Chapter 9
Stan
Victory tasted like cheap beer and copper.
The main floor of The Hive was pulsing. The bass was so heavy it felt like a secondary heartbeat thumping in my chest. Bodies were packed wall-to-wall—students, puck bunnies, hangers-on who claimed they knew us since freshman year.
The air was a haze of sweat, perfume, and the sharp, euphoric scent of adrenaline.
We had won. We had crushed North Dakota.
And everyone wanted to touch the King.
"Butcher! Butcher! Butcher!"
A group of sophomore girls were chanting my name, holding up red Solo cups. One of them, a brunette in a skirt that defied physics, reached out and grabbed my bicep.
"You were amazing tonight, Stan," she slurred, her nails digging into my skin. "So violent. It was hot."
I looked down at her hand. I felt nothing. No spark. No interest. Just a mild annoyance that she was touching me.
"Thanks," I muttered, gently peeling her hand off my arm. "Excuse me."
I pushed through the crowd. I was looking for one person.
I had lost her.
Rachel had come to the party—reluctantly. After the bus ride, I had practically begged her. Just for an hour. Just so I can see you in the crowd.
It was selfish. I knew she hated parties. I knew the noise overwhelmed her. But after the game, after the near-shift on the ice, I needed her proximity like I needed oxygen. She was my anchor. If I couldn't see her, I felt the drift starting again.
I scanned the room, my height giving me an advantage.
Where was she?
I checked the usual spots. The kitchen (too crowded). The couch near the fireplace (occupied by the defensive line). The back porch (too cold).
Then I saw her.
She was in the corner by the stairs, trapped.
A guy—some swimmer I vaguely recognized—had her cornered. He wasn't aggressive, exactly, but he was there. Too close. Leaning in with that glossy, alcohol-fueled confidence. He had one hand on the wall above her head.
Rachel looked... polite. She was smiling that tight, customer-service smile she used when she was trying not to be rude. But her eyes were darting around the room, looking for an exit.
Looking for me.
The Wolf inside me didn't growl. It just woke up and took the wheel.
Mine.
I moved. I didn't push people out of the way; I simply walked, and the crowd parted around me like water flowing around a rock. They sensed the shift in my energy. The playful "Party Stan" was gone. "The Butcher" was walking.
I reached them in ten seconds.
I didn't say a word. I just stepped up behind the swimmer. I didn't touch him. I just stood there, letting my presence do the work. I was six-five. He was maybe six-one. I cast a shadow over him.
The swimmer faltered mid-sentence. He felt the temperature drop. He turned around slowly.
His eyes widened when he saw me. He looked at the scar on my brow, then at the look in my eyes.
"Oh. Hey, Kowalski," he stammered. "Great game, man. Seriously. Killer hit in the second."
"You're in my way," I said. My voice was low, devoid of inflection.
"What?"
"You're standing between me and my trainer," I said. "And my shoulder hurts."
It was a flimsy excuse, but it was enough. The swimmer got the message.
"Right. Sorry. I was just... chatting." He stepped back, raising his hands. "She's all yours."
He scurried away.
I turned to Rachel.
She let out a breath, her shoulders slumping against the wall. She looked up at me, her hazel eyes wide and relieved.
"Hi," she whispered.
"Hi," I said.
I looked at her. She was still wearing the green sweater from our "date" the other night, but she had changed into jeans. She looked exhausted. There were dark circles under her eyes. She was holding a cup of water, her knuckles white.
"You okay?" I asked, placing a hand on the wall next to her head—mimicking the swimmer's pose, but reclaiming the space.
"It's loud," she admitted. "And hot. And everyone keeps asking me if your concussion is real or if you're just brain-damaged."
"Both," I joked weakly.
She didn't smile. She reached out and touched my chest, right over my heart.
"You're vibrating," she said softly.
She was right. I was buzzing. The adrenaline from the game, the near-shift, the noise of the party—it was all vibrating under my skin. I felt like a live wire.
"I need to get out of here," I confessed. "I can't... I can't do the victory lap anymore, Rachel. I'm done."
"Then let's go," she said immediately.
"You drove?"
"I walked," she said. "I didn't want to deal with parking."
"I'll drive you," I said. "My truck is out back."
"Okay."
She didn't ask where we were going. She didn't ask if I was sober (I was; shifters metabolized alcohol so fast it was pointless to drink for a buzz). She just trusted me.
I grabbed her hand.
"Make a hole!" I bellowed over the music.
The crowd parted. I led her through the crush, ignoring the high-fives, ignoring the girls calling my name. I had the prize. I was leaving.
The silence of my truck cab was a religious experience.
I shut the heavy door, cutting off the thumping bass of the house. I turned the key, and the engine rumbled to life—a deep, steady purr that matched the one inside my chest.
Rachel buckled her seatbelt. She leaned her head back against the headrest and closed her eyes.
"Thank God," she whispered.
I watched her for a moment in the dim light of the dashboard. The green glow illuminated the soft curve of her throat, the flutter of her eyelashes. She looked fragile. And yet, she was the strongest person I knew.
I put the truck in gear and drove.
I didn't drive toward her dorms. I drove toward the edge of town, toward the small rental house I had moved into last month—an "off-campus privilege" for seniors, but really just a way for me to have a basement dungeon where I could lock myself up during the full moon without terrifying the freshmen.
Rachel opened her eyes as we turned onto the dirt road leading to my place.
"This isn't the dorms," she observed quietly.
"No," I said, gripping the steering wheel. "It's not."
I didn't offer an explanation. I couldn't. If I spoke, I would beg.
She didn't argue. She just turned her head to look out the window at the snow-covered trees passing by.
We pulled up to the small cabin. It was dark, secluded, surrounded by pine trees.
I killed the engine.
The silence returned, heavier now. Loaded with implication.
"I have ice," I said. It was the lamest pickup line in history. "For my shoulder. And... maybe some Advil."
Rachel unbuckled her seatbelt. She turned to me.
"Do you have food?" she asked.
"I have leftover pizza and protein shakes."
"Perfect."
We got out. The cold air hit us like a slap, freezing the sweat on my back. I shivered, not from cold, but from anticipation.
We walked up the steps. I unlocked the door.
We stepped across the threshold.
My house smelled like me. Cedar, leather, coffee. It was clean—minimalist.
"Welcome to the Batcave," I muttered, tossing my keys in a bowl.
Rachel walked in, looking around. She touched the back of the leather sofa. She looked at the framed jersey on the wall (my dad's).
"It's quiet," she said.
"That's the point."
I walked into the kitchen and opened the fridge. I grabbed two bottles of water and the pizza box.
"Hungry?"
"Starving."
We ate cold pizza leaning against the kitchen counter. It wasn't romantic. It was primal. We tore into the food like we hadn't eaten in days.
When we were done, Rachel wiped her mouth with a paper napkin. She looked at me.
"Your shoulder," she said. "You're guarding it again."
I rolled the joint. It crunched. "It's stiff. The adrenaline is wearing off."
"Sit," she commanded, pointing to a bar stool.
I sat.
She walked around behind me.
"Shirt off," she said.
I hesitated. Not because I was shy—she had seen me shirtless plenty of times—but because taking my shirt off felt like surrendering the last piece of armor I had left.
"Rachel..."
"Shirt. Off. Patient."
I sighed and pulled the black t-shirt over my head.
She sucked in a breath.
I looked down at my chest. A massive bruise was blooming across my left pectoral and shoulder. It was ugly—purple, black, and yellow. The imprint of the boards.
"God, Stan," she whispered. She reached out, her fingers hovering over the discoloration. "That looks... angry."
"It's healing," I said. "It was worse an hour ago."
"Shifter healing," she murmured. "Handy."
She placed her hands on my good shoulder (the right one) and began to massage the tension out of my neck. Her thumbs dug into the tight muscles.
I groaned, my head dropping forward.
"That's it," she whispered. "Let it go. You carry the weight of the world right here, Stasiu."
The nickname broke me.
I reached up and grabbed her hands, stopping them.
I swiveled the stool around so I was facing her. She was standing between my spread knees—our familiar position.
"Why are you here, Rachel?" I asked. My voice was rough. "Why didn't you make me take you home?"
She looked down at me. Her hazel eyes were clear. Honest.
"Because I didn't want to be alone," she said. "And because... when you looked at me at the party, I felt safe. For the first time all week."
"Safe?" I let out a bitter laugh. "I'm a monster, Rachel. I nearly turned into a wolf on live television three hours ago. I am the opposite of safe."
She stepped closer. Her thighs bumped against my knees. She placed her hands on my bare chest, right over the bruise. Her palms were cool.
"You're safe for me," she said. "You protect me. From the cold. From the creeps. From my own insecurity."
She leaned down. She pressed a soft kiss to the center of the bruise on my chest.
I stopped breathing.
The sensation of her lips on my damaged skin was electric. It sent a jolt straight to my groin.
"Rachel," I warned. "Don't."
She kissed it again. Then she moved higher, kissing my collarbone. Then my throat.
"Why not?" she whispered against my pulse point.
"Because," I gripped her hips, my fingers digging into the denim of her jeans. "Because I'm tired. And I'm sore. And my control is gone. If we start this... I can't stop. Not tonight."