6. Wren #2
Lucian doesn’t speak. Not at first. He just watches me, gray eyes unreadable beneath the low lights. Then, like he has all the time in the world, he slowly steps closer.
My spine stiffens.
Another step.
The sound of his boots is too casual, too calm. Out of place in the tension-riddled room.
Unconsciously, I mirror his movements, stepping back every time he steps forward. It’s effective…until my back hits the wall, leaving me with nowhere to go.
“Darkness strips everything away,” he finally says, voice low, rough. “No lies. No masks. Only the truth…”
He advances toward me, and I force my hand to stay still until he’s right in front of me.
The cold metal glints under the fluorescents as I bring the blade to the hollow of his throat.
I don’t press it into his skin, but I hold it there, the threat clear—that if he so much as breathes wrong, I’m not afraid to draw blood.
Unflinching, his eyes don’t leave mine.
I don’t look away either.
I should be scared. Maybe I am. But the fear is buried under something stronger. Something wilder. I don’t even recognize myself in this moment.
“Give me a reason,” I dare, voice as cold as the steel I’m holding.
Something sparks in his eyes. Excitement. Challenge. It’s certainly not what I’d been expecting.
And then?
He smiles.
Not a kind one. It’s not one of amusement. It’s not even a victorious smile. It’s possessive. Like I just confirmed something for him he’s been dying to know.
That he was right about me.
That I’m not soft.
That I’d draw blood if I had to.
We stand in silence for another beat, locked in some unspoken test neither of us is willing to lose. Finally, his eyes flick down, like he’s cataloging me. Not sexually. More like, he’s seeing straight through to the core of my being. Noting every bit of hardship and trauma that makes me me.
I wish he wouldn’t. Wish I didn’t feel so transparent to him, but no amount of covering up is going to keep him from seeing whatever it is he’s looking for.
By the time he finally takes a step back, something has shifted between us. I can’t name it, but the air is heavier, charged with an energy I can’t pinpoint. Or perhaps I just don’t want to.
“People think pain makes you weak, but it doesn’t. It makes you dangerous,” he says cryptically, eyes running over me appraisingly before he retreats into the shadows. “I see you, Wren Winslow, and I’m not going away. Not until you see me, too.”
What the hell does that mean?
I sense the absence of his presence when he slips from the room, leaving me alone once again. Still, I don’t move until the door closes firmly behind him.
When I do, it’s only to release my held breath, the shaky sound loud in the silent room. I stare down at the skate still gripped in my hand, attempting to understand what just happened. I faced off against Lucian Caulfield…and survived.
Adrenaline and something heady, something…intoxicating, pumps around my body. A small, hesitant smile slowly stretches across my face until hysterical laughter breaks free. Dropping the skate now that I’m alone, I double over, laughing until I’m gasping for air.
I feel empowered. Unhinged. Fractured, and yet like some part of me has been pieced back together.
And I have no idea what it all means.
The conference room is already half-full when I walk in, the tray of coffee cups balanced in both hands and a stack of printed schedules tucked under my arm.
No one looks my way. They’re too busy talking—players slouched in chairs, admin clustered near the whiteboard, Coach pacing near the front like he’s gearing up for battle.
Dean Carver catches my eye from across the room and makes a circular motion with his fingers, like hurry up, as if I’ve somehow delayed the meeting by not teleporting in here ten minutes ago.
I plaster on a smile and weave through the room, setting paper cups in front of everyone who either ignores me or mutters a distracted “thanks.” Approaching Carver, I hand over his coffee.
“Where are the schedules?” he demands.
“Here.” With my hands finally free, I offer him the neatly collated stack. However, instead of taking them, he lifts his chin to the room. “Distribute them.” He’s already turning back to his conversation, dismissing me.
I bite the inside of my cheek and move through the room, handing schedules to each player and staff member. A few players thank me. Quinn, the quiet freshman goalie, flashes a grateful smile, but most of them are distracted, skimming the page before tossing it on the table.
Having deliberately started at the front of the room, I swallow nervously as I reach the back row of players where Lucian, Silas, and Ronan are seated.
The air shifts the second I step into their space, and I hand out their schedules without meeting their eyes.
Ronan leans forward in his seat, and as he takes the schedule from my outstretched hand, he murmurs, “You can pretend we don’t exist, but that doesn’t mean we don’t see you.”
His words are a strange echo of Lucian’s from the other night, and I have to ask myself, what the hell is wrong with these psychos? It’s like my telling them to leave me alone was waving a red flag in front of a bull, and now they’re more incensed than ever to barge their way into my space.