Chapter 3 #2
"Step away from her," Mikey said. His voice was calm. terrifyingly calm. "Now."
Davis scrambled back, nearly tripping over his own feet. "I—I was just—we were just talking, Mauler. I swear."
Mikey descended the stairs slowly. Every step was a threat. He didn't look at Davis. He was looking at me. His gaze swept over me, checking for injuries, checking for touch marks. When his eyes met mine, I felt a physical jolt, like I’d stuck a fork in a socket.
"Leave," Mikey commanded, finally glancing at Davis.
"Yes. Yeah. Gone," Davis stammered, and then he ran. actually ran. He bolted toward the kitchen like the devil was at his heels.
Mikey stopped two feet away from me.
The hallway was suddenly very small. The noise of the party faded into the background, muffled by the sheer weight of his presence.
He smelled of cedar and ice, and underneath it, the dark, smoky scent of arousal.
"Are you hurt?" he asked. His voice was rough, like he’d been gargling glass.
"No," I managed to say. "I'm fine. He was just... drunk."
"He was hunting," Mikey corrected. His jaw flexed. "If I hadn't come down..."
"I can handle myself," I said, lifting my chin. "I had a scalpel in my boot."
Mikey looked down at my boots. A flicker of amusement—or maybe respect—crossed his face. "Of course you did."
He stepped closer. He was encroaching on my space again, just like in the library. But this time, there was no table between us. There was no glass wall.
"What are you doing here, Lydia?" he asked softly. "This isn't your scene. You hate noise. You hate chaos."
"I came for the playbook," I said, trying to keep my voice steady. "Jagger said you had it."
"I do."
"Can I have it?"
"It's in my room," he said. He gestured to the door behind me. The basement door. "Downstairs."
I hesitated. Going into a boy's room was one thing. Going into an Alpha's soundproofed basement bedroom during a party was... insane. It was breaking every rule Mac had given me.
"I'll wait here," I said. "You go get it."
Mikey shook his head slowly. "Can't."
"Why not?"
"Because if I leave you alone in this hallway for ten seconds, another wolf is going to come sniffing. You're broadcasting, Lydia."
"Broadcasting what?" I snapped, defensive.
He leaned down, his face inches from mine. His eyes searched mine, intense and unyielding.
"Distress," he murmured. "And desire. It's a dangerous cocktail, Mouse. You're practically begging someone to bite you."
My breath hitched. "I am not."
"Liar."
He reached past me and opened the basement door. The darkness below seemed to swallow the light from the hallway.
"Come on," he said, gesturing into the dark. "Get your book. Then I'm walking you home. Before I kill one of my teammates."
I looked at the stairs. I looked at him.
I walked into the dark.
Mikey’s room was a fortress within a fortress.
The moment the heavy steel door clicked shut behind us, the noise of the party vanished completely. The silence was absolute. It was disorienting.
The room was freezing. I wrapped my arms around myself, shivering instantly.
It was sparse. A massive bed in the center, covered in grey sheets. A desk with a lamp. A weight bench in the corner. No posters. No photos. It felt like a cell.
"It's cold," I whispered.
"Keeps the blood cool," Mikey said. He walked over to the desk and picked up the black binder. "Here."
I reached for it, but he didn't let go.
We stood there, both gripping the playbook. A tug of war.
"You should go," he said. But he pulled the book slightly, drawing me a step closer.
"I'm trying," I whispered.
"Try harder."
He let go of the book. I stumbled back a half-step with the sudden release.
I clutched the binder to my chest like a shield. "Why are you down here, Mikey? Why aren't you upstairs celebrating?"
"Celebrating what?" He sat on the edge of his desk, crossing his arms. The muscles in his forearms rippled. "Winning a game? It’s a game, Lydia. It doesn't matter."
"It matters to them," I said, nodding toward the ceiling.
"They're children," he dismissed. "They think being an Alpha is about partying and fighting and screwing."
"And what do you think it's about?"
He looked at me then. Really looked at me. The golden glow in his eyes dimmed, revealing the amber iris underneath, filled with a deep, ancient exhaustion.
"Control," he said. "It's about not hurting the things around you. It's about keeping the monster on a leash."
"Is that why you're so mean?" I asked quietly. "To keep people away? To keep them safe?"
He laughed, a dry, humorless sound. "I'm not mean, Lydia. I'm honest. There's a difference."
He stood up and walked toward me. I backed up until my legs hit the side of his massive bed. I was trapped. Again.
"You think you understand me," he said softly, stopping a foot away. "You think because you've read your textbooks and memorized your diagrams, you know what makes me tick."
"I know you have a heightened sympathetic nervous system," I stammered, my pulse racing. "I know your cortisol levels are chronically high."
"Stop talking about science," he growled. He reached out, his hand hovering near my face. He didn't touch me. He just traced the air around my cheek, as if feeling the heat radiating off my skin.
"Then what should I talk about?"
"Talk about why you're really here," he whispered. "Talk about why you wore those boots that make your legs look a mile long. Talk about why your heart is beating so fast I can hear it from across the room."
"I came for the book," I insisted, my voice barely audible.
"Bullshit."
He stepped closer. His thighs brushed mine. The contact sent a shockwave through me that made my knees buckle. I sank back onto the mattress.
Mikey followed. He didn't climb on top of me. He placed his hands on the mattress on either side of my hips, caging me in. He leaned down, his face hovering over mine.
"Tell me to stop," he commanded. "Tell me to back off. Use your voice, Lydia."
I looked up at him. I saw the scar on his jaw. I saw the darkness in his eyes. I saw the hunger that he was fighting so hard to control.
And God help me, I didn't want him to stop.
"I can't," I whispered.
His eyes flared. He lowered his head, his nose brushing along the sensitive skin of my neck. I gasped, my head falling back.
"You smell like rain," he groaned against my throat. "You smell like everything I'm not allowed to have."
"Mikey," I breathed, my hands coming up to clutch his biceps. They were rock hard. "Uncle Mac..."
"Fuck your uncle," he growled. The vibration of the curse against my skin made my toes curl. "Right now, it's just us. In the dark."
He moved his head up. His mouth hovered over mine. I could feel his breath—hot, minty, frantic.
"Open your mouth," he whispered.
It wasn't a question. It was an order.
I parted my lips.
He groaned, a low, animalistic sound, and tilted his head. He was going to kiss me. He was going to kiss me, and I was going to let him, and then I was going to be ruined for anyone else forever.
BZZZZT. BZZZZT.
The phone in his pocket vibrated against my hip.
We both froze.
The vibration continued. violent. insistent.
Mikey squeezed his eyes shut. A look of pure agony crossed his face. He pulled back, inch by inch, until the cold air rushed in to fill the space between us.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out the phone. He looked at the screen.
He let out a harsh breath and turned the screen toward me.
Coach Cross.
The name was like a bucket of ice water.
Mikey stood up, backing away from the bed. He ran a hand through his hair, his chest heaving. The golden glow was gone from his eyes, replaced by a dull, flat resignation.
"Go," he said. He didn't look at me. He looked at the wall.
"Mikey..."
"Go, Lydia!" he roared. The sound cracked through the room, bouncing off the soundproof walls.
I scrambled off the bed, clutching the playbook to my chest. I felt tears pricking my eyes—tears of frustration, of embarrassment, of unresolved tension that was coiled tight in my belly.
"You're a coward, Holt," I whispered.
I didn't wait for a response. I ran to the door, yanked it open, and fled into the hallway.
I ran past the kitchen. I ran past the dancing bodies. I ran out the front door and into the snow.
I didn't stop running until I was back in my dorm room, door locked, chest heaving.
I touched my lips. They were tingling.
I had called him a coward. But as I slid down the door to the floor, hugging the playbook, I knew the truth.
He wasn't a coward. He was saving me.
And I hated him for it.