Chapter 9
Oakley
The Lodge was a living, breathing entity tonight, pulsating with the bass of a song I didn't recognize and didn't care about.
It smelled like cheap beer, expensive perfume, and victory.
Winning the rivalry game against Northern always triggered a celebration that bordered on a riot.
The Great Room was packed wall-to-wall. Bodies ground against bodies.
Laughter roared over the music. A keg stand was happening on the coffee table, orchestrated by Riot, who was currently upside down and shirtless, chanting the fight song.
I sat on the high-backed leather sofa in the corner—my corner—nursing a glass of whiskey I hadn't touched in twenty minutes.
My shoulder throbbed with a dull, persistent ache that radiated down my arm. My head felt heavy, stuffed with cotton. The adrenaline that had carried me through the third period and the confrontation with the bear in the penalty box was fading, leaving behind a bone-deep exhaustion.
I should be happy. We won. I scored two goals. I didn't kill anyone.
But all I could feel was the restless itch under my skin.
I scanned the room for the hundredth time.
Where is she?
She said she was coming. She promised.
"You look like a gargoyle," a voice shouted over the din.
I looked up. Jax flopped onto the couch next to me, wiping beer foam from his mouth. His black eye was blooming into a magnificent shade of purple.
"I'm thinking," I grunted.
"You're brooding," Jax corrected. "There's a difference. And you're staring at the door like a dog waiting for its owner. It's pathetic, Cap."
"Shut up, Jax."
"She's here, by the way," Jax said casually, leaning back and putting his boots on the table.
My head snapped around so fast I felt a vertebrae pop. "Where?"
"Kitchen. Sloane dragged her in to get jello shots. Which, by the way, is a tragedy waiting to happen. Faye doesn't have the liver enzyme for cheap vodka."
I was already moving.
I stood up, ignoring the protest from my bruised ribs, and waded into the crowd. I moved with purpose, a shark cutting through a school of fish. People patted my back, shouted congratulations, tried to hand me drinks. I ignored them all.
I reached the kitchen archway and stopped.
There she was.
She was standing near the granite island, looking painfully out of place and breathtakingly beautiful. She was still wearing the jeans and oversized Ironclaw hoodie from the game, her hair messy from the wind. She was holding a small plastic cup of red gelatin, looking at it with deep suspicion.
But she wasn't alone.
A guy—a freshman winger from the JV team, a coyote shifter—was leaning against the counter next to her. He was too close. He was smiling that oily, predatory smile that boys used when they smelled fresh meat.
I couldn't hear what he was saying over the music, but I saw Faye take a half-step back. I saw her shoulders tense.
The Wolf inside me woke up. It didn't stretch; it snapped its jaws.
I crossed the kitchen in three strides.
The coyote didn't even see me coming. I stepped between them, effectively walling Faye off with my body. I turned my back on her, facing the kid.
"Captain!" the kid stammered, his eyes widening as he took in my expression. "Great game, man. That goal in the first—"
"Walk away," I said. My voice wasn't loud. It didn't have to be. It was low, flat, and laced with enough Alpha command to make a lesser shifter wet themselves.
The kid swallowed hard. His gaze flicked past me to Faye, then back to my eyes, which I knew were currently burning gold.
"I was just—"
"I said walk," I repeated, stepping into his personal space. "Now."
He scrambled. He abandoned his drink on the counter and practically ran out of the kitchen.
I let out a breath, trying to dial back the aggression before I turned around. I ran a hand through my hair, wincing as the movement pulled at my shoulder.
"You scared him," Faye’s soft voice said from behind me.
I turned slowly.
She was looking up at me, her hazel eyes wide but not fearful. She set the jello shot down on the counter, abandoned.
"He was annoying you," I said simply.
"He was just asking about Kinesiology," she said, a small smile playing on her lips. "But yes. He was annoying. You, however... look like you got hit by a bus."
"Bear," I corrected. "Not a bus."
"Same thing." She reached out, her hand hovering near my face before she bravely placed her palm on my cheek, her thumb brushing the bandage near my eye. "You're pale, Oakley. And you're guarding your left side."
The touch was a balm. The noise of the party seemed to dampen, fading into the background.
"It's loud in here," I murmured, leaning into her hand. "Too many people."
"Do you want to leave?"
"I can't," I sighed. "Captain has to stay. Morale."
"Screw morale," she said firmly. "You're hurt. And you're exhausted. Let's go."
"Where?"
"Upstairs," she said. "To your room. Away from the bass."
The suggestion hung in the air. My room. The sanctuary. The one place in this house where no one else was allowed.
I looked at her. Really looked at her. She wasn't suggesting sex. She was suggesting escape. She saw the cracks in my armor that I was hiding from everyone else.
"Okay," I whispered.
I took her hand. It was small and warm in mine.
We navigated the crowd again, but this time, I wasn't hunting. I was retreating. We slipped through the throng and headed for the back staircase—the servants' stairs from when the Lodge was a hunting estate in the 1920s.
It was quiet in the stairwell. The music was muffled, a distant thumping.
We climbed to the third floor. The attic.
I unlocked my door with the keypad and pushed it open.
Silence. Blessed, cool silence.
My room was vast, taking up the entire attic space under the eaves. The ceiling was slanted, with exposed wooden beams. A massive bed sat in the center, covered in a dark grey duvet. One wall was entirely glass, looking out over the snow-covered forest and the frozen lake.
It smelled like cedar and me. And now, as Faye walked in, it smelled like vanilla.
"Wow," she breathed, looking around. "It's... peaceful."
"Soundproofed," I explained, closing the door and locking it. "Necessary for survival."
I walked over to the mini-fridge in the corner and grabbed an ice pack. I sat on the edge of the bed, groaning as I finally let my body relax. The pain in my shoulder flared hot and sharp.
"Shirt off," Faye commanded.
I looked up. She was standing in front of me, hands on her hips, her "Trainer Mode" fully activated.
"Faye..."
"Don't argue with me, Thorne. I saw the hit. I need to check the AC joint. Shirt. Off."
I let out a huff of laughter, wincing. "Bossy."
"Only because you're stubborn."
I reached for the hem of my shirt. I tried to pull it over my head, but as I lifted my left arm, a jagged bolt of agony shot through my shoulder. I hissed through my teeth, freezing with the shirt halfway up my chest.
"Stop," Faye said instantly. She stepped between my legs. "Let me."
She grabbed the hem of the shirt. Her fingers brushed my skin—cool against my feverish heat. She eased it up slowly, carefully maneuvering my left arm out first, then pulling it over my head.
She tossed the shirt on the floor.
"Oh, Oakley," she whispered.
I looked down. My left shoulder was a mess. A mottled bruise, purple and black and ugly, was already spreading across the deltoid and down my chest. The skin was swollen and angry.
"It looks worse than it feels," I lied.
"Liar," she said softly.
She reached out, her fingers ghosting over the bruise without touching it. Her eyes were filled with pain—not for herself, but for me.
"Sit back," she instructed.
I leaned back against the headboard, watching her.
She grabbed the ice pack from the nightstand. She wrapped it in a small towel she found there. Then, she climbed onto the bed next to me.
She knelt beside my hip, pressing the ice gently against the worst of the swelling.
I hissed at the cold, my muscles seizing.
"Breathe," she murmured. "Just breathe."
I closed my eyes, focusing on the rhythm of her breathing. In. Out. In. Out. The cold started to numb the fire. The pain receded to a dull throb.
"Better?" she asked after a few minutes.
"Yeah," I rasped. "Better."
I opened my eyes.
She was watching me, her face inches from mine. In the dim light of the bedside lamp, her skin looked like porcelain. Her lips were parted slightly.
The atmosphere in the room shifted. The medical emergency faded, replaced by the heavy, suffocating awareness that we were on a bed. Alone. Half-naked.
"You defended me downstairs," she whispered. "With that kid."
"He was looking at you wrong."
"How?"
"Like you were food," I said, my voice dropping. "Like he wanted to taste you."
"And you don't?"
The question hung there. Bold. reckless.
I stared at her mouth. "Faye, you know I do. I think about tasting you every second of every day. It's becoming a problem."
"Why is it a problem?" She leaned closer. Her hand—the one not holding the ice—moved to rest on my chest, right over my heart. She could feel it hammering against my ribs.
"Because," I said, covering her hand with mine. "I'm not safe, remember? I'm the monster. I'm the guy who gets into fights and has a feral father and breaks things."
"You haven't broken me," she said.
"Yet."
"I'm stronger than you think," she insisted. "I can handle you, Oakley. I handled you in the library. I handled you in the closet."
"That was foreplay," I groaned. "That wasn't... everything. If I let go, Faye... if I really let go... I might hurt you. I'm too big. Too rough."
"Then don't let go," she challenged. "Or... let go and trust me to tell you when to stop."
She moved the ice pack away, setting it on the nightstand.
She straddled my lap.
My breath hitched. She settled her weight on my thighs, her jeans rough against my skin. She was so light. So perfect.
"What are you doing?" I choked out.
"I'm testing a theory," she whispered.