Chapter 6
Mikey
Violence was usually a sufficient distraction.
If I hit the heavy bag hard enough, the noise in my head quieted down.
If I skated until my lungs burned and my quads screamed, the Wolf would retreat into the dark corners of my mind, too exhausted to pace.
If I slammed a puck into the glass with enough force to crack the polycarbonate, I could usually forget whatever was bothering me.
Usually.
But today, violence wasn't working.
I was alone on the practice rink. It was 5:30 AM on a Sunday. The sun hadn't even thought about rising yet, and the arena was a tomb of silence and cold air.
Thwack.
The puck exploded off my stick, burying itself in the upper corner of the net.
Thwack.
Another one. Perfect placement.
Thwack.
It didn't matter. My accuracy was perfect, my power was peaking, but my mind was stuck in a humid, tiled room, replaying the same thirty seconds on an infinite loop.
I could still feel the texture of her skin against my callouses. I could still smell the sharp, sweet spike of her arousal mixing with the chlorine. I could still hear the way her breath had hitched right before she fell apart in my arms.
“Don’t stop. Never stop.”
I groaned, leaning forward on my stick, my breath pluming in the frigid air like dragon smoke.
I was a disaster. I was a catastrophic failure of discipline.
I had spent years building walls. I had constructed a life based on denial. I denied myself sugar. I denied myself alcohol. I denied myself softness. I lived on a strict diet of protein, pain, and the terrifying knowledge that one day, my brain would rot from the inside out.
And in one afternoon, Lydia Cross had walked right through my walls like they were made of mist.
I hadn't just touched her. I had claimed her. I had put my hands on the Coach's niece—the one person on this campus who was explicitly, violently off-limits—and I had brought her to climax against a cold tile wall.
And the worst part? The part that made the Wolf howl with a sickening mixture of triumph and need?
I hadn't even gotten off.
I had walked her back to her dorm, blue-balled and aching, with the taste of her on my fingers, and I had felt... satisfied. Not physically. Physically, I was in agony. But mentally? The Wolf was smug. The Wolf was happy just to have provided. To have served.
That was dangerous. Lust I could handle. Lust was just biology; you could starve it out or beat it into submission. But devotion? Devotion was a disease. It burrowed deep. It took root.
"You're going to melt the ice if you stand there brooding any longer."
I didn't flinch. I had heard the locker room door open three minutes ago. I had heard the heavy, shuffling footsteps coming down the tunnel.
I straightened up, turning to face the intruder.
Jagger was standing by the boards, holding two coffees. He was wearing a parka over his pajamas, looking like a hungover marshmallow.
"Go away, Jags," I said, skating over to the bench to grab my water bottle.
"Can't," Jagger said, climbing up onto the bench seat. "I'm your ride. You took the Jeep. And since I need to go into town to buy aspirin and a breakfast burrito the size of a toddler, I need the Jeep back."
He held out one of the coffees. "Black. Like your soul."
I took it. The heat seeped through my gloves. "Thanks."
Jagger watched me for a second, his eyes narrowing. Coyotes were observant little shits. They noticed the details that wolves often missed in their arrogance.
"You look..." Jagger tilted his head, searching for the word. "Wired. And not in the good 'Game Day' way. In the 'I'm about to bite a mailman' way."
"I didn't sleep well," I lied, taking a sip of the scalding coffee. It burned my tongue. I welcomed the pain.
"Right. Insomnia. The classic Holt excuse." Jagger hopped down from the bench, walking along the rubber mats as I unlaced my skates. "You know, it's weird. Yesterday, you disappeared for three hours. Said you were going to the library. But when I walked past the library, you weren't there."
I didn't look up. I focused on the laces. Left over right. Pull. Loosen.
"I was studying," I said flatly.
"Uh-huh. And then Lydia—Little Miss Perfect Attendance—skips dinner at the dining hall. And when I saw her coming out of her dorm this morning to go for a run, she looked... different."
My hands froze on the laces. "Different how?"
"I don't know," Jagger mused, scratching his jaw. "Softer? Glowier? She looked like someone who had a religious experience. Or a really good secret."
He leaned in, his voice dropping. "Did you finally bite the bullet, Mauler? Did you tap that?"
I stood up so fast the bench rattled. I towered over him, letting my shadow swallow him whole.
"Watch your mouth," I snarled. The command was laced with enough Alpha resonance to make a lesser shifter drop to their knees.
Jagger held his ground, but he flinched. He held up his hands in surrender.
"Okay. Touchy. Got it." He stepped back. "I'm just saying, Mikey. People are going to talk. You two are spending a lot of time together. And you... you look at her like you want to eat her alive. Eventually, Coach is going to notice. And then he's going to mount your head on his wall."
"Nobody is mounting anything," I muttered, shoving my feet into my boots. "We have a deal. She helps me pass Anatomy. I keep the creeps away from her on the Northern Trip. That's it. It's business."
"Business," Jagger repeated, skeptical. "Is that what we're calling it now?"
"Let's go," I snapped, grabbing my gear bag. "I'm hungry."
"You're always hungry," Jagger sighed, following me out. "That's the problem."
He was right. I was always hungry. But for the first time, I knew exactly what I wanted to eat, and it wasn't on any menu in town.
Sunday brunch at the Student Union was a gauntlet.
It was the one time of the week when the separate factions of the university—the shifters, the humans, the athletes, the arts students—were forced into the same space by the allure of made-to-order omelets.
The noise was deafening. The smell was a chaotic mix of bacon, maple syrup, and stale beer from the parties the night before.
I moved through the crowd like a shark through a school of minnows. People parted for me. They always did. I was six-foot-five, two hundred and forty pounds of scar tissue and bad attitude. I projected a field of Do Not Disturb that was palpable.
I grabbed a tray—six eggs, four sausages, a stack of pancakes, a bowl of oatmeal—and scanned the room for an empty table in the back corner.
That's when I saw her.
Lydia was sitting three tables away, near the windows. She was with that friend of hers—Becca, the one who dressed like a disco ball. They were laughing.
Lydia threw her head back, her curls bouncing. She was wearing a thick maroon sweater that looked soft. She looked normal. She looked happy. She looked like a college student enjoying a Sunday morning.
But then her eyes shifted.
She felt me. I knew she did. The bond—or whatever this twisted biological tether was—worked both ways.
Her laughter cut off mid-sound. Her head snapped toward me.
When our eyes locked, the noise of the cafeteria seemed to drop away. The clatter of silverware, the chatter of students, the hiss of the espresso machine—it all became white noise.
She froze. Her fork hovered halfway to her mouth. A flush crept up her neck, pink and damning.
She was remembering.
She was remembering my hand on her. She was remembering the way she had whimpered. She was remembering the wet tile and the steam.
I didn't smile. I didn't wave. I just stared at her, letting the weight of the secret hang between us. I know what you look like when you break. I know the sound you make when you lose control.
She swallowed hard, putting her fork down. She looked terrifyingly pretty. And terrifyingly guilty.
"Holt!"
A hand clapped me on the shoulder. I nearly dropped my tray.
I spun around, a growl ripping from my throat before I could stop it.
It was Coach Cross.
He was standing there with a tray of fruit and yogurt, looking unbothered by my aggression.
"Easy, killer," he said, eyeing my breakfast mountain. "Loading up?"
"Growth phase," I mumbled, my heart hammering against my ribs. I felt like a teenager caught sneaking out. Did he know? Could he smell her on me from across the room?
"Good," Mac nodded. "You'll need the fuel. Northern Trip is going to be brutal. Three games in four nights. How's the studying coming?"
"Fine," I said, glancing back at Lydia. She was studiously ignoring us now, staring at her toast like it contained the secrets of the universe. "We're... making progress."
"Glad to hear it," Mac said. He followed my gaze. His eyes narrowed slightly as they landed on Lydia. "She looks tired."
"She studies hard," I offered, stepping between him and his line of sight to her. A protective instinct. Don't look at her. She's mine to look at.
"Yeah. She takes after her dad that way. Too serious. Needs to relax more." Mac sighed, turning back to me. "Keep her safe on the trip, Mikey. I mean it. I can't be everywhere at once, and with the scouts swarming, I'm going to be busy handling the press. She's going to be vulnerable."
"I know," I said. The words tasted like iron. "I'll watch her."
"I know you will. You're a good kid, deep down. Beneath all the... brooding." Mac patted my shoulder again, harder this time. "Don't let me down."
He walked away, heading toward the faculty section.
I stood there, gripping my tray until the plastic warped.
Don't let me down.
He trusted me. He thought I was the sheepdog. He didn't realize he had hired the wolf to guard the lamb.
I looked back at Lydia. She risked a glance at me. Her eyes were wide, filled with a mixture of fear and something else. Something softer.
I couldn't handle it.
I turned around and walked out of the cafeteria, leaving my food untouched. I couldn't eat. My stomach was a knot of guilt and desire, and I didn't know which one was going to kill me first.
The panic attack hit me at 8:00 PM.