14. Wren
WREN
Lucian Caulfield kissed me.
Kissed me.
Kissed. Me.
Stunned, I stare at the supply closet door as it clicks shut behind him. Even in his absence, the echo of his presence buzzes beneath my skin. I can still feel him on my lips. Taste him on my tongue.
At first, I don’t move. Just stare at that door, not really seeing it as my mind works on overdrive. The scent of him clings to the air. Sticks in my nostrils. Buries itself beneath my skin. Bergamot and burnt spice wrapped around something dangerous enough to ruin me.
Then slowly, my hand lifts to my lips, still tingling from his kiss. His kiss that was the opposite of everything I’d expect. It was fire and passion and heat. It evoked a need in me that I’ve never experienced before.
One that surely wouldn’t be possible if he had been one of my attackers that night.
One that only leaves me more confused than I was before.
Feeling drained and wired all at once, I lean back against the shelves, letting the cold press of metal ground me. My pulse still thunders in my ears.
Little Moth.
What did Lucian mean by that?
There was a softness to his words when he called me that. One I didn’t know he was capable of. A kind of reverence, like I was something delicate in his brutal hands. Not weak, but rare. Something precious. Maybe even something worth protecting.
And the way he looked at me the entire time…
Like I wasn’t just some intern he was forced to tolerate.
Not the daughter of the Winslows or a pawn in someone else’s game.
Like I was someone who was upending his entire world, and not in a bad she knows my deep dark secret and could ruin my life kind of way. More like, he never knew life could be like this, and now he’s had a taste, he can’t go back.
Which should be terrifying.
Does the fact that it isn’t mean I’m starting to believe they weren’t the ones who hurt me that night?
None of them have come out and simply stated they weren’t. They keep pushing me, instead. Keep asking me to question what I remember.
If it really had been them who attacked me, surely they’d be threatening me to stay quiet, not pressing for me to remember.
I wish I remembered more. I wish I remembered better. That I could trust the scattered fragments of the memories I do have.
The ringing of my cell interrupts my distracted thoughts. Pulling it out, I scrunch my nose as I look at the caller ID. Ugh, what does Mother want now?
I debate answering it for all of five seconds before sending it to voicemail instead. Whatever she wants, she can leave on my voicemail or call me back later.
The sound of life happening outside the supply closet reminds me I’m just standing here, achieving absolutely nothing when I have an extensive to-do list to complete before I can leave: equipment to restock, hydration stations to refill, and sheets to submit to the trainers.
I tick through the list, redirecting my thoughts every time they return to Lucian, Ronan, and Silas. That night. Ronan towering over me. Silas’s hand on my cheek. The heat of Lucian’s lips against mine.
It’s safe to say that my thoughts are a tangled mess of sharp-edged memories and the slow-spreading ache of what if I’m wrong?
By the time I tick off the last item on my list, the rink is in that quiet lull that only occurs between practices. I slip through the locker room doors, assuming the players have cleared out… Only to nearly collide with Isaac Evans.
“Jesus,” I gasp, stumbling back a step. He’s fresh from the showers, steam still clinging to his skin, a towel slung low around his hips. Water drips from the ends of his blond hair, trailing in rivulets down his chest.
He’s not unattractive. Far from it. Broad shoulders, cut abs, that easy, all-American smile he flashes like it’s currency.
He’s the kind of guy most girls would stop mid-sentence to stare at.
Especially half-naked. He’s handsome in the way hockey players often are—sculpted from repetition, routine, and ego.
And yet…I don’t feel that same flash of heat I experience when Ronan, Silas, or Lucian steps into my personal space.
My heart doesn’t race.
My breath doesn’t catch.
There’s no hum beneath my skin.
No gravity pulling me closer.
Just a guy, mostly naked, smiling like I should be impressed.
“Damn. Didn’t know I was getting ambushed by the hottest intern on staff.”
I roll my eyes, ignoring the fact that my lip hitches ever so slightly at his flirting.
I might not be attracted to him, but that doesn’t mean I don’t appreciate the compliment.
The effort he is putting in, even if it does come with a side of uncomfortableness.
That’s just my trauma speaking. Trauma I need to learn to get over if I ever want to have a normal dating life.
“I thought everyone was gone.”
“Medical,” he explains, tapping his shoulder where a bruise is blooming. There are minor nicks along his arms and across his face. “Turns out getting body-checked into the glass warrants a full physical.”
I wince. “It looked…rough.”
“Yeah, trust me, it felt worse.” He smirks. “You here to kiss it better?”
His sudden change in topic gets a surprised laugh out of me. “Not even a little bit.”
Evans chuckles, the sound easy. Unbothered.
That’s the thing about him. He’s always smooth, always joking.
The guy people gravitate toward. Friendly.
Funny. Easy on the eyes. And over the past week, I’ve been slowly getting to know him.
Not by choice exactly, but he’s persistent.
Frequently striking up a conversation with me.
Ensuring he greets me every morning when I arrive.
Sending me the occasional wink or smirk from across the locker room.
Even if we cross paths on campus, he’s always got a grin for me, or a wave, or some half-charming, half-ridiculous line ready to go. He talks to me about all sorts of random things—what classes he’s failing, what raging party he attended last weekend, which teammate has the worst pre-game rituals.
And every single conversation, without fail, ends the same way. “So when are you gonna let me take you out?” Or, “Tell me what kind of food you like, so I know where to book our first date.” Or my personal favorite, “One dinner. If you hate me after, I’ll never flirt again.”
He says it all with a wink, like it’s a joke, but I’m pretty sure he’s being serious.
I laugh it off anyway, brushing his probing aside.
It’s easier that way. Less awkward. It saves me from having to explain to him that I haven’t been on a date since high school, which inevitably leads to the invariable why, and how the hell am I supposed to answer that?
That explanation is not pre-first-date appropriate.
Maybe I should just say yes.
Test the waters.
He seems relatively harmless, after all. However, something holds me back. Fear. Anxiety. This gut instinct that I just don’t feel that way about him and shouldn’t lead him on.
“How about brightening my day by hanging out with me after you’re done here?”
And there’s the inevitable question…
For the first time, I hesitate. I give it a genuine moment of consideration until fear closes my throat over and I shake my head.
“Sorry,” I croak, voice tight. “I have assignments I need to catch up on.”
“Damn, again?” he says with a teasing sigh. “You’re killing me, Winslow.”
I laugh, but it’s more forced this time.
“One day, I’m going to wear you down.” He throws it down like a challenge as he backs away, pointing a finger in my direction.
The distance helps to calm my racing heart. Helps my thoughts to smooth out so I can think rationally. So I can remind myself that I’m in control. That he’s just joking around. There’s no pressure. No reason to panic.
“I’ll believe it when I see it.”
He chuckles before ducking around the side of the lockers. I can hear him at his locker, likely getting changed, so I stay rooted by the door.
“What’s the deal with you and Lucian?” I ask, leaning my back against the locker room door and raising my voice to ensure he can hear me. It’s a question I shouldn’t be asking, but color me curious.
I hear him scoff. “The human wrecking ball?”
I cross my arms. “It seems like he hates you.”
“Can’t say. We’ve never had an issue before. Not until you showed up.”
My stomach knots. “What is that supposed to mean?”
He laughs. The sound has a sharp edge I’m unused to hearing from him. “Pretty sure it means the brawler has a crush on you. And that little scene today…was because he was jealous.”
I fall silent, mulling over his words. It would explain why Lucian barged into the supply room, looking like a starved bear, and demanded to know what I was laughing about with Evans.
I mean, Lucian already admitted that he warned Evans away from me. Something Evans had already told me, but I thought perhaps he was lying or being dramatic, but I guess not. I’m not sure why I’m surprised, though. I mean, Lucian even had the audacity to say I was his.
I’ve seen the fire underneath all that fear, and I’ve already decided. You’re mine.
Appearing fully dressed from behind the lockers, Evans stalks toward me, his duffel slung over his shoulder. He’s already sporting a cocky smirk and arrogant swagger as he approaches.
I push off the door, stepping slightly to the side.
“Don’t worry, Winslow. I’m up for a little competition.” He pauses at my side, winking. “May the best man win.”
Then, he’s gone.
I stand in the silence that follows, the scent of pine and menthol hanging heavily in the air.
Isaac Evans is funny. Confident. Nice, even, but he doesn’t set my nerves on fire.
He doesn’t make me forget my name. Doesn’t make my world tilt the way it does when Lucian’s too close, or when Silas is looking at me like I’m something untouchable, or Ronan says my name like a curse and a confession wrapped into one.
I don’t feel with Isaac.
But with them?
It’s heat and danger and gravity all rolled into one. It’s the ache of remembering things I don’t want to remember—and the terror of wondering if I got it all wrong.