Chapter One #2
I’m proud of myself and the work I put in today. A few more weeks of this, and I’ll be opening a shop with a million-dollar prize backing it. I refuse to even entertain the possibility of losing. Not now. Not after everything.
Eric skips over to my station and collapses against my table like he’s just survived a battlefield, one dramatic hand flung over his forehead.
“I don’t think I’ve ever worked so hard in my life,” he groans.
“Two half sleeves in one day, and I barely finished the second one.” He peers at me with exaggerated misery.
“We’d better win this thing if that’s the kind of suffering I’m expected to endure. ”
“Don’t be so melodramatic,” I say, crossing my arms and slouching lower in my chair. My back is screaming in protest now, but I refuse to acknowledge it.
“Who’s being melodramatic?” Eric gasps. “I. Would. Never. In my life. Be. Melodramatic.” He clutches at imaginary pearls like he’s auditioning for community theater.
I chuckle at his antics. He could give William Shatner a run for his money. I’m enjoying my rest right up until a voice I hoped I’d never hear again slices clean through the moment and freezes me in place.
“Fylgja? That you?”
I drop my chin to my chest and let out a quiet, defeated groan. Of course, he’s here.
“Hale?” the voice tries again, softer now. Uncertain.
For half a second, I consider pretending I’m someone else. A stranger. A man named… I don’t know, Dave. Dave doesn’t have beef with this walking problem. Dave lives a peaceful life.
“Oh, Hale,” Eric says loudly, leaning in with unholy glee. “How do you know this hunky guy? Past hookup? Future hookup? Please tell me before the suspense kills me.”
Well. There goes my plan of being a mature adult.
“Fuck,” I mutter as I stand and turn to face my past. “Hey, Aksel.”
Eric lets out a low whistle. He knows exactly who Aksel is. His name comes up frequently when alcohol is involved.
“I knew it was you,” Aksel says, barely sparing Eric a glance before his focus locks back onto me. He looks me over slowly, thoroughly, like he’s committing me to memory all over again. I have to consciously stop myself from shivering.
Stupid hormones.
Stupid alpha.
Stupid everything.
“I’m competing,” he adds.
I’m so distracted by the way his eyes are dragging over me that it takes a few seconds for the words to actually sink in. When they do, my stomach drops somewhere near my feet and I make a sound that’s… not dignified.
“Huh?” I manage.
Eric, traitor that he is, gently closes my hanging jaw with two fingers and helpfully repeats, “He said he’s competing.”
I smack Eric’s hand away. “I heard what he said. I was hoping I was hallucinating or actively having a stroke.”
“Not hallucinating, Fylgja,” Aksel says smoothly, that infuriatingly arrogant smirk locking into place like it never left.
“Stroke’s still on the table, though, babe,” Eric adds, already reaching for my face. “Hold still, I wanna check your pupils.”
“No.” My brain finally catches up, and all that shock snaps straight into rage. I step into Aksel’s space, aggressive and deliberate, the toes of my beat-up boots pressing against his stupidly expensive sneakers. “No fucking way are you taking this away from me, too.”
I thought I was done competing with Aksel Winther. I left the state. I rebuilt my life. There is no universe where he was supposed to be here.
Did he follow me?
That’s ridiculous. I was never more than a pathetic background character in his perfectly scripted life. This isn’t fate. It’s a cruel joke from some vengeful god who apparently still has beef with me over something I did in a past life.
He blows out a sharp breath, puffing his cheeks before speaking. “You’re not seriously still pissed about something that happened eight years ago. Are you?”
Eric, traitor to our entire friendship, answers for me without hesitation. “Oh yeah, he’s still very pissed. Last week at margarita and taco night, he went on a whole rant about the asshole who stole his life, starting with his seat in the fourth grade. It’s kind of his signature drunk story.”
I shoot Eric a death glare so intense he should be thanking whatever deity he believes in that we’re in public with witnesses. My cheeks burn as I turn back to Aksel, but I plaster on a scowl and hope it hides the humiliation.
“I didn’t take your fucking life, dude,” Aksel snaps, slamming his shoulder into mine as he storms past. “Get over yourself.”
His cinnamon scent hits me like a punch to the gut, and I hate, hate, that my body reacts the same way it did eight years ago.
I track him as he walks away, jaw clenched, teeth grinding when my eyes betray me and latch onto the perfectly round globes of his ass.
Fuck.
He’s broader now. His shoulders are wider, his thighs thicker, his hair cropped shorter. His tan looks earned, not inherited. If it’s even possible, he’s more attractive than he was in high school.
I hate that I still want him. I hate that my eyes follow him until he disappears into the crowd. And I really hate my best friend for telling him I still think about him.
Eric clears his throat, breaking the silence I’m stewing in. “So,” he says carefully, “that was Aksel.”
I don’t answer.
“He’s… significantly hotter than you ever admitted,” Eric continues, clearly choosing chaos. “Which might explain why you’re so mad. Is it because you want to fuck him? Because honestly, that would upset me too, sugar.”
I turn slowly toward him.
“But,” he presses on, unstoppable now, “he wants it just as bad. If I were you, I would’ve climbed that tree years ago. Unless he’s not into omegas? But come on. All alphas are into omegas. So that’s not it.”
I stare at him, breathing slowly, counting in my head like I’m trying not to commit a felony.
Eric grins. “What? I’m connecting dots.”
I shake my head and let out a low growl, deep in the back of my throat.
I’m ignoring him. All of it. Aksel, Eric, the past. I’m done engaging for the rest of the day.
I worked too hard to get here, and I’ll be damned if I let Aksel Winther ruin what should’ve been a great day.
I’m winning that prize money if it kills me.
The monotone woman announces we’re free to go and that filming for the first round of eliminations will start next Wednesday.
The second she’s done speaking, I bail. I leave Eric to pack our shit on his own and head through the hotel toward the elevators.
He knows better than to complain. He owes me after that circus earlier.
The marble floors gleam under the lights, and a massive fountain gurgles softly nearby as I wait.
The elevator doors slide open without a sound, Elvis crooning from hidden speakers as I step inside.
By the time the doors close, the stale air mixed with lavender cleaner is burning my nostrils.
The lift shoots up, zipping past several floors before jolting to an abrupt stop.
I walk down the seemingly endless hallway, carpet swallowing the sound of my steps. When I finally reach my room, I swipe my keycard and wait.
Red.
I try again.
Red.
I sigh and swipe it two more times just to be sure, and each time the stupid little light mocks me by refusing to turn green. Growling, I kick the door and immediately regret it, hopping back and clutching my foot like an idiot.
“What are you doing?”
I drop my foot and spin around.
Aksel stands in the doorway across from mine, fresh from the shower and dripping wet, wearing nothing but a towel slung low on his hips.
My mouth goes dry.
A bead of water slides from his collarbone down the deep V of his waist, and my eyes traitorously follow it.
His tattoos, black and gray, clean and deliberate, are scattered across his skin in a way that looks unintentional yet perfectly planned.
My stare screeches to a halt when I notice the tattoo on his left pec.
A simple outline of a siren tail.
…Weird.
I realize I’ve been staring for way longer than is socially acceptable, and snap my gaze away. I clear my throat, loud and awkward. “Uh… I'm locked out of my room.” I hate how breathy my voice sounds.
He steps toward me without hesitation, plucks the keycard from my hand, and gently but firmly moves me aside with both hands on my shoulders. My brain shorts out completely. Towel. Wet skin. Heat. He holds the card to the scanner.
Beep. Beep.
The light turns green.
“What the fuck,” I mutter. Even the door is against me. “I swear it wasn’t working a second ago.”
He pulls on the handle and swings the door open before slipping the keycard into the back pocket of my old jeans with an eyebrow raised expectantly.
“Thanks,” I murmur reluctantly, assuming he was waiting for some gratitude.
He sends me his signature cocky smirk as he walks backwards towards his open room.
“Welcome, Fylgja,” he answers smugly before his door clicks shut behind him.
I growl impotently once he's gone. I hate that stupid fucking nickname. I tried googling it once when we were in high school, but I could never spell it right. I still don’t know what it means, and it drives me crazy if I think about it too hard.
I pick up my bag and stumble inside, leaning heavily against the closed door. Sliding down until my ass hits the carpet, my mind is a jumble of racing thoughts. I shift uncomfortably, refusing to look down at my dick. I already know what I’ll see.
I’m hard.
And wet.
I always am around Aksel.
I hate my reaction to him. You would think years of never seeing each other would lessen the attraction, but nope. If anything, it's gotten worse.
Fuck.
My.
Life.