Chapter 6
Riley
The fluorescent lights of the lecture hall hummed with a frequency that felt like a drill boring directly into my skull. Professor Halloway was droning on about Cognitive Dissonance in High-Performance Athletes, pacing back and forth in front of a whiteboard covered in diagrams of the human brain.
Cognitive Dissonance, I wrote in my notebook. The state of having inconsistent thoughts, beliefs, or attitudes, especially as relating to behavioral decisions and attitude change.
I stared at the definition. The ink blurred.
Inconsistent thoughts. That was the understatement of the century.
My brain was currently a war zone. On one side, there was the logical, rational Riley Bennett—the scholarship student, the stats nerd, the girl who organized her sock drawer by fabric weight.
That Riley knew, with absolute statistical certainty, that getting involved with Spike Thorne was a catastrophic error.
It was like walking into a nuclear reactor without a hazmat suit.
On the other side was... Her.
The Riley who had sat on a kitchen table in a blizzard, legs wrapped around a two-hundred-and-forty-pound wolf shifter.
The Riley who had whimpered when he bit her neck.
The Riley who had confessed her deepest secret—her virginity—not out of shame, but out of a desperate need to give him everything.
I touched my neck. I was wearing a turtleneck today, despite the fact that the heating in the lecture hall was cranked up to tropical levels. Beneath the thick wool, right over my pulse point, was a bruise.
It wasn't dark. It was a faint, purple-ish love bite where Spike’s teeth had grazed the skin. He hadn't broken the skin—he had been terrifyingly gentle after my confession—but the mark was there. A brand.
Mine.
The memory of his voice, that low, gravelly growl, sent a jolt of heat straight to my core. I shifted in my seat, crossing my legs tight.
"Miss Bennett?"
I snapped my head up. Professor Halloway was looking at me over his spectacles. The entire class of thirty students turned to stare.
"I... I'm sorry?" I stammered, feeling the flush rise up my neck.
"I asked for an example of cognitive dissonance in a sports setting," Halloway said, tapping his marker against the board. "Since you seem to be deep in thought."
Example: Wanting to be safe, but craving the monster.
Example: Knowing he’s dangerous, but feeling safer in his arms than anywhere else.
"A player," I managed to say, my voice steadying with effort. "A player who believes he is a team player, but consistently takes selfish penalties. He justifies the aggression as protection, creating a conflict between his self-image and his actions."
Halloway nodded, satisfied. "Precisely. The 'Enforcer's Paradox.' Good."
He turned back to the board.
I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding.
"Enforcer's Paradox," whispered a voice beside me. "Sounds like someone we know."
I flinched. Maya was sitting next to me, chewing on the end of her pen. She was looking at me with eyes that were far too perceptive for a Monday morning.
"I was speaking theoretically," I hissed back, keeping my eyes forward.
"Theoretically," Maya mimicked. She leaned closer, lowering her voice. " speaking of theory... where were you all weekend? Your location sharing was off. You didn't answer my texts. And you're wearing a turtleneck that looks like it belongs to a fisherman."
"I was working," I lied. The lie tasted like ash. "Coach Miller sent me to prep the Blackwood Cabin for the retreat. No signal up there."
"Alone?"
"No. Henderson went with me."
I didn't blink. It was a solid lie. Henderson was safe.
Maya narrowed her eyes. She sniffed the air subtly. Being human, she couldn't smell pheromones or mating bonds, but she had an uncanny nose for bullshit.
"You smell like pine," she noted. "And... something else. Is that men's body wash? Old Spice? No... something sharper."
"It's the cabin, Maya. It smells like woodsmoke." I opened my textbook aggressively. "Can we focus? This final is thirty percent of our grade."
Maya sat back, but she didn't look convinced. "Fine. Focus. But later, we are having a debrief. Because you have the vibe of a girl who has seen things. Dirty things."
I ignored her, staring at the whiteboard until the lines turned into squiggles.
I hadn't seen dirty things. I had seen intimate things.
I had seen Spike Thorne sleeping on the couch while I studied, his face relaxed and unguarded.
I had seen him cook eggs one-handed, cursing when he dropped a shell.
I had seen the way he looked at me when he thought I wasn't watching—like I was a puzzle he was desperate to solve but terrified to touch.
We hadn't had sex. After the moment on the table, after the confession, he had pulled back. He had become the perfect gentleman. Or, the perfect warden. He kept a respectful distance, but the air between us crackled with so much unspent tension it felt like living inside a thundercloud.
We drove back this morning in near silence. He dropped me at my dorm before sunrise to avoid being seen.
Avoid being seen.
That was the reality now. We had a secret. A secret that could ruin his career and get me expelled.
The Sanctuary was usually my escape, but today, it felt like a cage.
The afternoon practice was in full swing. I could hear the whistles blowing and the skates carving ice through the heavy metal doors of the equipment room.
I was sorting jerseys. Home whites. Away blacks. Practice reds.
Separate. Sort. Label.
It was therapeutic. Until the door banged open and the team started filtering in off the ice.
The noise level went from zero to one hundred instantly. The smell of sweat—sharp, pungent, masculine—filled the small room. Cleats clattered on the concrete floor. Laughter echoed off the metal cages.
"Bennett!" Jax, the coyote shifter, leaned over the counter, dripping sweat. "My left skate feels weird. I think I blew an edge. Can you check it?"
"Put it on the bench," I said, keeping my head down. "I'll sharpen it after practice."
"You're a lifesaver. Hey, did you hear? Thorne is on a warpath today. He checked Miller's son into the boards. In a scrimmage." Jax shook his head, water flying from his hair. "Dude is wound tight. He needs to get laid, or get therapy. Probably both."
My hands stilled on the pile of jerseys.
"He's probably just stressed about midterms," I said neutrally.
"Nah. This is different. He's... distracted." Jax leaned closer, his voice dropping. "He keeps checking the stands. Like he's looking for someone."
I felt the heat rise in my cheeks.
"Move, dog," a deep voice rumbled from the doorway.
The room went quiet. The chatter died down.
Spike walked in.
He was wearing his full gear, minus the helmet. He looked massive. The shoulder pads added six inches to his width, making him fill the doorframe completely. His face was flushed from exertion, his hair wet and messy.
But his eyes were cold.
He didn't look at Jax. He didn't look at the other guys. He looked straight at me.
For a second—just a heartbeat—the mask slipped.
His eyes flared with recognition. His gaze dropped to my neck, to the high collar of my sweater, and I knew he was remembering exactly what was underneath it.
I saw his nostrils flare as he inhaled, catching my scent through the reek of the locker room.
My heart hammered a frantic rhythm. Thump-thump-thump.
Then, the wall slammed back down. His face went blank. Indifferent.
"Towel," he barked, holding out a hand.
Not Riley. Not Mouse. No banter. Just a command.
I felt the sting of it like a slap. I knew why he was doing it. We were in public. He couldn't show favor to the Latent. He couldn't let the pack know that forty-eight hours ago, he had his face buried in my neck.
But it still hurt.
I grabbed a clean white towel from the stack and walked to the counter. I held it out.
He reached for it.
Our fingers brushed.
It was an accident—or maybe it wasn't. But the contact was electric. A static shock snapped between us, loud enough to be heard.
Spike flinched. He snatched the towel away, his jaw tightening.
"Thanks," he grunted, turning his back on me instantly.
"Spike!"
The voice was high, feminine, and demanding.
Vera sashayed into the equipment room. She wasn't supposed to be here—it was a players-only zone—but no one told the Cheer Captain no.
She was wearing her uniform, the short skirt and tight top leaving little to the imagination.
She looked perfect. She looked like she belonged here, amidst the sweat and the testosterone.
She walked right up to Spike and placed a hand on his arm. His bicep flexed under her touch.
"You promised to look at the routine for the halftime show," she pouted, leaning into him. "We changed the music. It’s much more... aggressive. You’ll like it."
Spike looked down at her. He didn't push her away. He stood there, the Alpha King with his Queen.
"I'm busy, Vera," he said, but his voice lacked the sharp edge he had used with me. It was tired. Resigned.
"You're always busy," she sighed, tracing a finger over the logo on his jersey. "Make time. Tonight. My room?"
She wasn't whispering. She wanted everyone to hear. She wanted me to hear.
I stood behind the wire mesh of the counter, clutching a dirty jersey to my chest. I felt small. I felt invisible. I felt like the foolish, naive girl who thought a weekend in a cabin meant something.
Spike didn't say yes. But he didn't say no.
"I have to study," he said flatly. "I have a session with the tutor."
" Still?" Vera glanced over at me. Her blue eyes were shards of ice. She looked at me like I was a stain on the floor. "Haven't you taught him how to read yet, Bennett? Or are you just dragging it out to stay on the payroll?"
The insult was crude, but it hit its mark. The other guys in the room snickered nervously.
I opened my mouth to defend myself, to say something sharp and witty, but my throat closed up.