Chapter 9
Spike
The Hive was vibrating.
It wasn't a metaphor. The bass from the sound system was so loud that the floorboards were physically shaking beneath my boots. The air was a suffocating soup of body heat, spilled beer, and the triumphant pheromones of thirty victorious shifters.
We had won. We had beaten the Storm. We were going to the finals.
I should have been celebrating. I should have been doing a keg stand or letting Vera drape herself over me like a trophy.
Instead, I was standing in the kitchen, staring at a red Solo cup filled with lukewarm water, wishing I was anywhere else.
My head was pounding. A dull, rhythmic throb behind my eyes that synced perfectly with the thump-thump-thump of the music. The cut on my forehead stung where the sweat seeped into it. My ribs ached with every breath.
But the physical pain was nothing compared to the noise in my head.
Too volatile. Ticking time bomb.
The scout's words were on a loop. He was right. I knew he was right. I had almost lost it out there. If I hadn't looked up... if I hadn't felt Riley watching me...
I looked across the room.
She was sitting on the granite island, legs dangling, looking completely out of place and yet entirely at home. She was wearing her armor again—the oversized hoodie—but she had pushed the sleeves up. She was laughing at something Jax was saying, her head thrown back, her throat exposed.
She looked radiant.
And she looked exhausted.
I saw the way her shoulders slumped slightly when she thought no one was looking. I saw the way she rubbed her temple, fighting a headache. She was here because she thought I needed her. Because she thought she had to "ground" me.
"Hey, Butcher!"
A slap on my back nearly sent me into the counter. It was Miller, our center. He was drunk, grinning, and swaying slightly.
"Great game, man! That hit on Volkov? Legendary! You should have popped his head like a grape!"
"Yeah," I muttered, moving away. "Legendary."
"Where you going? The party's just starting! Vera's looking for you. She says she has a surprise."
"Tell her I'm dead," I said, pushing past him.
I needed air. I needed silence. I needed Riley.
I cut through the crowd, ignoring the cheers, the high-fives, the hands grabbing at my jersey. I was a shark moving through a school of minnows.
I reached the island. Jax saw me coming and wisely slid off the counter.
"Incoming," Jax whispered to Riley. "The brooding cloud has arrived."
Riley looked up. Her smile faded, replaced by a look of concern that made my chest ache. She scanned me instantly—checking the cut on my head, the tension in my jaw, the way I was holding my side.
"You okay?" she mouthed over the noise.
"No," I said, leaning in close so only she could hear. "I'm done. I'm leaving."
"Okay," she said immediately. She hopped off the counter. "I'll drive."
"You don't have a car."
"I'll drive the truck. I assume it's automatic? I can't drive stick."
I almost smiled. almost. "You're not driving my truck, Mouse. It's bigger than your dorm room."
"Then we walk," she said firmly. "The fresh air will be good for your head."
"And bad for your toes," I countered, looking at her boots.
"I'll survive. Let's go."
She grabbed my hand.
Just like that. In the middle of the kitchen, surrounded by half the football team and the entire cheer squad, she grabbed the hand of the Apex Alpha.
People stared. I saw whispers start. I saw Vera across the room, her eyes narrowing into slits.
I didn't care.
I laced my fingers through Riley's. Her hand was small, warm, and solid. It felt like the only real thing in the room.
"Lead the way," I said.
The silence outside was a physical relief.
We walked away from the Hive, the thumping bass fading with every step until it was just a murmur in the distance. The night was cold, crisp, and clear. The snow crunched under our boots.
We didn't speak for a long time. We just walked, hand in hand, through the dark campus.
I was hyper-aware of her. The way her breath puffed out in white clouds. The way she shivered slightly when the wind picked up. The way her thumb rubbed against the back of my hand, a soothing, repetitive motion.
"You're quiet," she said finally, as we cut through the quad.
"Thinking," I rumbled.
"About the scout?"
"About everything." I stopped walking. We were under a streetlamp, the yellow light casting long shadows on the snow. "About how I almost ruined everything tonight."
"Spike, stop." She turned to face me, tugging on my hand. "You didn't ruin anything. You played a great game. You won."
"I didn't win," I said harshly. "Jax won. I sat in the penalty box like a naughty puppy."
"You sat in the box like a man who chose not to commit murder," she corrected. "That's a win in my book."
She stepped closer. She reached up and touched the bandage on my forehead.
"Does it hurt?"
"Only when I think," I joked weakly.
"Then stop thinking." She rose on her tiptoes and kissed my chin. "Just be. You're allowed to just be tired, Spike. You don't always have to be the monster or the hero."
"What if I'm neither?" I whispered, looking down at her. "What if I'm just... empty?"
"Then let me fill you up," she said.
The words were innocent, but they hit me like a sledgehammer.
Let me fill you up.
I looked at her lips. I looked at the pulse fluttering in her neck.
The exhaustion in my bones evaporated, replaced by a sudden, fierce hunger.
"Riley," I warned, my voice dropping an octave. "Be careful what you offer."
"I'm not offering," she said, her eyes dark and serious. "I'm insisting. Come back to my place."
I froze. "Your dorm?"
"No. Not the dorm. My... my sanctuary."
"The equipment room?"
"No." She bit her lip. "My actual sanctuary. The one place on campus no one knows about."
She led me to the Art Building.
It was on the edge of campus, an old brick structure with massive windows. It was dark, locked up for the night.
"Riley," I said as she pulled a key from her pocket. "Breaking and entering?"
"I have a key," she said, unlocking the side door. "I model for the life drawing classes sometimes. For extra cash. They let me use the studio when it's empty."
She models.
The image of Riley—naked, still, surrounded by artists—flashed in my mind. My blood heated instantly.
"Fully clothed," she added quickly, seeing the look on my face. "Usually."
She led me up the stairs to the top floor.
The studio was incredible. It was a massive loft space with skylights that let in the moonlight. It smelled of turpentine, oil paint, and clay. It was silent. peaceful.
In the center of the room was a raised platform with a velvet chaise lounge and a few easels.
"This is it," she said, dropping her bag on the floor. "The only place where I'm not the Stats Girl or the Tutor. I'm just... a shape. A subject."
She walked over to a small cabinet and pulled out a bottle of water and a first aid kit.
"Sit," she ordered, pointing to the chaise.
I sat. The velvet was soft against my jeans. I felt huge in this room, clumsy and dangerous amidst the delicate art supplies.
Riley walked over to me. She stood between my spread knees, just like in the equipment room. But this time, there was no Coach Miller to interrupt. There was no deadline.
"Shirt off," she said softly.
I looked at her. "Riley..."
"You're bleeding through the bandage on your ribs," she said, pointing to the dark stain on my t-shirt. "And you need ice on that shoulder. Shirt. Off."
I pulled my shirt over my head and tossed it aside.
The cool air hit my skin, followed immediately by the warmth of her gaze.
She looked at me. Not with fear. Not with lust (though that was there too). She looked at me with reverence.
She reached out and traced the new bruise on my ribs. It was a nasty purple-black splotch the size of a dinner plate.
"God, Spike," she whispered. "Does this hurt?"
"Not when you touch it," I lied. It hurt like hell. But her touch was a balm.
She opened the first aid kit. She cleaned the cut on my forehead with gentle, efficient movements. She taped up my ribs. She got an ice pack from a mini-fridge in the corner and pressed it to my shoulder.
I sat there, letting her tend to me. It was intimate in a way sex never could be. It was domestic. It was surrender.
"You have beautiful skin," she murmured, wiping a smudge of dirt from my collarbone. "Like bronze."
"It's scarred," I grunted. "And tattooed."
"The scars are history," she said. "The tattoos are art."
She put the supplies down. She didn't step back.
She stood there, her hands resting on my bare shoulders, her thumbs rubbing small circles into the tense muscle.
"You're so tight," she whispered. "You carry the weight of the world right here."
"Someone has to carry it."
"Not tonight."
She leaned down and kissed my shoulder. Then my collarbone. Then the hollow of my throat.
My breath hitched. My hands came up to grip her waist.
"Riley," I groaned. "What are you doing?"
"I'm taking care of you," she breathed against my skin. "Is that okay?"
"It's dangerous."
"I like danger."
She moved her hands to my face, tilting my head up. She kissed me.
It started slow. Soft. A tasting. A question.
Can I?
Yes.
I opened my mouth, inviting her in. She took the invitation. Her tongue swept against mine, tasting of peppermint and desire.
The kiss deepened. I pulled her closer, until her thighs were pressed against the inside of mine. The heat of her body seeped through her jeans, igniting the fire in my blood.
I wanted her. I wanted her so bad I was shaking with it.
But I remembered the truck. I remembered the promise.
You deserve a bed. You deserve time.
We had a chaise lounge. We had all night.
I broke the kiss, gasping. "Riley."
"Don't stop," she whimpered, chasing my lips.
"I'm not stopping," I promised. "I'm just... changing the angle."
I stood up.
She gasped as I towered over her.
I picked her up.
She wrapped her legs around my waist instinctively. I carried her three steps to the edge of the platform, where a stack of blankets sat. I kicked them out, making a makeshift nest on the floor.
I laid her down.
She looked up at me, her hair haloed around her head on the blankets, her eyes wide and dark. She looked like an offering.
"You're beautiful," I rasped. "You're a masterpiece."
I knelt over her. I didn't touch her skin yet. I just hovered, letting the anticipation build.
"Take it off," I whispered, nodding at her hoodie.
She sat up. She pulled the hoodie off. underneath, she was wearing a simple white tank top. It was thin. I could see the outline of her lace bra. I could see the hardness of her nipples.
"The pants too," I said, my voice thick.
She hesitated for a second, then shimmied out of her jeans.
She was left in the tank top and black panties. Her legs were pale, smooth, perfect.
I groaned, a low sound of appreciation that vibrated in the quiet room.
"My turn," she whispered.
I stood up and shucked my jeans and boxers in one movement.
I heard her sharp intake of breath as she saw me fully. I was hard. Painfully hard. And big.
"Oh," she breathed.
"Too much?" I asked, terrified I would scare her.
"No," she said quickly. "Just... impressive."
I knelt back down between her legs. I didn't lie on top of her. I was too heavy. I supported my weight on my forearms, caging her.
"Riley," I said, looking into her eyes. "Are you sure? We can stop. We can just sleep."
"If you sleep," she said, reaching up to run her hands over my chest, "I will kill you."
I laughed. A real laugh.
"Okay," I said. "No sleeping."
I kissed her. Deep. Hard. Passionate.
My hand moved down her body. Over the soft curve of her stomach. To the band of her panties.
I slipped my hand inside.
She was wet. So wet.
"Spike," she moaned, arching her hips into my hand.
"I've got you," I whispered. "I've got you, Mouse."
I started to touch her. Slowly at first, learning her rhythm. Then faster. Harder.
She writhed beneath me, her hands gripping my shoulders, her nails digging in.
"That's it," I praised her. "Feel that? That's all for you."
"I need you," she gasped. "Inside. Please."
"Not yet."
I wanted to make her unravel first. I wanted to see her come apart in my hands.
I moved my head down. I kissed her stomach. Her hip bone.
I hooked my fingers in her panties and pulled them down.
She was naked. Vulnerable. Mine.
I positioned myself between her legs. I lifted her hips.
And then, for the first time in my life, I bowed my head not in prayer, but in devotion.
I tasted her.
She screamed. It was a shattered, beautiful sound that echoed off the skylights.
I drank her in. The honey. The vanilla. The salt.
She tasted like home.
"Spike! Spike, please!"
She was close. I could feel her muscles tightening, her breath coming in short gasps.
"Let go," I commanded against her skin. "Give it to me."
She shattered.
She arched off the floor, crying out my name, her body convulsing in wave after wave of pleasure.
I held her through it. I kissed her thighs. I stroked her hair.
When she finally settled back down, limp and panting, I moved up to hover over her face again.
She looked wrecked. beautiful.
"Wow," she whispered.
"Yeah," I agreed. "Wow."
"Is it... is it my turn now?" she asked, her eyes fluttering open.
I looked at her. I was painfully hard, aching to bury myself in her. But I saw the exhaustion creeping back into her eyes. I saw the way her body was heavy with release.
And I knew that taking her virginity tonight—here on the floor of an art studio, after a brutal game—wasn't right. She needed a bed. She needed to be fully present.
"Next time," I promised, kissing her forehead. "Tonight, we just hold each other."
She looked disappointed, but also relieved.
"You're frustrated," she said, glancing down at me.
"I'll live."
I pulled the blankets over us. I pulled her into my arms, her back to my chest, spooning her.
"Sleep, Riley," I whispered into her hair. "I've got the watch."
She fell asleep within minutes, her breathing evening out.
I lay awake for a long time, watching the moonlight filter through the glass, listening to the wind outside.
I was aching. I was sore. I was sexually frustrated.
And I had never been happier.
I held her tighter, silently daring the world to try and take her from me.
Mine, the Wolf purred, finally settling down to sleep.
Ours, the man agreed.