Chapter 7 #2
"The machinery does matter," I whispered. "Especially yours. You take hits that would kill a normal person."
"I heal fast."
"That doesn't mean it doesn't hurt."
He squeezed my hand. "No. It doesn't."
A shadow fell over the table.
"Well, look at this. The Prince of Ironclaw, slumming it with the help."
I stiffened.
Three guys were standing by our booth. They were big, wearing varsity jackets from Northern—our rivals. They smelled like stale beer and aggression.
Oakley didn't let go of my hand. He didn't even look up at them initially. He took a sip of his water, his movements slow and deliberate.
"Walk away, Stevens," Oakley said calmly. "I'm eating."
"We just wanted to say hi," the leader—Stevens—sneered. He looked at me, his gaze raking over my sweater in a way that made my skin crawl. "Who's the little human? Pet? Or snack?"
The air at the table changed instantly.
The warmth vanished. The playfulness evaporated. Oakley went still. Absolute, predatory stillness.
The hand holding mine tightened, not enough to hurt, but enough to signal. Stay.
Slowly, Oakley turned his head. His eyes were no longer warm gold. They were burning, molten amber. A low rumble started in his chest—a sound so deep it wasn't heard, it was felt. A growl.
"She's not a pet," Oakley said, his voice dropping to that terrifying octave that commanded the room. "And if you look at her again, Stevens, I'm going to remove your eyes."
Stevens took a step back, his bravado faltering. "Relax, Thorne. Just a joke."
"It wasn't funny," I said.
My voice surprised even me. It was steady. sharp.
I glared at Stevens. "And for the record, I'm his tutor. Which means I'm the one making sure he stays eligible to kick your ass in the playoffs next month. So I suggest you let us finish our dinner."
Silence stretched.
Oakley looked at me, surprise and fierce pride flashing in his eyes.
Stevens looked between the two of us—the massive Alpha looking ready to kill, and the small human girl glaring daggers. He did the math.
"Whatever," Stevens muttered. "Come on, boys."
They shuffled away, retreating to the bar.
Oakley watched them go, his body remaining tense until they were out of earshot. Then, he turned back to me.
He let out a breath, the tension bleeding out of his shoulders. A slow, wicked grin spread across his face.
"Did you just trash talk the Northern linebacker?" he asked.
"I think I did," I said, my heart hammering. "Was it okay?"
"Okay?" Oakley laughed, shaking his head. "Faye, that was the hottest thing I have ever seen."
He lifted my hand to his lips and kissed my knuckles, holding my gaze.
"You and me," he murmured against my skin. "We make a pretty good team."
"Yeah," I whispered, feeling the truth of it settle in my bones. "We do."
We didn't go straight home.
"I want to show you something," Oakley said as we got back in the truck.
He drove us out of town, away from the campus lights, turning onto an old logging road that wound up the side of the ridge. the trees grew thicker here, the snow deeper. The truck climbed effortlessly, the headlights cutting through the darkness.
"Are you taking me into the woods to murder me?" I joked, though my pulse was racing with anticipation.
"If I wanted to murder you, I would have done it in the library," he deadpanned. "Less paperwork."
He pulled into a clearing at the top of the ridge and killed the engine.
Sudden silence descended. The world outside was black and white—dark trees, white snow, and a sky that looked like spilled ink.
"Look up," Oakley whispered.
I leaned forward, looking through the windshield.
At first, I just saw stars. Millions of them, brighter than I had ever seen. But then, a ribbon of green light unfurled across the horizon. It shimmered, twisting and turning like a living thing.
The Northern Lights.
"Oh my God," I breathed.
"They're active tonight," Oakley said softly. He wasn't looking at the sky. He was looking at me, watching the green light reflect in my eyes. "Solar storms."
"It's beautiful."
"Yeah," he said. "It is."
The atmosphere in the truck shifted. The wonder of the lights faded into the background, replaced by the overwhelming gravity of the man sitting next to me.
It was dark. We were alone. Miles from anyone.
The "New Normal" we had established—the banter, the friendship—suddenly felt insufficient. It felt like a dam holding back a flood.
Oakley unbuckled his seatbelt. He turned in his seat to face me, his arm resting on the back of the bench seat, his fingers brushing my hair.
"Faye," he said. His voice was rough, stripped of all pretense.
"Oakley," I whispered.
"I'm trying," he admitted, his hand cupping the back of my neck. "I'm trying so hard to follow the rules. To be the good guy. To just be your friend."
"I know."
"But then you go and defend me in a bar," he groaned, leaning closer. "And you look at the sky like it's magic. And you smell like vanilla and... mine."
My breath hitched. "I'm not yours, Oakley."
"Aren't you?" he challenged softly. "Because you feel like mine. You taste like mine."
He closed the distance.
His lips crashed onto mine.
It wasn't like the library. The library had been desperate, frantic, a release of pressure. This was... heavy. This was a drowning.
He kissed me slow and deep, his tongue sweeping into my mouth with a languid possession that made my toes curl in my boots. I turned in my seat, straining against the seatbelt, trying to get closer.
"Damn this thing," he growled, reaching over to click my buckle open.
The belt retracted, and he pulled me. I scrambled over the center console—an undignified maneuver that ended with me straddling his lap, facing him. The steering wheel dug into my back, but I didn't care.
I was in his lap. Wrapped in his arms.
He groaned, a vibration that went straight to my core, and buried his face in my neck. He bit down lightly on the sensitive spot where my pulse hammered.
"Oakley," I gasped, threading my fingers through his hair.
"I need this," he muttered against my skin. "I need you. Just for a minute. Just let me have this."
His hands were under my coat, under my sweater, finding the warm skin of my back. His palms were rough and hot. He traced the line of my spine, sending shivers radiating outward.
We made out like teenagers, messy and heated. The windows of the truck began to fog up, isolating us in our own private world.
I ground my hips down, and he hissed, his grip on my waist tightening to the point of pain.
"Don't," he warned, pulling back slightly, his forehead resting against mine. His eyes were glowing fiercely in the dark cab. "Don't move like that unless you want me to shift right here and ruin the upholstery."
"Would that be so bad?" I whispered, drunk on the power I seemed to have over him.
He closed his eyes, taking a ragged breath. "Yes. Because I don't have a condom. And I am dangerously close to not caring."
The reality of his words—the biological threat of the pregnancy we had joked about, the seriousness of what we were doing—crashed down on me.
He was right. We were playing with fire. And we were covered in gasoline.
"Okay," I breathed, resting my head on his shoulder. "Okay. We stop."
"We stop," he agreed. But he didn't let go. He held me there, in his lap, while our breathing slowed and the fog on the windows turned to frost.
He rubbed circles on my back, soothing me, soothing himself.
"You're dangerous, Faye Sommers," he whispered into my hair.
"Me?" I laughed weakly. "You're the 230-pound werewolf."
"You're the one who can bring me to my knees without even touching me," he said. "That's power."
We stayed there for a long time, watching the aurora fade.
When he finally drove me back to the dorms, the silence in the truck wasn't awkward. It was full.
He walked me to the door, shielding me from the wind.
"Goodnight, Mouse," he said, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear.
"Goodnight, Wolf," I replied.
He waited until I was inside before he left.
I walked up the stairs to my room, my lips swollen, my body humming, and my heart sinking with a terrifying realization.
I wasn't just attracted to him. I wasn't just lusting after him.
I was falling in love with him.
And I knew, with a certainty that chilled me to the bone, that when the season ended and he went to the NHL and I went to grad school... this was going to destroy me.
But as I touched my lips, remembering the taste of him, I realized I didn't care.
I would let it destroy me. As long as I got to have him for a little while longer.