Chapter 3 #2
The comment made my skin crawl. I opened my mouth to tell him exactly where he could shove his lower back pain, but the words never came out.
Because suddenly, the frat boy wasn't looking at me anymore. He was looking over my shoulder, and all the color was draining out of his face.
The temperature in the hallway seemed to drop ten degrees. The air grew heavy, charged with static electricity.
A shadow fell over us.
"Let. Her. Go."
The voice was low, barely a whisper, but it carried the weight of a tectonic plate shifting. It vibrated in my chest. It wasn't a request. It was a command.
The frat boy released me instantly, stumbling back as if burned.
I turned around.
Oakley stood there. He loomed over us, his height exaggerated by the narrow hallway. He wasn't looking at me. He was staring at the frat boy with a look of pure, unadulterated violence. His lips were pulled back slightly, revealing the tips of canines that looked sharper than they should be.
"T-Thorne," the guy stammered, holding his hands up. "I was just—we were just talking."
"You were touching," Oakley corrected. He took a step forward. The frat boy took two steps back, hitting the wall. "And I don't like it when people touch my staff."
My staff.
The possessive pronoun sent a jolt through me.
"My bad, man," the guy said, sweating now. "I didn't know she was... I mean, I didn't know."
"Now you do," Oakley growled. "Walk away. Before I throw you through a window."
The guy didn't need to be told twice. He scrambled sideways, slipping past Oakley and disappearing into the crowd like a rat fleeing a sinking ship.
I let out a breath I hadn't realized I was holding, leaning back against the cool plaster of the wall. My heart was galloping.
Oakley watched him go, his chest heaving slightly, before slowly turning his gaze to me.
The anger didn't leave his eyes. If anything, it intensified. But now, it was directed at me.
"What are you doing here?" he demanded, stepping into my personal space. He placed one hand on the wall above my head, effectively boxing me in.
"It's a party," I said, lifting my chin, refusing to be cowed. "I was invited."
"By who?" he snapped. "Not by me."
"By the university spirit," I retorted. "Why do you care? I'm off the clock."
"You're never off the clock when you're in my house," he murmured, leaning down.
He was so close. I could smell the bourbon on his breath, mixed with that intoxicating cedar and rain scent that seemed to be part of his DNA. I could see the golden flecks in his eyes swirling.
"You shouldn't be here, Faye," he said, his voice softer now, almost pained. "Look around. Do you see any other humans walking around alone?"
"I'm with Sloane," I said weakly.
"Sloane is currently making out with my backup goalie in the laundry room," he deadpanned.
My face heated. "Oh."
"Exactly. Oh." He moved closer, until his chest was inches from mine. "This isn't a frat party, Mouse. When the alcohol starts flowing, and the instincts start kicking in... things get rough. We play rough."
"I can handle rough," I whispered.
Something dark flared in his eyes. His gaze dropped to my mouth, then back up to my eyes.
"Don't say that," he warned, his voice rough. "Don't say that to me unless you know what it means."
"What does it mean, Oakley?" I challenged, my own reckless courage surfacing again. Maybe it was the beer. Maybe it was the proximity. "You keep warning me. You keep telling me to run. But you're the one who keeps cornering me."
He froze. His jaw ticked.
"I'm cornering you," he gritted out, "because you smell like dessert in a room full of starving wolves. Do you have any idea how hard it is to think when you're around?"
"Is that a compliment?"
"It's a complaint," he growled.
He lowered his head. His nose brushed against the sensitive skin below my ear, inhaling deeply. I gasped, my hands instinctively coming up to rest on his chest. Through the thin cotton of his Henley, his heart was beating as fast as mine.
"You smell like fear again," he murmured against my neck. His breath was hot, sending shivers racing over my skin.
"I'm not scared of them," I whispered.
"No," he said, pulling back just enough to look me in the eye. "You're scared of me."
"Maybe I am."
"Good," he said. "Keep being scared. It's the only thing keeping you safe."
He was testing me. It was a game of chicken. He wanted me to pull away. He wanted me to prove that I was too fragile for this.
So I didn't move.
"What if I don't want to be safe?" I asked quietly.
Oakley stared at me for a long, agonizing moment. The air between us was thick enough to cut. His hand—the one not braced on the wall—twitched at his side, as if he was fighting the urge to reach out and touch me. To grab my waist. To pull me into the hard planes of his body.
"Then you're a fool," he whispered.
He leaned in. I closed my eyes, my lips parting, waiting for the collision. I wanted it. God help me, I wanted him to kiss me. I wanted to know what that aggression felt like when it was focused on pleasure instead of intimidation.
"Hey! Thorne!"
The shout broke the spell like a sledgehammer through glass.
Oakley flinched, pulling back instantly. The mask slammed back down over his face—the stoic, cold Captain returning in a split second.
I opened my eyes, disoriented, my lips tingling with the ghost of a kiss that hadn't happened.
A teammate—Jax—came bounding down the hallway, holding two beers.
"There you are!" Jax yelled, skidding to a halt when he saw us. His grin faltered slightly as he took in the scene—me pressed against the wall, Oakley looming over me, the obvious tension radiating off us like heat waves.
"Uh," Jax said, looking between us. "Am I interrupting?"
"No," Oakley said sharply, pushing off the wall and stepping away from me. He turned his back to me, running a hand through his hair. "She was just leaving."
The rejection stung more than it should have.
"Right," I said, my voice sounding shaky. I straightened my sweater, trying to salvage some dignity. "I was just leaving."
"I'll walk you out," Jax offered, his expression softening with sympathy.
"I don't need a chaperone," I snapped, stepping around Oakley.
I paused as I passed him. He wouldn't look at me. He was staring at the floor, his fists clenched at his sides, his shoulders rigid with tension.
"Goodnight, Captain," I whispered.
He didn't answer.
I walked down the hallway, my legs trembling. I grabbed my coat from the pile by the door and stepped out into the freezing night air without waiting for Sloane.
The cold hit my flushed skin, but it did nothing to cool the fire burning in my veins.
I had come here to prove I could handle his world. But as I walked toward the shuttle stop, the snow crunching under my boots, I realized he was right.
I wasn't safe. Not because of the wolves, or the party, or the roughhousing.
I wasn't safe because I was falling for the monster. And the scariest part was that for a second, right before Jax interrupted... I thought the monster might be falling for me too.