Chapter 11
Dante
But this morning was different.
This morning, the sunlight filtering through the cheap blinds of Arabella’s dorm room didn't annoy me. It felt... gentle.
This morning, my knee—still swollen and purple—was throbbing, but the pain felt distant, muted by a thick blanket of endorphins.
And this morning, I wasn't alone.
I was tangled. That was the only word for it. My legs were woven with Arabella’s, my arm pinned beneath her neck (currently completely numb, but I wouldn't move it for a million dollars), and her face was pressed into the crook of my shoulder.
She was drooling on me. Just a little spot of dampness on my skin.
It was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen.
I lay there for twenty minutes, just breathing. I inhaled the scent of her shampoo (lavender) and her skin (vanilla) and the lingering, muskier scent of us (sex).
The wolf was quiet. For the first time in years, the beast wasn't pacing. He was curled up, satiated, purring like a giant, dangerous kitten. He had his mate. He had marked her (several times, if the reddish bruise on her neck was any indication). The world was right.
But the world outside this room wasn't right.
The world outside was waiting with questions. With scouts. With a Human Liaison who hated my guts.
Arabella stirred. She made a soft, grumpy noise in her throat and tightened her grip on my bicep.
"Five more minutes," she mumbled against my skin.
"We don't have five minutes," I whispered, pressing a kiss to her forehead. "It's 7:30. Practice starts at 8:00. And your roommate gets back at 9:00."
Her eyes flew open. Violet. Panicked. Beautiful.
"Oh god," she gasped, sitting up so fast she nearly headbutted me. "My roommate! Sarah! She's a morning person. She arrives early!"
She scrambled out of bed, the sheet falling away to reveal her naked back. The sight of her—pale skin, the curve of her spine, the faint red marks of my fingers on her hips—hit me like a punch.
I wanted to pull her back down. I wanted to spend the rest of the day exploring every inch of her.
"Dante, get up!" she hissed, throwing my dress shirt at my face. It smelled like sweat and yesterday.
I groaned, sitting up and swinging my legs over the edge of the bed. My knee protested loudly. I gritted my teeth, waiting for the joint to stabilize.
"You're hurt," she said, pausing in her frantic search for underwear to look at me. Her expression softened instantly.
"I'm stiff," I corrected, standing up and testing my weight. "It'll loosen up on the ice."
"You shouldn't be skating," she argued, pulling on her robe.
"I have to," I said, buttoning my shirt with clumsy fingers. "Playoffs. Remember?"
I walked over to her. She looked small in the terry cloth robe, her hair a wild bird's nest of blonde tangles.
I cupped her face. "Hey."
"Hey," she whispered, looking up at me.
"Last night..." I started, my voice turning rough. "Last night wasn't a mistake. Just so we're clear."
"It wasn't," she agreed breathlessly. "It was... everything."
"But," I continued, the heavy weight of reality settling on my shoulders. "We can't tell anyone. Not yet."
She stiffened. "Why? Because you're ashamed?"
"No," I said fiercely. "Because I'm protecting you. Your father finds out I knotted his daughter? He pulls your scholarship. He pulls me from the team. He burns this whole thing down."
She bit her lip. "So we lie?"
"We omit," I said. "We act normal. We study. We keep our hands to ourselves in public."
"Can you do that?" she asked, raising an eyebrow. "Because you're very... tactile."
"I have incredible self-control," I lied.
She laughed, reaching up to fix my collar. "Liar. But okay. Secret until the season is over."
"Deal."
I leaned down and kissed her. It was supposed to be a quick goodbye peck. It turned into a slow, deep, devastating kiss that made us both moan and sway together.
"Go," she pushed me toward the door, her cheeks flushed. "Before I lock you in here."
"Tempting," I growled.
I grabbed my shoes and my suit jacket and slipped out into the hallway. I checked for witnesses. The coast was clear.
I limped toward the stairwell, feeling like a thief who had just stolen the Crown Jewels. And in a way, I had.
Lying was harder than I thought.
Specifically, lying to Jax was impossible.
We were in the locker room an hour later. I was taping my knee, wrapping layer after layer of athletic tape around the joint to create a makeshift brace.
Jax was sitting on the bench next to me, lacing his skates. He had been watching me for five minutes without saying a word.
"So," Jax said finally. "You slept at the Hive last night?"
"Yep," I said, not looking up. Rip. Wrap. Rip.
"Funny," Jax mused. "Because I checked your room at 2:00 AM. Empty."
I froze.
"I went for a drive," I said. "To clear my head."
"A drive," Jax repeated. "In your truck. Which was parked behind the Honors Dorm this morning when I drove past?"
I sighed, dropping the roll of tape. I looked at him.
Jax was grinning. A shit-eating, I-know-everything grin.
"Did you finally seal the deal with the Librarian?" he whispered, leaning in.
"Keep your voice down," I snarled, glancing around the locker room. The other guys were busy changing, blasting music, snapping towels. Nobody was listening.
"I knew it!" Jax crowed quietly. "I smelled her on you! You smell like vanilla cupcakes and guilt!"
"It's not guilt," I muttered. "It's caution."
"Does she know you're obsessed?" Jax asked. "Like, does she know you almost ate a guy for looking at her last week?"
"We have an understanding," I said stiffly. "And Jax... nobody knows. Do you hear me? If this gets out, her dad will lose his mind."
Jax mimed zipping his lips and throwing away the key. "Vault is locked, Cap. But seriously... good for you. You look... less like you want to murder everyone."
"I still want to murder you," I said, standing up.
"Love you too, buddy."
Practice was grueling. Coach Vane ran us through bag skates—sprint drills until our lungs burned and our legs turned to jelly.
I skated through the pain. Every time my left skate hit the ice, a jolt of agony shot up my leg. But I welcomed it. The pain focused me. It kept the memory of Arabella’s skin from distracting me too much.
Mostly.
Every time I stopped at the boards to drink water, I found myself scanning the stands. Hoping to see a flash of blonde hair. Hoping she had skipped class to come watch.
She wasn't there. She was being a good student.
Focus, Dante. Focus on the puck.
But the puck looked dull compared to her eyes.
Two days later, the cracks started to show.
We were in the library. Our spot. The study room.
It was 9:00 PM. We had been "studying" for an hour. Which meant Arabella was actually studying, and I was sitting across from her, ostensibly reading a textbook but actually running my foot up and down her calf under the table.
"Dante," she whispered, not looking up from her laptop. "Stop. That tickles."
"Does it?" I asked, moving my foot higher, to the sensitive skin behind her knee.
She kicked me gently. "I have to finish this chapter. Halloway is watching me like a hawk."
"Halloway needs to get laid," I muttered.
"Don't be gross."
The door to the study room opened.
We both jumped. My foot snapped back to my side of the table so fast I banged my knee.
It was a girl. A sophomore. Human. She looked confused.
"Oh, sorry," she said. "I reserved this room for 9:00."
"We're just leaving," Arabella said quickly, slamming her laptop shut. She looked guilty. Her face was flushed. She wouldn't make eye contact with the girl.
I stood up slowly, gathering my things. I towered over the girl, who took a nervous step back.
"It's all yours," I said, giving her a polite nod.
We walked out into the main library. It was crowded. Finals were approaching, and the air smelled of caffeine and desperation.
We walked side by side toward the exit. Not touching. Not talking.
But the magnetic pull was there. I could feel the heat radiating off her arm. I wanted to hold her hand. I wanted to pull her into the stacks and kiss her until she forgot about Halloway.
We reached the lobby.
"Moretti!"
I turned.
Standing by the circulation desk was Coach Vane. And next to him was a man in a suit. A man with grey hair and rimless glasses.
Arabella stopped dead. Her breath hitched.
"Dad?" she whispered.
It was Richard Thorne. The Liaison.
He looked at Arabella. Then he looked at me. Then he looked at the six inches of space between us.
His eyes narrowed behind his glasses.
"Arabella," he said, walking toward us. His voice was pleasant, but his eyes were cold. "I didn't know you were... studying with the team captain."
"Mr. Thorne," I said, stepping forward. I tried to project calm, respectful Alpha energy. "We have a tutoring arrangement. Approved by the department."
Thorne ignored me. He looked only at his daughter.
"Is that true, Ara?" he asked. "Tutoring?"
Arabella swallowed. She looked terrified.
"Yes, Dad," she said. Her voice was steady, but I could smell the acrid scent of her fear. "Dante is... struggling with Ethics. I'm helping him."
"Helping him," Thorne repeated. He looked at me again. He sniffed the air.
I froze.
Could he smell it? Humans generally couldn't detect the mating scent, but Thorne had worked with shifters for twenty years. He knew the signs.
I was wearing cologne. Heavy cologne. I prayed it was enough.
"Well," Thorne said finally, a tight smile stretching his lips. "That's very... generous of you, Arabella. But I'm here to take you to dinner. I drove up to surprise you."
"Oh," Arabella said. She looked at me for a split second—a panicked, apologetic glance—before looking back at her father. "Okay. Let me just... put my books away."
"I'll take them," Thorne said, taking her bag from her shoulder. He put his arm around her, steering her away from me. "Come along, sweetie. The car is outside."
He paused and looked back at me over his shoulder.
"Good luck with your Ethics, Mr. Moretti," he said. "Be careful. It's a tricky subject. One wrong move and you fail."
It wasn't academic advice. It was a threat.
I stood there in the lobby, watching them walk away. I watched his arm around her shoulders—protective, possessive, controlling.
I clenched my fists until my nails dug into my palms.
"One wrong move," I whispered to myself.
I turned and walked out into the night, feeling the weight of the lie pressing down on my chest like a barbell.
That night, I snuck into her room again.
I shouldn't have. It was reckless. Her dad was in town. He was staying at the campus hotel.
But I couldn't stay away. The encounter in the library had rattled me. Seeing her walk away with him... it triggered something primal. I needed to reclaim her.
I climbed the fire escape. Fourth floor. My knee screamed in protest, but I ignored it.
I tapped on her window.
She opened it instantly. She was wearing her pajamas—a tank top and shorts. She looked frantic.
"Are you crazy?" she hissed, pulling me inside. "My dad dropped me off an hour ago! He could come back!"
"He won't," I said, closing the window and locking it. "He thinks you're a good girl who goes to bed at ten."
"I was a good girl," she said, pacing the small room. "Until I met you."
I caught her on her third pass. I grabbed her by the waist and pulled her against me.
"Do you regret it?" I asked, looking down at her.
"No," she said instantly. "But I'm scared, Dante. He looked at you like... like he knew."
"He suspects," I corrected. "He doesn't know. If he knew, I'd be expelled already."
"He hates you," she whispered. "He told me at dinner. He said the Moretti bloodline is tainted. Violent."
"He's right," I said.
"He's not!" she shouted, then clamped a hand over her mouth. "He's not," she whispered fiercely. "You're not violent. You're... intense. There's a difference."
"Is there?" I asked.
I backed her up until she hit the wall. I pressed my body against hers, letting her feel the weight of me.
"Show me," she challenged. "Show me the difference."
We didn't make it to the bed.
We did it against the wall. Fast. Rough. Desperate.
It was a reaction to the fear. We needed to prove that we were real, that this was real, despite the threats circling us.
I lifted her up, wrapping her legs around my waist. She clung to me, her nails digging into my shoulders.
"Dante," she gasped as I thrust into her. "Harder."
"Quiet," I warned, nipping at her ear. "Or Sarah will hear."
"I don't care," she moaned.
I pounded into her, seeking oblivion. For a few minutes, there was no Human Liaison. No scouts. No knee injury. Just the friction of our bodies and the sound of our breathing.
When we finished, we collapsed onto the bed, tangled and sweaty.
"You have to go," she whispered, tracing the scar on my neck. "Before morning."
"I know," I said. "I hate it."
"Me too."
I kissed her one last time and climbed out the window, descending back into the cold reality of the night.
The next morning, my phone rang.
It wasn't Arabella. It wasn't Jax.
It was an unknown number. Seattle area code.
I answered it, putting the phone to my ear as I iced my knee in the kitchen of the Hive.
"Moretti," I grunted.
"Dante Moretti?" A crisp, professional voice. "This is Thomas Reed. Head Scout for the Seattle Kraken."
My heart stopped.
"Yes, sir," I said, sitting up straighter.
"We liked what we saw at the Grizzly game," Reed said. "You have grit, son. Playing through that hit? That showed character."
"Thank you, sir."
"We're looking at you for the first round," Reed continued. "Top ten pick. But..."
He paused.
"But what, sir?"
"But we're hearing rumors," Reed said. "About distractions. About... volatility."
"I'm focused, sir," I said quickly. "100% focused on the game."
"Good," Reed said. "Because we don't draft drama, Moretti. We draft players. Keep your nose clean. Finish the season strong. And for god's sake, stay away from the Liaison's daughter. Thorne has friends in high places. If he blacklists you... we can't touch you."
The line went dead.
I stared at the phone.
Stay away from the Liaison's daughter.
I looked at the text message that had just popped up on my screen.
Arabella: Meet me at the Ice Garden? I miss you.
I closed my eyes.
I had the NHL on one line. And the love of my life on the other.
And the terrible truth was... I couldn't have both.
I typed a reply.
Can't. Practice ran late.
I hit send. And then I threw my phone across the room. It smashed against the wall, cracking the screen.
Just like everything else in my life was about to crack.