Chapter 9
Graham
The party at the Sentinel House was a biohazard.
It was tradition. After a win against Minnesota, the team rented a keg, hired a DJ who played exclusively bass-heavy EDM, and crammed three hundred students into a house that was structurally unsound on a good day.
I hated it. I hated the smell of spilled beer. I hated the way people shouted in my face, congratulating me on the game-winner while spitting nachos on my shirt. I hated that I had to be here because I was the Captain, and if the Captain didn't show, the morale dropped.
But mostly, I hated it because Faye was here.
And she was wearing that damn gold dress again.
I had tried to convince her to change. I had suggested jeans. I had suggested a burlap sack. She had laughed, touched up her lipstick, and told me that if she was going to be paraded around as my "partner," she was going to dress the part.
She was currently standing by the beer pong table, holding a red solo cup like it was a chalice.
She was surrounded. Rys was there, obviously, making her laugh.
Two rookies were staring at her with their jaws on the floor.
And a guy from the ski team—Chad, or Brad, or Thad, it didn't matter—was leaning in way too close, whispering something in her ear.
I stood by the kitchen doorway, nursing a water bottle, watching them.
My shoulder was throbbing. The adrenaline from the game had worn off, replaced by a deep, grinding ache that radiated down my arm. The noise was giving me a headache. The leak on Twitter was a ticking time bomb in my pocket—I hadn't told her yet. I couldn't. Not here.
"She looks good, Cap," Miller said, appearing beside me. He looked nervous, holding a beer with both hands.
I turned my head slowly to look at him. " excuse me?"
"Faye. She looks... good. Happy." Miller swallowed hard. "You guys seem... good."
"We are," I said, my voice flat. "Don't stare."
"Right. Sorry." Miller backed away, disappearing into the crowd.
I looked back at Faye.
She wasn't smiling anymore. Thad-Brad-Chad had put his hand on her arm. Just above the elbow. His fingers were pressing into her skin.
Faye flinched. It was subtle—a micro-expression of distaste—but I saw it. She shifted her weight, trying to step back, but the crowd was too dense.
My headache vanished. The pain in my shoulder vanished.
Replaced by the cold, sharp clarity of the predator.
I pushed off the doorframe. I didn't rush. I walked through the crowd with purpose. People parted like the Red Sea. They felt the temperature drop when I passed.
I reached the circle.
"Faye," I said. My voice wasn't loud, but it cut through the bass like a knife.
She looked up. Relief flooded her face. Real, unfiltered relief.
"Graham," she breathed.
Thad-Brad-Chad looked at me. He was drunk. He grinned, a sloppy, arrogant expression.
"Governor! Great game, man. I was just telling Faye here that she should come watch the Slalom finals tomorrow. Real athletes, you know?"
I didn't look at him. I looked at his hand. The one still touching her arm.
"Remove your hand," I said calmly.
"Whoa, chill out, man. We're just talking."
"I’m not going to ask twice."
Thad blinked. He looked at my face. He saw the dead grey eyes. He saw the scar on my brow. He realized, in a moment of drunken clarity, that I wasn't the guy on the posters. I was the guy who had put three Minnesota players on the injury reserve list tonight.
He snatched his hand back. "Alright. My bad. Just being friendly."
"Be friendly somewhere else."
He scrambled away.
I turned to Faye. "You okay?"
"I’m fine," she said, rubbing her arm. "He was just... handsy."
"You want me to remove him?"
"I want you to remove me." She looked around the room, her expression weary. "It’s sticky. It’s loud. And Rys keeps trying to explain the physics of beer pong to me and I think my brain is leaking out of my ears."
I smirked. "Beer pong is geometry."
"See? You're all the same." She stepped closer to me, sliding her hand into mine. Her fingers were cool. "Can we go? Please?"
"Captain duties?"
"Captain duties can wait. Your partner is invoking the 'Get Me Out of Here' clause."
I squeezed her hand. "Consider it invoked."
We wove through the crowd toward the exit. I kept her close, my body acting as a shield. Hands reached out to high-five me. Girls tried to catch my eye. I ignored them all. My world had narrowed down to the blonde head tucked against my shoulder and the exit sign glowing red in the distance.
We burst out into the night air. It was freezing, silent, and clean.
"Oh, thank god," Faye exhaled, leaning back against the brick wall of the house. "I thought I was going to suffocate in Axe body spray."
"Come on," I said. "Car’s this way."
"Wait." She grabbed my lapel, pulling me toward her.
I stumbled slightly, favoring my shoulder. I looked down at her.
Her eyes were bright in the moonlight. The gold dress shimmered. She looked ethereal and messy and perfect.
"You rescued me again," she whispered.
"It’s becoming a habit."
"A bad one?"
I reached out and tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. My knuckles brushed her cheekbone. Her skin was soft, flushed from the heat of the party.
"No," I murmured. "The best one I have."
She smiled. A soft, secret smile just for me.
"Take me home, Graham."
The drive was quiet.
Not the awkward silence of our first week. Not the tense silence of the argument. This was a comfortable, heavy silence. The kind where words were unnecessary because the air itself was speaking.
I drove with one hand on the wheel. Faye sat in the passenger seat, her head resting against the window, watching me. I could feel her gaze. It was warm. It traced my profile, my hands, my chest.
"You're in pain," she said softly when we stopped at a red light.
"I’m fine."
"You keep flexing your hand on the wheel. You do that when the nerve is pinching."
"Observant."
"I told you. I watch."
The light turned green. I accelerated.
"Do you want to stop at the pharmacy?" she asked.
"No. I have everything at home."
"Ice?"
"Yes."
"I'll help you."
"Faye, you don't have to—"
"Shut up, Graham. I’m helping."
I glanced at her. She wasn't looking at me anymore. She was looking out the window, biting her lip. She looked... determined.
We arrived at the penthouse. We rode the elevator in silence. The anticipation was building, a physical pressure in the small space.
When the doors opened, the apartment was dark and cool.
"Go sit," Faye commanded, pointing to the living room couch. "Shirt off. I’ll get the ice."
I didn't argue. I was too tired, and honestly, the idea of her hands on me again was the only thing keeping me upright.
I walked to the couch, sat down, and groaned as I peeled off my suit jacket. My right arm screamed in protest. I tossed the jacket on the floor—something I never did—and started working on the buttons of my shirt.
My fingers were clumsy. Stiff.
Faye appeared in front of me. She was holding an ice pack wrapped in a towel and the tube of Bio-Freeze.
"Let me," she said.
She set the supplies on the table and stepped between my knees.
She pushed my hands away. Her fingers were nimble, efficient. She undid the buttons, starting from the top. Her knuckles brushed my chest with every movement.
I watched her face. She was focused. Her tongue was poking out slightly between her teeth.
She reached the bottom button. She pushed the shirt off my shoulders, helping me shrug out of it. I hissed as it dragged over the injury.
"Sorry," she whispered. "Almost done."
She tossed the shirt aside.
I was bare from the waist up. The tape from this morning was still there, but it was peeling at the edges.
"We need to take this off," she said. "The skin needs to breathe."
"It’s going to hurt."
"I know. I’ll be quick."
She found the edge of the tape on my chest. She looked into my eyes.
"Ready?"
"Just do it."
She ripped it off. Fast. Efficient.
I gritted my teeth, a low growl escaping my throat.
She did the same for the back.
"Done," she soothed, placing her cool hands on my uninjured shoulder. "See? Not so bad."
"You're a sadist."
"Only when necessary."
She picked up the ice pack. "Lean back."
I leaned my head back against the sofa. She placed the ice on my shoulder. The cold was shocking, then numbing. It felt like heaven.
Faye didn't move away. She stayed standing between my legs, her hands resting on my thighs.
I opened my eyes and looked up at her.
"Thank you," I said.
"Don't thank me. You’re the idiot who played a contact sport with a bruised deltoid."
"We won."
"So you keep saying."
She looked down at me. Her expression softened. She reached out and traced the line of my jaw with her thumb.
"You look exhausted, Graham."
"I am."
"Then sleep."
"I can't."
"Why?"
"Because you're standing there in that dress," I admitted, my voice rough. "And every time I close my eyes, I see you. And I want you."
Her breath hitched. Her hand stilled on my face.
"You have me," she whispered.
"Not like this. Not when I’m... broken."
"Stop saying that," she said fiercely. "You are not broken. You are human. And I want the human."
She leaned down.
She kissed me.
It wasn't a tentative kiss. It was a claim. She pressed her mouth to mine, tasting of wine and mint. She pushed her tongue past my lips, demanding entry.
I groaned, my hands coming up to grip her waist. The gold dress was cool under my palms, but the body underneath was blazing hot.
I pulled her down.
She climbed onto my lap, straddling me. Her knees dug into the leather sofa on either side of my hips. The dress rode up, pooling around her waist.
Skin.
Her thighs were bare against my jeans. The friction was electric.
I forgot about the shoulder. I forgot about the pain. I forgot about the scandal waiting on my phone.
All I knew was Faye.
I kissed her back with everything I had. I devoured her. I bit her lip, soothing the sting with my tongue. I ran my hands up her back, feeling the smoothness of her skin, the fragile line of her spine.
"Bedroom," I growled against her mouth.
"Can you walk?" she panted.