Chapter 1 #2
But shifting here, on the ice, was against protocol. And shifting when I was already irritated was a gamble. The Wolf was close to the surface these days. The "Feral Madness" that had rotted my father’s brain whispered to me in the dark. Let go. Hunt. Kill.
If I shifted now, I might not shift back.
I groaned and hauled myself up. I couldn't go to the locker room; the guys would smell the blood and go into a frenzy.
I had to go to the Training Room.
I limped off the ice, leaving a trail of red drops on the pristine white. The pain was good. It focused me. It was a singular point of clarity in the chaos.
I moved through the tunnel, my skates clacking on the rubber mats. The hallway was empty. Good.
I shoved the door to the Training Room open, ready to grab the staple gun and glue and fix myself up before anyone saw.
I didn't expect the girl.
She was standing by the supply cabinet, up on her toes, reaching for a box of tape. When the door slammed, she spun around, dropping the box.
Rolls of athletic tape bounced across the floor.
For a second, nobody moved.
She was small. That was my first thought. Absurdly, dangerously small. She was wearing an oversized grey hoodie that swallowed her frame, and black leggings that showed off legs that looked like they would snap if I gripped them too hard. Her hair was a dark, riotous mess of curls, and her eyes...
Her eyes were the color of whiskey held up to the light. Wide. terrified.
And then the scent hit me.
It wasn't sugar cookies. Jagger was an idiot.
It was vanilla, yes. But it was also lavender. And warmth. And something distinctly female. It hit the back of my throat like a physical blow, bypassing my logic and slamming straight into the lizard brain at the base of my skull.
MINE.
The Wolf woke up. Not a slow waking, but a violent surge. My vision sharpened. The fluorescent lights seemed to dim, focusing entirely on the pulse fluttering in her throat.
"Get out," I snarled.
It came out harsher than I intended. A guttural command.
The girl didn't run. She didn't whimper. She blinked, her whiskey eyes darting down to my leg, then back up to my face.
"You're bleeding," she said. Her voice was steady, though I could hear the rapid-fire thumping of her heart from here. Thump-thump-thump-thump.
"I said get out," I repeated, stepping further into the room. I needed her to leave. Now. Before I did something that would get me expelled. Before I backed her into a corner and breathed her in until I intoxicated myself.
She ignored me. She actually ignored me.
She walked toward me.
"Sit down," she ordered, pointing to the exam table.
I froze. "Excuse me?"
"You are dripping blood on my sanitized floor, Number 14," she said, reading the number on my jersey. She wasn't looking at my eyes anymore; she was fixated on the wound. "Sit down. Now."
My jaw ticked. No one ordered me around. Not the professors, not the other Alphas. Only Coach.
"I don't need help," I said, my voice dropping an octave, layering in the Alpha resonance that usually made humans wet themselves. "I need glue. Give it to me, and leave."
She stopped two feet in front of me. She had to crane her neck to look me in the eye. I was six-five on skates. She was barely reaching my chest.
"I'm not giving you glue so you can hack-job yourself into an infection," she said, crossing her arms. "I'm the trainer. You're the patient. Sit. Down."
She stared at me. I stared at her.
The air between us crackled. It was suffocating. I could feel the heat radiating off her body. She was terrified—I could smell the acrid spike of adrenaline—but she was standing her ground.
That defiance... it did something to me. It didn't make me angry.
It made me hard.
The realization hit me with the force of a body check. I was standing here, bleeding, in pain, and my body was responding to this tiny, bossy human like she was a mate in heat.
"Fine," I grated out.
I moved to the table and hopped up, the paper crinkling under my weight. I spread my legs, an unconscious display of dominance, forcing her to step between them to treat me.
She hesitated. Just for a second. Her gaze flickered down to the V of my thighs, then snapped back to my injury. A flush crept up her neck, staining her pale skin pink.
Good, the Wolf purred. She sees us.
"What's your name?" I asked, watching her grab a pair of shears.
"Lydia," she murmured, leaning in.
She smelled even better up close. Intoxicating.
"Lydia," I tested the name. It felt soft in my mouth. "Coach's niece."
"Yes," she said clipped. "So if you bite me, you're dead."
I let out a short, dark laugh. "If I bit you, Mouse, you wouldn't survive long enough to tell him."
Her hands stuttered. She looked up, her eyes locking with mine. My pupils were blown wide, my irises likely glowing a faint, toxic amber.
"Is that a threat?" she whispered.
"It's a warning." I leaned forward, encroaching on her space, inhaling the scent of her hair. "You shouldn't be here. You don't know what we are."
"I know exactly what you are," she said, her voice trembling but defiant. She placed a warm hand on my thigh, just above the cut.
The contact was electric.
It seared through the denim, through my skin, straight into the marrow of my bone. My leg jerked involuntarily.
"Don't," I hissed, grabbing her wrist.
My hand engulfed hers. Her wrist was so thin. I could crush it with a twitch. The contrast—my scarred, tattooed hand against her pale, delicate skin—was mesmerizing.
"I have to clean it," she said, her breath hitching. She didn't pull away.
"You're touching the fire, Lydia," I warned her, my voice rough, scraping like gravel. "You're going to get burned."
"Let me do my job, Holt," she breathed.
She twisted her wrist, not to escape, but to turn her palm against mine. A soft caress. Whether she meant to or not, she was soothing the beast.
I let her go.
She went to work, cutting away the sock, cleaning the wound with antiseptic that stung like hell. I didn't flinch. I just watched her. I watched the way her teeth worried her bottom lip. I watched the way her eyelashes fluttered.
She started stitching. Her movements were precise, confident. She was good.
"Why are you staring at me?" she asked without looking up.
"Because," I said, the truth tumbling out before I could filter it. "You're the loudest thing in the room."
She tied off the final stitch and stepped back, breaking the proximity. The loss of her heat was immediate and painful.
"All done," she said, her voice tight. "Keep it dry. Come back tomorrow so I can check for infection."
I hopped off the table. My leg held.
I loomed over her one last time. I wanted to touch her. I wanted to run my thumb over that trembling bottom lip. I wanted to push her up against the supply cabinet and see if she tasted as sweet as she smelled.
But I was Mikey Holt. I was the son of a madman. I was a ticking time bomb.
And she was the one thing I couldn't destroy.
"Stay out of my way, Mouse," I said low. "For your own sake."
I turned and walked out, ignoring the pain in my leg, ignoring the scream of the Wolf demanding I go back and claim her.
I hit the cold air of the hallway and leaned against the wall, dragging a hand down my face.
My hand was shaking.
I was in trouble. I was in so much goddamn trouble.
Because for the first time in my life, the hunger inside me wasn't for violence.
It was for her.