Chapter 5
Stan
Three days.
We had been doing this routine for three days, and I was pretty sure it was going to kill me.
"Premise two is weak," Rachel said, tapping her pen against the mahogany desk. "If you argue that survival overrides morality, you have to account for altruism. Why do wolves protect the pack even at personal cost?"
I stared at her.
We were in the study at The Hive again. The fire was roaring. Outside, a blizzard was howling, dumping another six inches of snow on Grizzly Ridge. Inside, it was warm, quiet, and smelled like old books and vanilla.
Rachel was wearing leggings again. And one of my hoodies.
She had "borrowed" it on Tuesday because she was cold, and she hadn't given it back.
I hadn't asked for it. Seeing her swimming in my clothes, the sleeves falling over her hands, did things to my possessive streak that I couldn't explain to a therapist, let alone to her.
"Because the pack is survival," I said, leaning back in my leather chair and stretching my legs out. My foot brushed hers under the desk. Neither of us moved. "Without the pack, the lone wolf dies. Altruism is just selfish survival strategy with better PR."
Rachel looked up from the laptop, her eyebrows raised. "Cynical. I like it. Write that down."
"You type it," I said, closing my eyes for a second. "My fingers are cramping."
"Your fingers are cramping because you spent two hours cross-checking freshmen into the boards at practice today," she retorted, but she started typing.
I watched her.
I watched the way her tongue poked out of the corner of her mouth when she was concentrating.
I watched the way a loose tendril of hair fell across her cheek, and the way she tucked it back with an impatient flick of her wrist. I watched the steady rise and fall of her chest under the grey fabric of my hoodie.
It was domestic. It was peaceful.
It was torture.
Every instinct I had was screaming at me.
Take her. Claim her. Mark her. The Wolf was prowling just beneath the surface, scratching at the door of my control.
I had been edging for three days—not physically, but mentally.
Living in this constant state of heightened arousal, breathing in her scent, listening to her voice, and not doing a damn thing about it.
"Okay," she said, hitting the enter key with a flourish. "That's a solid paragraph. We just need a conclusion and you're done."
She turned to look at me, a triumphant smile lighting up her face. "You're going to pass, Stan. You might even get a B."
"Don't get crazy," I grunted. "A C-minus is fine. C's get degrees."
"Aim higher," she scolded playfully. She spun her chair around to face me fully. "You're smarter than you let people think. Why do you hide it?"
"I don't hide it," I said. "I just don't advertise it. People want The Butcher. They want a dumb, violent animal who protects the blue line. If I start quoting Nietzsche, they get confused."
"I think The Butcher quoting Nietzsche is hot," she said.
The words hung in the air.
Rachel froze, her eyes widening. A blush started at her neck and raced up to her cheeks.
"I mean... interesting," she stammered, looking down at her hands. "I meant interesting. Not... you know."
I didn't let her retreat.
I leaned forward, planting my elbows on my knees, bringing my face level with hers.
"Hot?" I repeated, my voice dropping an octave. "You think I'm hot, Little Bit?"
She swallowed. I tracked the movement of her throat.
"I think you're... aesthetically pleasing," she whispered, trying to regain her scientific composure. "Objectively. Your symmetry. Your... muscle mass."
"My muscle mass," I deadpanned.
"Yes. It's... impressive."
I laughed, a low rumble that vibrated through the small space between us. "You're terrible at lying, Rachel."
I reached out and took her hand. Her fingers were small, delicate. I traced the lines of her palm with my thumb, watching her shiver.
"Your heart rate just spiked," I said softly. "I can hear it. It's beating like a hummingbird."
"That's... fear," she breathed.
"Is it?" I looked up into her eyes. The pupils were blown wide. "It doesn't smell like fear. Fear smells sour. This..." I leaned in, inhaling the scent at her wrist. "This smells sweet. Like syrup. Like desire."
She didn't pull away. She leaned toward me.
"Stan," she whispered. "We agreed. Tutoring. And rehab. That's it."
"The paper is almost done," I murmured, my thumb moving to stroke the inside of her wrist, right over the pulse point. "And my shoulder feels fine. Better than fine."
"Then... then we should stop."
"Should we?"
I stood up.
She stayed seated, looking up at me. I towered over her. The power dynamic shifted instantly. The cozy study session was gone. The predator was back in the room.
I walked around the desk. She turned in her chair to follow me, her eyes locked on mine.
I stopped in front of her. I placed my hands on the arms of her chair, trapping her. I leaned down until our noses were almost touching.
"Tell me to stop," I said. It was the same challenge I had issued on the porch. "Tell me you don't want this. Tell me you don't dream about it. Tell me you don't wake up in the middle of the night wondering what my hands would feel like on your skin."
She opened her mouth to speak, but no sound came out. She just stared at me, her chest heaving.
"I..." she started, then licked her lips.
That tiny movement snapped the last thread of my control.
I didn't wait for permission. I had given her three days. I had given her a thousand chances to run.
I crashed my mouth down on hers.
It wasn't a gentle kiss. It was a collision. It was hunger and frustration and three years of starvation all pouring out at once.
I groaned into her mouth, a guttural sound that was half-human, half-wolf. I slanted my head, deepening the kiss, my tongue sweeping into her mouth to taste her. She tasted like peppermint tea and vanilla. She tasted like mine.
Rachel didn't fight. She melted.
She made a small, whimpering sound in her throat and reached up, her hands tangling in the short hair at the nape of my neck. She pulled me closer, opening to me, meeting my aggression with a desperate need of her own.
I grabbed the back of the chair and spun it around so she was facing the desk, then I lifted her effortlessy.
"Up," I growled against her lips.
I hoisted her onto the mahogany desk, scattering papers and pens. She wrapped her legs around my waist instantly, pulling me into the cradle of her hips.
The contact was electric.
I pressed my hips against hers, grinding slowly. I was hard. Painfully hard. The friction of denim against leggings was maddening. I wanted skin. I needed skin.
I broke the kiss, gasping for air, resting my forehead against hers.
"Rachel," I rasped. "You have no idea. You have no idea what you're doing to me."
"Show me," she whispered. Her eyes were glazed, heavy-lidded with lust. "Show me, Stan."
I pulled back to look at her. She looked wrecked. Her lips were swollen, red from my stubble. Her hair was a mess. She looked beautiful.
"If I show you," I warned, my voice dark, "I'm not going to be gentle. The Wolf... he doesn't know how to be gentle with you. He just wants to own you."
"I don't want gentle," she said. Her voice was stronger now. "I want you. The real you. Not the polite student. The Butcher."
The nickname shattered my restraint.
I grabbed the hem of the hoodie—my hoodie—and yanked it up. She lifted her arms, letting me strip it off her. Underneath, she was wearing a simple white tank top.
I groaned. The sight of her soft, pale skin, the swell of her breasts pushing against the thin fabric... it was too much.
I buried my face in her neck, biting lightly at the sensitive cord of muscle there.
"Mine," I growled against her skin. "You smell like mine. You taste like mine."
She gasped, arching her back, offering herself to me. "Stan... please."
My hands roamed over her body. I needed to map her. I ran my palms down her sides, gripping her waist, then lower to her hips. Her thighs were thick, soft, perfect. I squeezed them, my fingers digging in.
"You like that?" I murmured, moving my mouth down to her collarbone. "You like being manhandled, Little Bit?"
"Yes," she panted. "God, yes."
I reached between us, my hand finding the waistband of her leggings. I didn't ask. I just slid my hand inside.
Her skin was scalding hot.
I pushed past the fabric, my fingers finding the damp heat of her. She was soaked.
"Fuck," I swore, my head falling back. "You're so wet. For me?"
"Only for you," she admitted, a broken whisper.
I touched her then. Just a brush of my thumb against her clit.
She screamed.
It was a sharp, high sound that echoed in the quiet library. Her hips bucked off the desk, driving herself into my hand.
"Shh," I soothed, but I didn't stop. I found her rhythm instantly. "Good girl. Take it. That's it."
I watched her face as I worked her. I wanted to see her unravel. I wanted to be the reason she lost control. Her head fell back, exposing her throat. Her hands gripped my shoulders, her nails digging into my shirt.
"Stan," she moaned. "I'm close. I'm... I can't..."
"Let go," I commanded. I leaned down, biting her earlobe. "Give it to me. Come for me, Rachel."
I increased the pressure, sliding two fingers inside her tight heat while my thumb worked her pearl.
She shattered.
Her body convulsed around my fingers. She cried out, a long, keening wail of pleasure. I felt every spasm, every pulse of her climax. I drank it in like ambrosia.
I held her through it, keeping her anchored on the desk while she shook apart.
When the tremors finally subsided, she slumped against me, burying her face in my shoulder. She was breathing hard, her heart racing against my chest.
I stayed there, holding her, my hand still inside her, feeling the aftershocks.
I was hard as a rock. My balls ached. I wanted to unzip my jeans and bury myself inside her until I touched her soul.
But I couldn't.
Not here. Not like this.
If I took her now, the knot would take over. I would tie to her. I would claim her permanently. And the Council... the Pack...
I pulled my hand away slowly. She whined at the loss of contact.
"I know," I whispered, kissing her temple. "I know, baby."
I reached for a tissue from the box on the desk and cleaned my hand. Then I adjusted her leggings, pulling them back up.
She looked at me, confusion and hurt in her eyes.
"You stopped," she said.
"I had to," I said, cupping her face. "Rachel, listen to me. If we do this... if we go all the way... there is no going back. Do you understand? It changes everything."
"I don't care," she said fiercely.
"You should," I said. "Because I'm not just a hockey player. And you..." I sighed, resting my forehead against hers. "You are the most dangerous thing that has ever happened to me."
"Why?"
"Because," I whispered, "I think I'm falling in love with you. And monsters aren't supposed to love the prey."
The confession hung in the air.
Rachel stared at me. Her eyes filled with tears.
"Then maybe you're not a monster, Stan," she whispered. "Maybe you're just a man."
I closed my eyes. I wish.
I pulled away, needing distance to breathe.
"We should finish the paper," I said, my voice rough.
"Screw the paper," she said, sliding off the desk. She walked up to me, grabbed my face, and kissed me hard. "Take me home, Stan. Or take me upstairs. But don't you dare talk about philosophy right now."
I looked at her. Disheveled. Aroused. Mine.
"Home," I said, making the responsible choice that tore my soul apart. "I'll take you home."
But as we walked out to the car, the Wolf inside me was howling in triumph.
She is ours. It is only a matter of time.
Rachel
The car ride back to my dorm was silent, but it wasn't awkward. The air between us was thick, charged with the electricity of what had just happened.
I could still feel his fingers inside me. The phantom pressure. The ache of emptiness now that he was gone.
I looked over at him. He was driving with one hand on the wheel, his jaw set, staring at the snowy road. He looked... tormented.
He had made me come on a library desk, confessed he might be falling in love with me, and then packed me into a car like a precious, fragile package.
It was confusing. It was infuriating. It was the most romantic thing anyone had ever done for me.
When he pulled up to the curb in front of my dorm, he didn't unlock the doors immediately.
He turned to me. The amber glow in his eyes was dim now, settled into a warm, brown gold.
"Friday," he said.
"What's Friday?" I asked, my voice still husky.
"The game against North Dakota," he said. "It's a big one. Scouts will be there."
"I'll be there," I said. "I'm working the bench."
"Good," he said. He reached out and took my hand, squeezing it. "Wear my jersey."
My breath hitched. "Stan..."
"Wear it," he commanded softly. "I want to look up at the bench and see you wearing my name. It helps me focus. It keeps the... the noise down."
I squeezed his hand back. "Okay. I'll wear it."
He leaned across the console and kissed me. It was brief, chaste, but filled with promise.
"Goodnight, Little Bit."
"Goodnight, Butcher."
I got out of the car and ran into the dorm, clutching my chest.
I walked into my room, slammed the door, and slid down to the floor.
Chloe looked up from her laptop. "Whoa. You look like you just got run over by a truck. A sexy truck."
"I think I'm in trouble, Chlo," I whispered, staring at the ceiling.
"What kind of trouble?"
"The kind that ends with a broken heart or... or something much, much crazier."
I thought about his words. Survival overrides morality.
I realized then that I would do anything to survive this. Even if it meant letting the wolf eat me alive.
I stood up, walked to my bag, and pulled out the black t-shirt I had tried to hide. I pressed it to my face and inhaled.
I was gone. Completely gone.