Chapter 4 #2
Everyone filters out of the stadium in noisy clusters—families heading home, players ecstatic as they go on about celebrating their win.
The last place I want to be is crammed in a car with them, pretending like I’m okay when I’m not, but I’m good at hiding it.
I hang back, pressing myself against the cool concrete wall, letting the crowd thin until it's just stragglers and fading footsteps.
A few guys from the opposing team walk past, still damp from their showers, the scent of soap and adrenaline trailing behind them.
The sun is sinking low enough to paint everything gold; the wind bites at my bare skin, chills climbing up my arms. I rub at them half-heartedly, leg bouncing up and down as I wait for River.
“Hey.”
I turn to find a guy leaning casually against the wall, brown eyes catching the last of the sunset, messy, damp hair falling over his forehead.
“I was right,” he carries on.
“About what?” I tilted my head to the side, keeping my tone light.
He doesn't miss a beat. “I told myself that you would be pretty… but damn, you're hotter than I expected.”
Normally, I’d tell him to take a hike and try his luck somewhere else. But he's not unattractive, and honestly, he looks interested. Maybe… just maybe this one could be worth my time for a little while.
I let a slow, playful smile tug at my lips, my gaze lingering over him for him to take notice. “You're not so bad yourself,” I toss back, my voice teasing.
Someone claps him on the shoulder behind him—one of his teammates saying goodbye—but he doesn't even flinch.
He leans in, and I freeze, not moving in the slightest to see what he does.
The look on his face is full of want, and I've become used to that.
Since coming to Manchester, most men have looked at me like that, and I've welcomed it.
I need a distraction from everything, and this seems to be the most effective.
His hand moves almost lazily up my arm, lingering on my shoulder before tracing the line of my neck. One finger twirls a stray strand from my ponytail, and I tense—but not in the way he probably hopes.
“Usually I wouldn't bother with someone who cheers for the other team, but for you I could make an exception.”
“Lucky me then.”
Looks like I don't need to go out tonight after all. River still hasn't shown up, which means he's either running late or has already been dragged off to some after-party to celebrate.
The guy leans in close, his hand settling against the back of my neck. His breath ghosts my lips—he's seconds away from kissing me, and then I see him before I hear him.
“There you are.”
Elijah's voice cuts through the air, low and rough, threaded with irritation. The kiss that was about to happen doesn't happen as the mystery man jerks back, looking over his shoulder at my brother's dad.
He blinks between us. “Uhh… do you know him?”
“No.”
“Yes.”
We answer at the same time as Elijah steps into my space, his shadow completely eclipsing the fading warmth of the stranger. His jaw is tight, his eyes darker, and he looks angry.
“Sorry to break up whatever this is,” he says, even though there's not an ounce of apology in his voice. “Willow, you're coming home with me. Now.”
He doesn't wait for me to agree. His fingers wrap around my wrist, turning me and pulling me with him as if it's a foregone conclusion.
“What is wrong with you?” I snap, pulling away as soon as I regain my balance. “You can't just drag me around—who do you think you are?”
Elijah stops and slowly turns back to face me, his gaze lingering on the spot where the guy's hand had been on my neck. I see the muscle in his jaw jump.
“Get in the car.”
It's not a request. It's a controlled demand that makes me want to obey and disobey at the same time. I look past him at the sleek black car, then back at him—arms crossing, chin lifting, letting him see every bit of my irritation.
“I'd rather walk.”
His expression was far from amused. In fact, it was marked by a dark, warning glimmer in his eyes.
“Not happening, Princess.”
That one word sets my blood boiling as he opens the car door, expecting me to just obey him and get in like a good fucking dog.
“The only way I am getting in that car with you is if you make me, and trust me, I’m a screamer.”
His pupils dilate, and I can feel the anger radiating off him in waves, and the sense of satisfaction I get from pissing this man off warms my heart.
“I don't care. Get in the car—I won't ask you again.”
The sky has darkened to a heavy, bruised grey, the promise of rain thick in the air. Still, I’d rather let the storm soak me through—freeze me to the bone—than sit in a confined space with him.
“Like I said. Make me.” I think pissing off Elijah just became my new favourite activity, especially if the joy I’m feeling is any indication.
His body turns rigid, and time seems to still, then he lets go of the door. “You asked for it.”
His hands clamp around my hips, and before I can even react, I’m hoisted over his shoulder. A startled sound tears from me as my world flips upside down. He's solid beneath me, all muscle and stubbornness, and I smack a fist against his back.
Jesus Christ, why is he built like a bloody wall?
“I swear to god, Elijah, I will bite you,” I snap, half-growl, half-threat.
“Go on then.”
He opens the back door one-handed— like I’m feather-light—and drops me onto the seat.
The impact knocks the breath out of me, but before I can spit more words at him that the lord would definitely punish me for, he cages me in.
One arm lifts, braced on the roof of the car, his body leaning in close enough that the space between us heats, and I can feel his breath coming in short bursts, like he's trying to hold all his anger inside.
His scent hits me first: Sandalwood. Clean soap that men use who think girly smells are beyond them. And the faintest bite of apple.
“Just remember, princess,” he murmurs, his voice rough enough to scrape along my skin. “I bite back.” His eyes drift to my mouth. “Harder.”
Heat rushes everywhere it shouldn't, my mouth goes dry as he withdraws and slams the door shut with a thud that reverberates straight through me.
I sit there, stunned, pulse kicking wildly, replaying that single sentence on a loop.
I bite back. Harder.
God help me.
I’m completely, utterly screwed—and this is only the first day of being near him since I was sixteen, when the only thing I cared about was dancing and school, not infuriating men with storm-blue eyes and hands that make my entire body forget how to function.
Screw Elijah Reed Lawson.