Chapter 18 Ryker
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Ryker
I grit my teeth, tension coiling low in my chest, hands clenching and unclenching like I could will it away. I’m a mess.
Every part of me feels like it’s been rewired, snapped tighter than it’s ever been, and I can’t shake the memory of her. God, she’s everywhere in my mind.
The second I closed her door behind me this morning, leaving the soft warmth of her house behind, I felt it—the ache that comes from being too close and not close enough.
Her skin had been impossibly soft under my hands, the pink flush along her cheeks and neck matching the warmth I felt spread through me.
Her lips had been wet and trembling as she muttered complaints about feeling hot, feeling sick, and then the sight of her—the damn pink panties, the tightness of her body pressed against mine for just a second—had burned itself into my memory.
I’d had to clamp down, grind my teeth, and sit on the edge of my own control like some kind of monk with a secret that could ruin me.
She’d been a storm, clambering into my lap as if I was the only safe place left in the world. The way she had curled toward me, whispering incoherently about dreams and the three of us (me, Dorian, and Jude) fucking her… and then her stupid solutions for heartbreak.
It had been pure torture listening to her talk about how I should try to fuck Dorian out of her system… and all I could do was watch and breathe.
I knew she was drunk. I knew I wasn’t supposed to touch her.
But my body hadn’t received the memo.
My chest ached with desire and frustration, my hands fisted into my jeans as I endured every word she muttered in feverish, slurred tones.
I slept on the end of the bed last night, every muscle taut, my pulse racing every time she shifted.
I forced myself to breathe slowly, to tell myself that I was patient, that she needed care more than attention. But my mind refused to let go.
Even then, I could feel it—every curve, every freckle, the subtle shift of her body as she tried to get comfortable, and the pink of her lips, the faint heat of her skin radiating toward me.
Now, back home, the shower running hot behind me, I’m gripping the memory like it’s a lifeline. I can still feel her hair tickling my shoulder, the warmth of her knees pressed briefly against my thighs, the sound of her voice, soft and unsure, hiccupping around the edges of her words.
It twists something low and dangerous inside me, a coil of frustration and need that I can’t unravel.
She’s so fucking pretty, every little freckle, the way her body moves, the way it presses into mine even when she doesn’t mean to. My chest tightens just remembering it.
And yet, there’s this ache—this gnawing frustration. I’ve never been this torn up in my life, not like this. Not from anyone. I’m used to control, used to patience, used to holding back. But she… she shreds all that.
She makes me want things I can’t take, makes me ache for things I shouldn’t even imagine.
But I let my imagination run, filling in the gaps, because reality is merciless. I picture her in my arms, fevered and warm, every curve alive under my hands, freckles scattered like stars along her skin, lips parted, vulnerable, calling something only I could hear.
I can feel the pull of her, the low, magnetic tug of everything about her that is impossible to resist. I can almost smell her.
The ache runs down low in my chest and gut, and it makes me want to call her, touch her, demand her presence, but I can’t. I’d lose all the control I’ve spent the last twenty-four hours clawing to keep.
I take a deep breath, eyes closing, letting the tension roll over me in waves. The memory is vivid, intoxicating—her shifting closer in a feverish haze, the tightness of her body against mine, the soft weight of her leaning into me like she belonged.
She doesn’t. She belongs in her house, alive and oblivious to the storm she leaves behind in me.
And still, my pulse races just thinking about the way she practically climbed onto me, how helpless and human she was, how breathtakingly imperfect.
I close my eyes, taking a deep breath, trying to calm the heat, trying to remind myself of patience. I’m an Alpha. I hold back. I control.
But she is a force of nature, and last night’s memory has left me undone. Every heartbeat, every muscle twitch, every memory of her warmth, her vulnerability, her pink flush, twists me inside in a way I’ve never experienced.
I open my eyes, exhale, and lean against the wall, knowing I have to survive the rest of the day without losing myself entirely to these thoughts.
The ache remains, humming low and insistent, a reminder that she’s out there, oblivious, and I’m left to wrestle with the storm she’s left behind in me.
I step out of the shower and let the warm water linger on my skin longer than I should. I ignore my hard cock, toweling off and pulling on jeans and a flannel. The shirt goes on loose, covering most of me.
I head next door to Jude and Maisie. Rufus is sprawled in front of the fireplace, chest rising and falling in a deep sleep.
The fire flickers and warms the room, and my gaze lands on Maisie staring at a sheet of paper. Huge letters are written across it. Jude’s standing across from her, and she’s squinting, trying to make sense of the shapes.
I grab the coffee pot, pour myself a cup, and take a slow sip. The warmth runs down, steadying the restlessness coiling in me.
“Should I ask what’s going on?” I say, nodding toward the paper.
Jude shakes his head, grinning faintly. “I think Maisie needs glasses,” he says, like it’s a revelation. “I just realized it when I saw her straining to watch the TV this morning.”
I sip again, letting the heat slide down my throat. “Is there an optometrist open?”
Jude shakes his head. “I’ve got mine. I’ll take her there, and then we can head to the community hall to work.”
I tilt my head at him. His gaze flicks to me, concern lining his features.
“You okay? You look like you haven’t slept much.”
“I’m doing great,” I say, trying to sound casual, trying to convince myself of it.
Jude nods, satisfied, and moves toward Maisie. “I’ve had a hell of a time doing her hair in braids. Can you help?”
Maisie beams, all toothy and enthusiastic, and skips over with the comb. I gesture toward the table.
“Sit,” I tell her. She climbs up, legs swinging, and I start working, trying to separate strands and weave them into something resembling order.
The strands twist and pull, knotting faster than I can manage. My hands move clumsily, fumbling, tugging a little too hard, trying to follow the rhythm I’ve seen Jude use a dozen times.
Maisie hums happily, but every so often she winces, tugging a little at her hair. My patience frays, but I keep going, trying not to show it, trying to get it right.
Twenty minutes pass, and I haven’t made much progress. My shoulders ache from leaning over, my fingers sore from trying to manipulate the stubborn strands, and Maisie’s laughter bubbles through the room again.
I sigh, pushing the last loose strand down and shaking my head. “I’ve failed,” I tell her.
Maisie shrugs, still laughing. “It’s okay,” she says, her grin bright enough to make the frustration slip off me like water.
Jude comes back then, and I’m still hunched over, running my fingers through the last stubborn strand. He stops, hands on his hips, watching me for a beat. “I thought you’d at least be better at it than I was.”
“Same.”
“Damn! Okay, I guess I’ll watch some YouTube videos and try to figure it out. I’ll take her to see the optometrist now,” he says, nodding toward the door. “Then I’ll meet you at the site after.”
He pauses, and his gaze sweeps over me again, sharper this time. Concern is etched across his face, faint lines at the corners of his eyes.
“You’re okay?” he asks again, slower now, as if he doesn’t quite believe my previous words.
I straighten up, brushing imaginary dust from my jeans, and nod firmly. “I’m fine. I promise.”
Maisie tugs on my flannel, grinning mischievously. “Can we try again tomorrow?” she says, and I chuckle, shaking my head.
“Sure,” I tell her, but inside I know my skills won’t magically improve overnight. Still, her bright little smile makes the clumsy effort worth it.
I guess I’ll be watching YouTube videos as well.
“Have you walked the dog?” I ask.
My best friend nods. “Uh-huh. Just leave him something to chew on, and he’ll be okay.”
Jude steps toward the door, Maisie bouncing happily behind him, the air full of the soft clatter of her shoes on the wood floor.
“See you at the site,” Jude says over his shoulder, eyes flicking toward me once more. The concern doesn’t fade, but he trusts my words, I think.
At least for now.
Once the door clicks shut, I sink into the chair beside the fire, hands wrapping around the coffee cup. The warmth seeps in, easing the tension that’s coiled low in my muscles.
Rufus shifts, stretching beside the fire, tail wagging lazily. I glance down at him, a faint grin tugging at my lips, and take another sip of coffee.
The house is silent now, save for the occasional crackle of the fire. My body relaxes fractionally, shoulders loosening. I run a hand through my hair, feeling the exhaustion from the morning still clinging despite the shower.
My eyes drift to the strands of hair I left tangled on the comb, a reminder of my failed attempt at braiding. I shake my head, grinning ruefully. Patience isn’t my strong suit, but maybe persistence counts too.
I set the coffee cup on the table and lean back, watching the sunlight shift across the floor. The house smells faintly of burnt toast from breakfast, coffee, and the cozy warmth from the fire.
My chest still hums with tension, the low ache of yesterday’s memories still pressing.
I let my mind wander for a moment, letting the heat slide along the edges of memory, but then I glance at the clock and realize the day is moving faster than I expected.
I finish my coffee and stretch out, arms reaching above my head, muscles loosening. The ache in my chest, the low coil of tension, stays with me, a quiet reminder of things I can’t touch, moments I can’t replay beyond my own memory.
I tidy up the counter, stacking the coffee mugs and wiping stray crumbs from the table. Rufus yawns, rolling over by the fire, tail thumping lazily.
The house feels alive in the soft sunlight, but my mind keeps drifting, thinking about Norah and the warmth of last night, the way she’d pressed against me when she felt too hot, too feverish, too out of control.
I shake my head, smiling faintly at myself. She’s impossible, infuriating, and bright as the sun.
I run a hand down my jaw, brushing against stubble, feeling the tension in my shoulders ease slightly. Patience. Persistence. Focus.
I gather the few papers and supplies left on the table, moving toward the door to head out. The sun catches in the snow outside, making the world glint, sharp and clear.
I pause at the threshold, glance back at Rufus curled by the fire, and allow myself a small, private smile.
Last night was impossible, but I survived it.