Chapter 2 #2
I was trying to figure out a strategy.
Okay, so I couldn't fire her. Varon had blocked that play.
That meant I had to make her want to leave. I had to be so unbearable, so cold, so terrifyingly other, that she would run back to the Dean and beg for a transfer to the swim team or the chess club. Somewhere safe.
It was for her own good. That was what I told myself. I was protecting her from the inevitable moment when my control slipped. Because it would slip. I could feel the cracks in the dam already.
By the time 4:00 PM rolled around, I was vibrating with tension.
Practice was brutal. I drove the team hard, checking freshman defenseman into the boards with unnecessary force, barking orders, skating until my lungs burned. I wanted to be exhausted. I wanted to be too tired to care about the girl waiting in the medical wing.
When the whistle blew, the team filed off the ice, groaning and limping.
"Thorne, you okay?" Jax asked, skating up to me. "You were a maniac out there."
"I'm fine," I said, breathing hard, the condensation pluming from my mouth. "Shoulder's tight. I need to get it looked at."
Jax smirked. "Oh? Going to see the vanilla girl?"
"Shut up, Riot."
I skated off, ignoring him.
I showered quickly, scrubbing my skin until it was red, trying to wash off the sweat and the aggression. I dressed in fresh sweats and a hoodie, keeping the hood up. Armor.
I walked down the hallway toward the training room.
She won't be there, I told myself. She probably realized it was a mistake. She probably saw how I looked at her yesterday and ran.
I pushed open the double doors.
She was there.
The training room was bright, sterile, and smelled of rubbing alcohol and peppermint. And in the center of it, standing on a step stool to reach the top shelf of a supply cabinet, was Faye.
She was wearing oversized scrubs today—navy blue pants and a matching top that swallowed her figure. Her hair was pulled back in a severe ponytail, exposing the graceful curve of her neck.
My mouth watered. Predator. Prey.
She heard the door open and froze, her hand hovering over a box of athletic tape. She turned slowly.
When she saw it was me, her eyes widened slightly, but she didn't flinch.
"Captain Thorne," she said. Her voice was steady. Too steady. She was putting on a performance.
"Sommers," I greeted, my voice rough. I didn't move from the doorway. "I thought I told you to quit."
"And I told you I need the credit," she said, grabbing the box of tape and stepping down from the stool. She moved with a surprising grace, light on her feet. "Coach Varon said you have a tight trap. Right side?"
She was ignoring my threat. She was treating me like a patient.
The audacity of it made my blood heat.
"I don't need treatment," I lied. My right trapezius was a knot of iron, throbbing in time with my heartbeat.
"You're guarding it," she observed, walking over to the main treatment table and patting the vinyl surface. "Your right shoulder is higher than your left. You're favoring it. Get on the table."
I stared at her. "Excuse me?"
"Get. On. The. Table," she enunciated, as if speaking to a stubborn child. She crossed her arms over her chest. "Unless the big bad Alpha is afraid of a little massage therapy?"
It was a challenge. A direct, blatant challenge.
She was trying to establish dominance in her territory. The Taping Room was her sanctuary, and she was drawing a line in the sand.
I should leave. I should turn around and walk out.
But the Wolf didn't want to leave. The Wolf wanted to see if she would break.
"Fine," I growled.
I walked over to the table and sat on the edge. I pulled my hoodie off in one motion, tossing it onto a chair. Underneath, I was wearing a black compression tank that clung to every muscle, leaving my arms and shoulders bare.
I heard her intake of breath.
She wasn't immune. She could pretend to be the professional clinician, but I could hear the spike in her heart rate. I could smell the shift in her pheromones—the subtle sweetening of arousal mixing with her nerves.
"Face down," she ordered, her voice a little breathier than before.
I lay down, burying my face in the face cradle. The darkness was instant. Now, I was blind. I was relying entirely on my other senses.
I heard her move around the table. I heard the squelch of lotion being squeezed into her palm. I heard her rubbing her hands together to warm the oil.
Then, she touched me.
Her hands landed on my shoulders, and a jolt of electricity arced through my spine so violent I almost bucked off the table.
Her hands were small. absurdly small against the expanse of my back. But they were strong. And hot.
"Relax," she whispered.
"I am relaxed," I gritted out into the cushion.
"You're essentially a rock," she murmured. Her thumbs dug into the tight muscle at the base of my neck.
It shouldn't have felt good. It should have been clinical. But the sensation of her skin on mine was intoxicating. It was the first time a female had touched me in months—the first time she had touched me.
She worked her thumbs into the knot, pushing deep. I groaned, a low, involuntary sound that vibrated in my chest.
Her hands paused for a fraction of a second, then resumed, pressing harder.
"You carry a lot of tension," she said softly. "You need to let go, Oakley."
Using my first name. A violation of the hierarchy.
"Don't call me that," I warned.
"Why?" she asked, her fingers trailing down my spine, tracing the line of the forest tattoo. "Are you afraid it makes you human?"
I lifted my head from the cradle, turning to look at her. She was standing right beside the table, her hip brushing against my arm. Her face was flushed, her eyes bright.
"I'm not human," I said, my voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "And you need to remember that."
"I know what you are," she said, her gaze dropping to my lips, then back to my eyes. "You made that very clear yesterday."
"Then why are you still here?" I demanded. "Why are you touching me?"
"Because," she said, and her hand moved, her thumb brushing against the sensitive skin of my neck, right over my pulse point. "I'm the only one who isn't afraid of you."
It was a lie. I could smell the fear radiating off her. But it was a brave lie.
I moved before I could stop myself.
My hand shot out, gripping her wrist. It wasn't painful, but it was absolute. I held her hand there, against my neck, forcing her to feel the thundering rhythm of my pulse.
"You should be," I told her, watching her pupils dilate until her eyes were almost black. "You have no idea how much I want to hurt you right now."
"Hurt me?" she whispered, her breath hitching.
"Mark you," I corrected, the truth tearing its way out of my throat. "Bite you. Ruin you for anyone else."
The air in the room vanished. We were suspended in the moment, the fluorescent lights humming above us, the smell of peppermint and vanilla choking me.
She didn't pull her hand away. Her fingers curled slightly, her nails scratching lightly against my skin.
"Then why don't you?" she breathed.
The question hung there. A dare. A plea.
My control fractured. Just a hairline crack, but enough for the heat to escape.
"Because," I said, releasing her wrist and pushing myself off the table, backing away until my back hit the cabinets. "If I start, Faye... I won't be able to stop."
I grabbed my hoodie and stormed out of the room, leaving her standing there with her hands covered in oil and my scent clinging to her skin.
I made it to the hallway before my knees buckled. I leaned against the cool concrete wall, gasping for air.
Forced proximity.
This wasn't just a clinical rotation. This was a cage match. And I was terrified that I was going to lose.