Chapter 15
ALOIS
Ishould not have seen her like that.
The thought came back sharper than it needed to, cutting through everything else with an edge that hadn’t dulled since the moment it happened. It sat there, lodged behind my ribs, irritating in the way only something uncontrollable could be.
Because now I knew.
Not imagined. Not guessed.
It had been a mistake.
A moment. A slip.
And now it wouldn’t leave.
I tightened my grip on the wheel, jaw shifting as I forced my focus back to the road. The city blurred past in streaks of gray and glass, headlights cutting through the late-afternoon dim in sharp, deliberate lines. Traffic moved steady, predictable. Something I could follow without thinking.
Beside me, Bea sat angled toward the window, her reflection faint against the glass. Composed. Still. She smelled like something warm and expensive—soft florals threaded with something brighter, cleaner. It shouldn’t have been noticeable.
Everything about her had become noticeable now.
Annoyingly so.
I exhaled slowly through my nose, rolling my shoulders once, hoping to physically shake the awareness out of my system.
Silence settled between us—not awkward, not strained. Just… present. The kind of quiet that didn’t demand to be filled. The kind that let your mind wander if you weren’t careful.
Mine slipped far anyway.
A different kind of night.
The memory didn’t arrive clean.
It came in fragments first—flashes of white and movement, the sound of wind cutting between buildings, the dull thud of tires over uneven pavement.
An unforgiving storm had settled in, harsh and biting. The kind of cold that didn’t sit on your skin. It cut through it. Found the gaps in your clothes, your bones, your eyes. Made breathing feel like needles were attacking your lungs.
I’d been driving home from practice. Late. Muscles already tight, shoulder sore, hands still buzzing from contact that hadn’t fully burned off yet.
The streets had been mostly empty. Northbend in winter didn’t waste time pretending to be welcoming after dark.
I almost missed him. Too small for what he was carrying.
The bag dragged behind him, catching in the snow every few steps, forcing him to stop, yank it forward, adjust, keep moving. His shoulders were hunched, head down against the wind.
I slowed without thinking, tires crunching over packed snow as I passed him, eyes tracking through the side mirror.
The engine idled low beneath me, heat pushing against the cold creeping in through the glass. My hands stayed loose on the wheel, but my attention stayed behind me.
I didn’t think about it again. I shifted into park. Rolled the window down.
“Get in.” The words came out flat. Direct. No room for interpretation.
The kid froze. Actually froze. Like his brain needed a second to catch up with what had just happened.
Then he turned. Slow. Careful.
His face whipped red from harsh, wet, wind, eyes wide in a way that had nothing to do with fear and everything to do with recognition. He knew who I was.
“I—” His voice caught. He cleared it quickly, adjusting his grip on the bag strap. “I’m good.”
I didn’t argue. Didn’t soften it. “Get in,” I repeated.
The wind hit harder between us, filling the space where hesitation lived. He shifted his weight, glanced up and down the street like someone might be watching, might see him climbing into my car.
He lasted another three seconds.
Then logic won.
He yanked the bag forward, struggled with the back door for a second before forcing it open, and shoved everything inside with more effort than it should have taken. The gear hit the seat with a heavy, damp thud, the smell of sweat and rubber and old tape filling the car instantly.
He climbed in after it.
Pulled the door shut.
Silence.
I rolled the window back up and shifted into drive without giving it a second thought.
The heater worked overtime, pushing warm air into the space between us. It did nothing to cut the tension.
“Which rink you practice at?” I glanced back threw the rearview.
The kid sat stiff in the backseat, shoulders tight, hands planted on his knees. His breathing was shallow. Trying not to take up space. “Big Bear over on Seventh.”
I drove.
Didn’t ask questions.
Didn’t fill the quiet.
The city passed in slow, familiar patterns. Streetlights. Empty sidewalks. The occasional car cutting through an intersection too fast for the conditions.
“You play for—” he started, then stopped himself.
I didn’t answer.
He knew.
The rest of the drive went back to silence.
When we pulled up to the rink, he moved fast. “Thanks,” he muttered, already reaching for the door.
I nodded once.
He grabbed his bag, nearly tripped over it again, caught himself, and disappeared into the building without looking back.
I waited long enough to make sure the door shut behind him.
Then I pulled away.
Made it half a block.
Stopped.
I stared at the road ahead, fingers tightening slightly against the wheel as the realization settled in, quiet and unavoidable.
He still has to get home.
The engine idled.
The heat hummed.
I turned the car around.
“Alois?” Bea’s voice cut through, pulling me back into the present hard enough that my grip tightened on the wheel before I forced it to loosen.
We were parked.
I hadn’t registered the turn off the street, the coded gate lifting without hesitation, the slow descent into the underground garage that swallowed the city whole.
My car idled for a beat longer than it should have.
“You good?” Bea asked, her tone careful. Observant.
“Yeah.” I nodded once, killing the engine, the low purr cutting off.
The air met me—tempered, dry, engineered. A deliberate buffer between what this city was and what people like me paid not to feel.
The door shut behind me with a muted thud.
We moved toward the building together, our footsteps soft against the sealed floor, the space swallowing the sound before it could carry.
Didn’t speak.
The elevator ride was quick. Too quiet. The kind of space where awareness had nowhere to go but inward.
I felt her before I looked at her. The shift of her weight. The subtle adjustment of her stance. The heat of her body.
My jaw tightened.
Focus.
The doors opened. I stepped out first.
My apartment was exactly the way I’d left it.
Dark wood. Clean lines. Shelves that weren’t decorative so much as necessary—lined with books that had been read, not displayed.
A low couch that had seen use. A table with a stack of papers I hadn’t touched in days.
Lamps instead of overhead lights, casting the room in a softer, contained glow.
It wasn’t empty. But it wasn’t built for anyone else.
Bea stepped in behind me.
Paused.
I felt it.
The way she took it in. The way her attention moved—not quickly, not obviously, but thoroughly. Reading the space the same way she read people. Understanding it. Understanding me.
That should have irked me more than it did.
Instead—my focus dropped.
To her. Standing in my space.
The thought hit fast. Abrupt. My body reacted before my brain caught up—sharp, instinctive, pulled tight against something that had nothing to do with logic and everything to do with proximity and pheromones.
I saw it.
Her against the wall.
My hands on her hips.
Teeth digging into her bare shoulder.
Her breath panting against my skin.
The tension between us snapping clean in a way that would leave nothing controlled behind.
It was quick. Violent in its simplicity. Gone just as fast.
I stepped past her before it could settle into something worse, reaching for the boxes stacked near the far wall. “Give me a second,” I muttered, already moving.
Cardboard scraped softly against wood as I pulled them free, the weight familiar. Inside—skates. New. Untouched. Ready to surprise a group of unsuspecting kids.
“Did you boost those from the equipment room?” Bea’s hand was over her mouth as she gaped down at me checking a few blades.
It should have pissed me off. I should have questioned her audacity to accuse me of something so horrible.
But all I could do was chuckle. Not even chuckle—full-blown, tears streaming down my face. A wailing cackle.
Bea’s round, dark eyes blinked at me as her expression morphed over and over. Confusion and frustration competing for prime real estate.
“Alois! Answer me!” she bellowed. “Am I now an accessory to a crime?”
The shrill in her voice didn’t help matters at all, I continued to laugh. Trying and failing to catch my breath. I shoved the receipt into her hand, one the that had come with the packing label.
“I’m so much more confused,” she muttered, eyes scanning the page. “What in the world could you possibly need this many children’s skates for?”
I sucked in a sharp breath, threw a box into my arms, then nodded to the other. “Grab that,” I snickered, brushing off the last bits of antics out of my voice. “And I’ll show you.”
She hesitated.
Not long. Just enough to look at the box like it might explain itself if she stared hard enough.
Then she bent, picked it up, and straightened with a small exhale that told me she hadn’t expected the weight.
“Children’s skates,” she muttered under her breath, more to herself than to me. “Plural. Aggressively plural.”
I didn’t answer.
Big Bear sat tucked into a strip of older development—low, wide, practical. The kind of rink built for use, not presentation. Fluorescent lights buzzed faintly behind fogged glass panels, the parking lot half-packed with SUVs and trucks dusted in salt and snow.
The cold didn’t wait this time.
It hit hard the second the door opened—sharp enough to pull breath from your lungs, the wind cutting straight through fabric, through skin, through whatever illusions of comfort the drive had created.
Bea inhaled sharply beside me, the sound small but unavoidable.
“Jesus,” she muttered, pulling her coat tighter around herself as she stepped out.