Chapter 9
Jack
The Hive was a cathedral of debauchery.
The bass from the speakers was so loud it was vibrating my molars, or maybe that was just the concussion lingering like a dull headache behind my eyes.
The air was thick with the smell of cheap beer, sweat, and the cloying, overheated scent of two hundred college students celebrating a violence they didn't understand.
I sat on the arm of the battered leather sofa in the main living room, nursing a bottle of water. I wasn't drinking. Can’t drink with a head injury. Can’t drink when you’re the Alpha on watch.
Technically, I shouldn't even be here. The trainer had said rest. Eloise had said quiet.
But the team needed to see me. They needed to see their Captain upright, breathing, and not in a coma after that hit.
Morale was a fragile thing, and rumors spread faster than a staph infection in a locker room.
If I didn't show my face, by morning the campus would believe Rurik had put me in a wheelchair.
So I was here. Sitting on a throne of duct-taped leather, watching the chaos.
And watching her.
Eloise was across the room, standing near the fireplace with Cami and Silas. She was still wearing my jersey.
It looked even better on her now than it had at the game.
The sleeves were rolled up, exposing her slender forearms. The hem hit her mid-thigh, leaving just enough denim-clad leg exposed to drive me insane.
She had pulled her hair out of its tight bun, and it fell in soft, platinum waves around her face.
She looked... comfortable.
She was laughing at something Silas said. A real laugh. Head thrown back, neck exposed.
A frat brother—I didn't know his name, some legacy kid—leaned in close to her. Too close. He put a hand on the wall near her head.
My grip on the water bottle tightened. Plastic crunched loudly.
Eloise didn't flinch. She just turned her cool, blue gaze on the guy and said something I couldn't hear. The guy blinked, looked confused, and then backed away, looking like he’d just been politely told his fly was open.
Silas caught my eye across the room. He smirked and raised his beer in a mock toast. She’s got this, his look said.
I knew she did. She was Dean Vance’s daughter. She had been navigating sharks in suits her whole life; frat boys were just minnows with bad breath.
But knowing she could handle herself didn't stop the biological urge to go over there, pick her up, and carry her out of this noise.
My head throbbed. A sharp spike of pain behind my left eye. I winced, squeezing my eyes shut for a second.
"You look like you’re contemplating murder or a nap," a voice said near my ear.
I opened my eyes. Eloise was standing in front of me.
She smelled like vanilla and... me. The jersey. It was a heady cocktail that cut through the beer stench of the room.
"Both," I admitted, my voice rough. "Nap first. Then murder."
"How’s the head?" she asked, stepping into the space between my knees. It was a bold move. A proprietary move.
"Noisy," I said. "Too many people."
"Then why are we here?"
"Optics," I shrugged. "Showing the flag. Letting the Copperheads know I’m not dead."
"You’ve shown it," she said, reaching out and placing her cool hand on my forehead.
The relief was instant. Her skin was like a balm. The throbbing receded just a fraction.
"You’re warm," she murmured, frowning. "Adrenaline crash or low-grade fever from the trauma."
"Or maybe it’s just you," I rasped, looking up at her.
Her eyes darkened. She glanced around the room. Nobody was looking at us. They were too busy dancing or doing keg stands.
"We’re leaving," she announced.
"I can't leave yet," I argued weakly. "Silas needs help with the rookies."
"Silas is a grown man who can turn into a wolf," she countered. "He can handle the rookies. You are going home. Now."
"Bossy," I grumbled, but I stood up.
The room spun. Just for a second. I swayed.
Eloise’s hand was instantly on my waist, steadying me. "I’ve got you."
"I’m fine," I lied.
"Shut up and walk, Sterling."
She guided me through the crowd. I noticed the way people parted for us. Not just because I was the Captain, but because of her. She walked with a purpose that terrified people. And she was touching me. Her hand on my lower back, guiding me, claiming me.
We burst out into the cold night air. The silence was shocking.
"My truck," I mumbled, reaching for my keys.
"Absolutely not," she snatched the keys from my hand. "I’m driving. You are concussed. If you operate heavy machinery, I will personally tell Coach."
"You wouldn't."
"Try me."
I sighed and climbed into the passenger seat.
She got in the driver’s side, adjusting the seat again. She looked tiny behind the wheel of my massive truck.
"Where to?" she asked. "Dorm? Or back to the cabin?"
I looked at the dashboard. I was tired. Bone tired. The idea of the dorms—with the noise, the roommates, the lack of privacy—was awful. But the cabin was an hour away on icy roads.
"My room," I said. "Here. At the Hive. Third floor. Back corner."
"Is it safe?" she asked, glancing at the house.
"Steel door," I reminded her. "Deadbolt. And Silas is downstairs on guard duty."
"Okay," she nodded.
She didn't start the truck. She just looked at me.
"You really scared me today, Jack," she whispered. "When you didn't get up..."
"I always get up," I said softly.
"Don't say that," she snapped, her voice trembling. "Everyone has a limit. Even you."
She started the engine, but instead of driving away, she just killed the lights and let it idle.
"We don't have to drive anywhere," I realized. "We’re already here."
"I know," she said. "I just... I needed a minute. Away from them."
We sat in the dark cab for a moment, listening to the heater hum.
"Come on," I said, opening my door. "Let’s go upstairs. I have an ice pack with your name on it. Well, my name on it, but you can hold it."
She smiled, a weak, tired smile.
We walked back into the house, bypassing the party by using the back stairs—the same ones we had fled down a week ago.
My room was quiet. Cold.
I locked the door behind us. The heavy clunk of the deadbolt was the best sound I’d heard all night.
Eloise stood in the middle of the room, looking around. It was sparse. Masculine.
"Sit," she ordered, pointing to the bed.
I sat. The mattress dipped under my weight.
"Jersey off," she commanded. "I need to check your ribs."
I raised an eyebrow. "Buying me dinner first?"
"Jack," she warned.
I groaned and lifted my arms. My ribs screamed in protest—bruised, definitely—but I managed to pull my hoodie off. I wasn't wearing a shirt underneath.
I tossed the hoodie on the floor.
Eloise stared.
I wasn't vain, but I knew I was built. Years of hockey, lifting, and shifter genetics had given me a body that was more weapon than aesthetic.
Scars crisscrossed my torso—puck marks, stick slashes, claw marks from training.
My chest was broad, covered in a dusting of dark hair that narrowed down to a trail disappearing into my sweatpants.
Her eyes tracked every inch of skin. Her pupils dilated. She swallowed hard.
"You’re... a map of violence," she whispered, stepping closer.
"Comes with the territory," I said, watching her.
She reached out. Her fingers—cool and soft—traced a long, faded white scar on my ribs.
"This one?"
"Stick blade. Sophomore year."
She moved her hand to a jagged mark on my shoulder. "This?"
"Silas. During a full moon run. He got a little nippy."
She moved her hand to the fresh bruise forming on my side, a dark, ugly purple bloom from the hit today.
She didn't ask. She just hissed in sympathy.
"Does it hurt?" she whispered, her fingers hovering over the bruise, not daring to touch.
"Only when I breathe," I joked weakly.
"Not funny."
She turned away, rummaging in the mini-fridge in the corner. She came back with an ice pack wrapped in a towel.
"Lie down," she said.
I lay back against the pillows. She sat on the edge of the bed, pressing the ice gently against my ribs.
The cold was shocking, but the heat of her hip against my thigh was more distracting.
"You should take the jersey off too," I murmured, watching her. "It’s got blood on the shoulder. My blood."
She looked down at the jersey. "I don't have anything else to wear."
"You can wear one of my t-shirts," I offered. "Or nothing. I’m not picky."
She rolled her eyes, but a blush stained her cheeks. "T-shirt. Please."
I pointed to the dresser. "Top drawer."
She walked over and grabbed a soft, grey cotton t-shirt. She turned her back to me to change.
I watched. I couldn't help it.
She pulled the jersey over her head.
Her back was smooth, pale, perfect. The line of her spine was elegant. She was wearing that black lace bra again.
My mouth went dry.
She unclasped the bra. It fell away.
I saw the curve of her side, the shadow of her breast.
She pulled my t-shirt on quickly, covering herself, then turned around.
The shirt came down to her knees. She looked tiny. And incredibly sexy.
She walked back to the bed and sat down. She picked up the ice pack again.
"Better?" she asked.
"Much," I rasped.
She held the ice against my side. We sat in silence for a long time. The only sound was the distant bass of the party downstairs and our breathing.
"Jack?"
"Yeah?"
"What happens next?" she asked, her voice small. "With Rurik? With the Challenge?"
"I don't know," I admitted. "He’s gone quiet. That usually means he’s planning something."
"And us?" she asked. "What happens to us when the threat is gone?"
I looked at her.
"There is no 'when the threat is gone,' Eloise," I said seriously. "Once I claim you... once the pack knows... you’re part of this. Forever."
"Is that a warning?"
"It’s a promise."
She looked at me, searching my face.
"What if I don't want to leave?" she whispered.
My heart stopped.
"What?"
"What if I like the danger?" she confessed, leaning closer. "What if I like wearing your jersey? What if I like knowing that you’re the only thing standing between me and the dark?"