Chapter 3

Allison

The dim lights of the limousine's interior did nothing to cool the raging fire consuming my body.

We were on our way downtown to the club, the heavy bass of the sound system thrumming through the floorboards. Zane was in the middle seat, completely distracted as he laughed loudly at something Alexa said, his arm draped casually over the back of her leather headrest. Across from them, Sarah was scrolling through her phone, occasionally tossing a comment into their conversation.

To the rest of the car, everything looked normal. It was just a group of best friends heading out to celebrate a twenty-first birthday.

But under the shadows of the long leather bench seat, out of everyone’s line of sight, my world was completely spinning out of control.

Roman was sitting right next to me. Too close. His massive, broad-shouldered frame was pressed tightly against mine, the heat radiating from his body scorching through the thin blue satin of my dress.

And his hand was on my leg.

The second the limo doors had closed in the garage, Roman had slid over, cutting off my air supply without saying a single word. His large, heavy hand had found my bare thigh, his fingers sliding beneath the high hemline of my satin dress.

Now, his palm was pressed firmly against my skin, his thumb tracing slow, torturously light circles over my upper thigh.

A sharp, electric jolt shot straight up my spine with every single rotation of his thumb. My breath hitched in my throat, my fingers gripping the edge of the leather seat so hard my knuckles turned white.

I tried to pull my leg away, shifting an inch closer to the window, but Roman’s grip instantly tightened. His fingers dug into the soft flesh of my thigh, anchoring me firmly in place. He didn't hurt me, but the silent command in his touch was absolute.

Don't move, his grip told me.

I cut my eyes toward him, my chest heaving as I stared at his profile. Roman wasn't looking at me. He was looking straight ahead, casually listening to Zane drone on about a missed penalty in the second period. His face was a mask of absolute, relaxed calm. He looked like the arrogant, unbothered hockey star the media loved.

But beneath the table, his hand was alive.

The slow, burning circles on my thigh moved an inch higher, his rough, calloused palm frictioning against my sensitive skin. A wave of liquid heat pooled low in my belly, my inner wolf whining in pathetic, desperate submission. The tension was driving me insane—we were heading toward midnight, the literal moment my mate bond would become active, and the guy I had been secretly in love with for years was driving me out of my mind under my brother's nose.

Roman’s thumb paused, pressing heavily into a sensitive nerve on the inside of my thigh. I let out a soft, involuntary gasp.

Zane’s head snapped toward us. "You good, Al? You look kind of flushed."

The air completely froze in my lungs. I stiffened, terrified that my brother would notice the way my dress was pushed up, or the way his best friend's hand was buried in my lap.

Before I could swallow the lump in my throat to lie, Roman spoke up. His voice was smooth, completely clear, and entirely unbothered.

"She's fine, Zane," Roman said, his blue eyes finally shifting to glance at my brother, though his hand never stopped its slow, agonizing rhythm on my thigh. "The AC in the back of this thing is just a little low. I told her she should have kept my jersey on."

Zane snorted, completely buying the cover. "Yeah, well, that satin thing barely counts as clothes anyway. Don't freeze to death before we get the first round of shots in, Al."

"I won't," I choked out, my voice sounding strained even to my own ears.

As Zane turned back to Alexa, Roman finally turned his head to look at me. The lazy, charming mask dropped from his face in a fraction of a second. His blue eyes had darkened to a shade that was almost entirely black, a heavy, possessive hunger swimming just beneath the surface.

He leaned in closer, his shoulder brushing mine, his dark head tilting down until his lips were practically brushing the shell of my ear.

"You're driving me fucking insane, Allison," he growled, the sound so low and gravelly it was meant only for me. His hand shifted again, sliding a fraction of an inch higher, the heat of his palm making me tremble. "Enjoy the countdown, Al. Because the second the clock strikes midnight, everything changes."

The drive downtown was a blur after that. When the limo finally pulled up to Eclipse, the scene outside was insane. Even though the club had been completely rented out for my private party, the paparazzi had still found out. Flashes exploded against the black windows of the car, a sea of cameras and shouting reporters held back by a heavy line of muscular security guards.

“Stay close to me,” Roman’s voice cut through the noise inside the limo, commanding and absolute.

His large hand gripped my waist, pulling me firmly against his side as we stepped out into the chaos. His broad shoulders completely blocked me from the crowd, his body a solid wall of muscle protecting mine until we were through the heavy velvet ropes and into the dark, pounding sanctuary of the club.

Eclipse was gorgeous. It was a massive, multi-level venue with neon blue lights cutting through the darkness, leather booths, and a sprawling glass dance floor. Tonight, the only people inside were a few select teammates from the NHL team, high-ranking pack members, and our closest friends.

By the time eleven-fifty-five rolled around, the atmosphere in the club reached a fever pitch. The DJ cut the heavy bass, switching to a massive, thumping baseline as a giant digital clock appeared on the floor-to-ceiling LED screens behind the stage.

11:58 PM.

"Alright, Eclipse!" the DJ's voice boomed through the speakers. "We are exactly two minutes away from midnight! Two minutes until the birthday girl officially turns twenty-one! Everyone grab a glass, get to the floor, and let's count it down!"

The crowd erupted. Zane was already at the center of the VIP floor, a massive bottle of expensive champagne in his hands, spraying a bit of it into the air as Alexa and Sarah screamed with laughter.

"Al! Get over here!" Zane yelled, waving me over.

I looked around the crowded VIP platform, my heart suddenly hammering against my ribs. The restless, clawing sensation under my skin was growing stronger by the second, making me feel like I was about to burst. My wolf was pacing frantically behind my ribcage.

But as I looked around the tight circle of our friends, my stomach suddenly dropped.

Roman wasn't there.

He had been standing next to me just a few minutes ago, but now, the space beside me was entirely empty.

"Sarah, where's Roman?" I shouted over the rising noise of the music.

"I don't know!" Sarah yelled back, holding up her glass. "I think I saw him head toward the back hallway a minute ago! Probably checking on security or taking a call!"

11:59 PM.

The digital clock on the screen began to flash. The crowd started chanting, a chorus of hundreds of voices echoing through the venue.

“Fifty! Forty-nine! Forty-eight!”

A strange, suffocating pressure slammed into my chest. Guided entirely by an erratic, terrifying pull under my skin, my feet began to move. I backed away from the VIP platform, slipping through the crowded edge of the dance floor and heading straight toward the quiet, dimly lit corridor where the private executive suites and restrooms were located.

The roar of the countdown followed me, growing duller as the soundproof heavy doors of the hallway clicked shut behind me.

“Thirty! Twenty-nine! Twenty-eight!”

The air down here was cooler, smelling of dark velvet and expensive cologne. I walked quickly, my heels clicking against the floor, my eyes scanning the closed doors.

And then, cutting through the moody purple lighting of the hallway, a specific scent hit the back of my throat.

Cedarwood. Whiskey. Raw masculine heat.

Roman.

But it was tangled with something else—something floral, cheap, and sickeningly sweet.

I stopped right outside one of the private lounge rooms. The thick oak door was slightly ajar, a sliver of warm golden light spilling onto the floor.

From inside the room, a low, breathy giggling echoed.

“Oh come on, Roman,” a slick, feminine voice whispered, dripping with synthetic sweetness. “Don't be like that. The countdown is starting. Your little birthday girl won't even know you're gone.”

“Ten! Nine! Eight!” the distant crowd screamed through the walls.

My hand trembled violently as I pushed the door open just a few inches wider.

The dim light inside the private room revealed two figures against the plush leather couch. A gorgeous blonde model—one of the puck bunnies who frequently hung around the arena—was draped over Roman’s lap, her hands tangled in his dark hair. And Roman... Roman had his hands gripped tightly on her waist, his head tilted back against the couch, his lips pressed hard against hers in a messy, aggressive make-out session.

A sudden, violent explosion of pain ripped through my chest.

“Three! Two! One! HAPPY BIRTHDAY!”