head lolled against Sloane’s shoulder, his breath warm against Sloane’s neck. One hand curled into Sloane’s shirt, holding on even though Jamie was unconscious.
The house stayed quiet as Sloane carried him inside, up the stairs, down the hallway to his room. He shouldered the door open, grateful he’d left the bedside lamp on earlier. Soft light filled the space, enough to navigate without jarring Jamie awake.
Setting him on the bed took more coordination than expected. Jamie wouldn’t let go, his fingers twisted in Sloane’s shirt, as he made small protesting sounds when Sloane tried to pull away.
“Shh,” Sloane murmured. “Just getting your shoes.”
He worked Jamie’s sneakers off, setting them beside the nightstand. Then the jacket, carefully working one arm free at a time. Jamie shifted, rolling onto his side, curling into a pillow.
Sloane pulled the blanket up to Jamie’s shoulders. His mate immediately burrowed deeper, sighing contentedly.
For a moment, Sloane just stood there watching. Jamie’s face had relaxed completely in sleep, no trace of the fear and tension from earlier. Here, safe in Sloane’s bed, he looked younger. Vulnerable. Precious.
Mine to protect. Mine to care for. Mine.
The thought settled into Sloane’s bones with absolute certainty. Whatever had happened with William, whatever threats still lurked, Sloane would handle them. Jamie would never have to face violence alone again.
Sloane moved to the other side of the bed, stretching out on top of the covers. Close enough to respond if Jamie woke confused or frightened.
In his sleep, Jamie rolled toward Sloane’s warmth. One hand reached out, finding Sloane’s shirt again, fingers curling into the fabric.
Sloane let him hold on. Let himself imagine countless nights like this—his mate safe in his bed, reaching for him even unconscious, trusting him completely.
Rain finally started outside, pattering against the windows. The sound mixed with Jamie’s quiet breathing, creating a rhythm that pulled Sloane toward sleep.
His hip still ached. His shoulder would be bruised tomorrow. But Jamie was here, safe, fingers twisted in his shirt like Sloane was the only thing keeping him grounded.
Worth every second of pain.
Worth everything.