Lately, something dark and feral had been whispering in the back of my skull. Quiet. Steady. Insistent.

  Not just be near her.

  Not just protect her.

  Hunt her.

  Taste her.

  Explore every sharp edge and hidden place she’d never let anyone near.

  I clenched my jaw and dragged my palm down my face.

  Beta.

  I was beta.

  This wasn’t supposed to happen.

  But whatever she’d been hiding—whatever had been shifting in her, rising—it was starting to show. And if I could feel it?

  The others would too.

  Rhett already did. Roan had gone stiff the moment she entered a room. Even Beckett⁠—

  My fists clenched.

  Beckett knew.

  He’d always been a predator, but now?

  He was circling.

  And Marchand was using her to lure him in.

  “Fucking hell,” I muttered and turned on my heel.

  She wasn’t in her office.

  But that didn’t mean she wasn’t somewhere in the arena.

  And if something was wrong?

  I’d find her.

  Chapter

  Six

  WREN

  The ice was quiet this time of day.

  No drills, no blades carving lines. Just the low hum of the refrigeration system beneath the surface and the occasional thud of a puck from a few rookies messing around at the far end of the rink.

  I stood just outside the team bench tunnel, arms crossed, coat still on, the press corral half-visible from where I was positioned. Two cameras. One tablet. Four hungry little monsters in puffer coats pretending to check their notes instead of tracking me like prey.

  Marchand stood beside me.

  Too close.

  His scent was clean and sharp—cologne, a hint of pine, and that underlying alpha static that never went away no matter how many boardrooms he sat in or how much silk he wore.

  I didn’t look at him. Didn’t need to in order to know what he was about to say.

  “I could have a word,” he said calmly. “Shut it down.”

  Bad idea. “No.”

  His smile was mild. “No?”

  “You shut it down, it becomes a story. You comment, it becomes a statement.”

  “Right now, it’s a rumor. A damaging one.”

  “So let it burn out.”

  He turned to face me more directly, his posture casual but sharpened. “You’ve been compromised, Wren.”

  I felt it then, like a nerve had been pulled tight just under my skin. Too hot. Too fast. I should have had another week. But I couldn’t ignore the changes surging through me. My blood hummed. My scent shifting inexorably.

  I shouldn’t want to snarl at him the way I suddenly did.

  I kept still. I always did. But my voice dropped lower. Colder. The calm I’d perfected over a decade of suppression. “The only person in that box,” I said, “with motive, opportunity, and access to that photo was you.”

  Marchand’s eyes narrowed. Slightly. “Careful.”

  “No.” I finally turned to face him. Met him head-on. “You be careful.”

  The air between us vibrated. Not loud. Not visible. But charged.

  It wasn’t alpha to omega anymore.

  It was something else.

  He straightened just a hair, and it felt like the kind of shift that preceded either a boardroom war or a blood-scented fight.

  “Fire me,” I said, voice still even. “If you think I’m compromised. Go ahead. Make that call. Leak that to the press while you’re at it. Or—” I leaned in just enough to lower my voice further, just enough that it would reach only him, “you listen to the one person in this organization who knows how to manage your messes.”

  Silence greeted my challenge, though his jaw flexed.

  It wasn’t capitulation. Not yet. So, I pressed harder.

  “They’re going to speculate. That’s what they do. They’re going to say Rylan’s leaving the Vultures, that he’s signing with us, that we’re offering him part of the fucking branding package. They’re going to pitch stories and slap on fake sources and chase whatever headline gets the most clicks.”

  I stepped past him, slow and precise, until we stood side by side again.

  Calm. Poised.

  “Do you know what we don’t do, Adrien?”

  He didn’t answer.

  “We don’t give them anything else.” I looked straight ahead, toward the rink. Toward the weight of the playoffs pressing against the boards. “We stay quiet. We stay steady. We talk about our players. Our wins. We let the Vultures spin out, not us.”

  His silence continued, however, it was no longer passive. Instead, it had turned calculating.

  The press lingered fifty feet away, still pretending they weren’t trying to see our dynamic or hear what we were talking about.

  From the outside? We probably looked like two professionals discussing media angles and sponsorship deliverables.

  No raised voices.

  No flared tempers.

  No blood in the water.

  But inside the space between us, there was fire. Rage. An almost unbearable weight of containment.

  I was shaking with it. Barely. But I was.

  He didn’t speak again until I turned to walk away.

  “I assume,” he said, his voice as flat and cool as mine had been, “you’re still taking care of yourself, Wren.”

  I paused.

  Not for long.

  But long enough for him to know he’d landed the hit.

  Then I smiled, sharp and blade-thin over my shoulder. “Of course, sir. Everything’s under control.”

  Liar.

  Marchand walked away without another word, his footsteps echoing sharp and even across the concrete. No backward glance. No parting threat. Just the cold, controlled exit of a man who thought he’d won something.

  He hadn’t.

  Then again, neither had I.

  I stayed by the boards until I heard the outer door click closed behind him, waiting five long seconds more to be sure he wasn’t doubling back.

  Only then did I let my shoulders drop.

  Just for a breath.

  Then I turned toward the press corral, where four bored-looking reporters tried not to look too eager.

  One lifted a hand. “Wren—just a second?”

  I offered a tired smile. “If you promise not to ask me about what Beckett orders for lunch.”

  They laughed—too easily. Probably relieved I wasn’t slamming the gate shut in their faces.

  The youngest of the group—an intern maybe, or one of the new podcast boys—asked first. “So is the Rylan rumor real?”

  I blinked at him, all innocence. “You know how rumors are. They like to feel important.”

  A second voice—more experienced, more familiar—jumped in. “But he was here today. With you. With Marchand.”

  “He stopped by.” I shrugged like it meant nothing. “Our owner likes to talk business. He talks to a lot of people.”

  A third tried a sharper angle. “Any comment on the speculation that he’s been offered a slot with the Howlers for next season?”

  I smiled wider, smooth as ever. “My comment is that Roan Whitaker is laser-focused on this year’s playoffs, not next year’s headlines. And that’s the only narrative we’re running with.”

  Another flash of fake chuckles. Another round of polite nods.

  I kept walking.

  Out of the press’ line of sight, the air was colder, emptier. The heels on my boots echoed in the hallway. My legs felt heavier than they should’ve.

  Still time. I still have time.

  It had only been a couple of weeks since I stopped taking my pills. The little white capsule that I’d lived on every single day for nearly ten years. Ten years of white-coat secrecy, of hush-hush refills and behind-closed-doors blood work. I’d timed everything down to the minute.

  It shouldn’t be shedding this fast.

  My muscles felt lead-lined. My thoughts kept fracturing at the edges, every passing scent or sound pulling focus in ways I couldn’t afford. My nerves were lit like fuse wire.

  I turned the corner near the east hall⁠—

  And stopped short.

  Jay was there.

  Leaning against the wall, arms crossed. Casual. Sharp-eyed. Dangerous in a quiet, surgical way.

  He pushed off the wall when he saw me, gaze sweeping me head to toe like he was assessing for injuries no one else could see.

  “What are you doing here?” I asked, keeping my voice easy. Light. The kind of tone I used when I wanted people to think I was fine. “Shouldn’t you be upstairs icing Rhett and Roan’s bruised egos?”

  “I could ask you the same,” he said. “You were supposed to be out of here hours ago.”

  My lips parted as I glanced at my watch, then shut again. I hadn’t realized how long it had been.

  He tilted his head slightly. Just enough that a lock of black hair fell into his eyes. “You okay?”

  I blinked.

  Normally, I would’ve laughed. Deflected. Told him I was insulted he’d even ask.

  But something about the way he looked at me—so direct, so unflinching—it short-circuited the script in my head.

  “I’m fine,” I said anyway.

  He didn’t move.

  Didn’t blink.

  Didn’t believe me.

  That made something in my stomach tighten in a way I didn’t like. His scent, normally clean, neutral, just a whisper of spice beneath steel, hit me too hard. Like I’d stepped too close to a furnace without realizing it was on.

  I swallowed.

  Hard.

  Jay was a beta. There wasn’t supposed to be a reaction. Not from me. Not from him. He was the safe one. The one who didn’t crowd, didn’t posture, and didn’t pull at my instincts in that dangerous way alphas did.

  But now?

  Now I could smell him.

  Not just clean and sharp, but warm. Alive. Inviting in a way I had no business noticing.

  I turned my head slightly, trying to blink the weight off my vision.

  “Don’t look at me like that,” I said.

  “Like what?”

  “Like you’re waiting for me to fall apart.”

  “I’m not.” His voice was low. Controlled. “I’m waiting to see if you’re going to ask for help before you do.”

  Goddamn it.

  My throat went tight. Just for a second.

  That wasn’t fair. That was too close.

  “I don’t fall apart, Jay.”

  “No,” he said softly. “But you might implode.”

  That hit harder than I could have imagined.

  I looked away before he could see whatever flickered across my face. My skin felt too thin. My control was too brittle. His presence—his scent—too loud in the air between us.

  “You should get back to the team,” I said, turning slightly, putting a few inches of distance between us. “We’ve got enough mess on our hands without adding another headline.”

  “I’ll walk you out.”

  It wasn’t a question.

  For once, I didn’t argue.

  My rapid decline seemed to be spiraling faster and faster with each passing moment. The heat under my skin was starting to boil. And I didn’t know how many more minutes I had before it started showing in more dangerous ways.

  I was glad I’d packed up before Marchand summoned me to the ice. My laptop, files, tablet—everything was already stashed in the back seat of my car, zipped away in a sleek black bag I could pretend meant I had plans to work from home or wherever.

  I didn’t.

  Not tonight.

  Not tomorrow either, probably.

  Maybe not for a few days.

  But the illusion mattered, even if it was just for myself. I kept the keys tight in my hand and let the echo of my heels against the parking structure floor be the only sound I focused on.

  Jay walked beside me, silent.

  He always seemed to know when not to talk.

  Still, I caught him watching me from the corner of his eye. His hands were in his pockets, but his shoulders were set just slightly tighter than usual. He was thinking. Calculating. The way he did before big games or before Roan lost his temper or Rhett did something reckless.

  I almost asked what he was trying to solve.

  Instead, he spoke first.

  “So,” he said mildly, “days off, huh?”

  I arched a brow but didn’t look over. “That’s what the calendar says.”

  “Planning something exciting?”

  “A three-day nap, maybe.”

  “Wild.”

  “I’m known for my partying.”

  A pause. The silence stretched again, then⁠—

  “You going anywhere?”

  I could feel him watching me again, not as casual this time.

  I kept my expression neutral. “Not far.”

  “Hot springs? Cabins? Hotel with room service and blackout curtains?”

  “Sounds expensive.”

  “Sounds earned.”

  I allowed a faint smirk. “You always dig this hard when people take time off?”

  “No,” he said. “Just you.”

  That pulled a flicker of something across my chest. I wasn’t sure if it was warmth or warning. Probably both.

  “I’m leaving late,” I said, changing lanes in the conversation. “I should get on the road.”

  “You shouldn’t be driving if you’re⁠—”

  I stopped. Turned. “If I’m what?”

  His jaw flexed, just once.

  But he didn’t finish the sentence.

  Didn’t have to.

  We were at my car now—corner space, back edge of the lot. Tucked into shadow.

  That’s when I saw it.

  A square of white, tucked under the wiper blade. Not the official arena parking kind. No logo. Just a thick card folded in half and wedged like a cliché.

  I didn’t need to touch it to know who it was from.

  But I did anyway.

  My stomach clenched before my fingers closed around the paper.

  Rylan.

  His handwriting was unmistakable with its tight, sharp slashes, like everything he said was either a challenge or a dare. I didn’t read it.

  I didn’t need to.

  I tore it straight down the center, then again, again, again—until it was nothing but scraps between my fingers.

  When I turned to Jay, he didn’t say anything. Just held out his hand like he’d been waiting for me to break.

  I handed him the pieces.

  He slipped them into his coat pocket without a word.

  That… did something to me.

  Took the last thread of control I was holding and pulled it too tight. It wasn’t even what he did—it was how. Quiet. Solid. No demand for explanation. No pity. Just a quiet offer to carry what I couldn’t hold. Didn’t want to hold.

  And it nearly undid me.

  I swallowed hard, but the lump in my throat didn’t go anywhere.

  “Thanks,” I managed. “For walking me out.”

  His eyes didn’t leave mine.

  There was something fierce behind that quiet now. A low thrum of tension. Not protective, exactly.

  Possessive.

  I broke the eye contact first.

  Not because I was afraid.

  Because if I didn’t go now, I was going to fall apart in a parking garage with someone who saw too much.

  My hand found the door handle. I pulled it open, every movement sharper than I meant it to be—because too much was still too close.

  “Wren,” Jay said, voice low.

  I froze.

  Just for a second.

  It was stupid how hard it was to glance back at him—like the motion alone might unravel me. But I did it. I made myself do it. I even curved my mouth into something like a smile. Managed to summon a flicker of dry humor, because that was what I did.

  “Yes?”

  His dark eyes were steady. “I’m here, if you need me.”

  No push. No pressure. No expectation.

  Just that rare, dangerous kind of kindness that didn’t ask anything in return.

  “Remember that, okay?”

  God.

  It hit harder than if he’d reached out and touched me. Harder than scent. Than instinct. Than any primal drive still clawing under my skin.

  And I wanted to joke—I wanted to deflect with something clever and biting and perfectly dismissive, the way I always did.

  But I didn’t want to make fun of what he’d just given me.

  So I went with the truth. Quiet and small and barely hanging on.

  “I will,” I said. “I’ll remember.”

  It wasn’t much.

  But it was all I had.

  I climbed into the car, shut the door, and started the engine without letting myself look back.

  Chapter

  Seven

  ROAN

  Iwas going to kill Rhett.

  Not in the fun, locker-room, “you dumbass” kind of way, either. No, this was more the how many strings I would have to pull to have his phone banned from league press lists kind of murder.

  Because even hours later, the fallout from his little stunt hadn’t slowed. My phone continued buzzing with updates—half speculation, half denial, and somehow all fire.

  And for what?

  Some ego-fueled tantrum over Beckett fucking Rylan walking into our rink?

  Get in line.

  I stood outside Marchand’s office door, arms crossed, debating whether or not barging in without an appointment would be worth the blowback. The man had a knack for baiting power plays, and I wasn’t in the mood to be tested.

  Not when every bone in my body was telling me to do something else entirely.

  Go check on her.

  I clenched my jaw, forced the thought out of my head. It was pointless. She’d made it clear—again and again—that she didn’t want that kind of attention. That we were not going to cross any of the lines she'd drawn.

  But those lines hadn’t accounted for Rylan. Or the headlines. Or the look in her eyes earlier.

  Something was wrong. Deeper than PR, deeper than press.

  I didn’t need to scent it to know. Still, I didn’t move. I wasn’t going to disrespect her by pushing. No, I was just… going to make sure. Pivoting, I was already halfway down the hall, striding for her office.