S2

"Are you actually telling me Finn Reyes is the best we can do?"

I slammed my mug onto the scratched wooden table of the Sol y Sombra Café. Hot oat milk splashed over the rim, scalding my thumb. I didn't flinch.

"He’s the Captain of the Miami Ice Dome, Val. His jersey is the only one the local fans actually buy." Mariana didn't look up from her phone. Her thumb swiped aggressively. "The guy is a force of nature. A magnetic disaster. You need to write about the 'Primal Ice' phenomenon, and he is the phenomenon."

"He’s a territorial prick who used to call me 'Little Beta' when we were pups." I wiped the spill with a rough napkin. "He's not a mentor. He's a headache with a six-pack."

"He's been sidelined for a month with that orbital fracture from the Ryan Brooks hit." Mariana finally looked at me, her dark eyes sharp. "He’s rotting in that Oceanfront Villa. He’s bored, he’s restless, and he’s the only wolf who can explain the new power-play shifts without making you read a dry manual. Just ask him."

"I’d rather hunt silver."

I took a long, bitter swallow of my latte. The heat didn't help the knot in my stomach.

"Look," Mariana leaned in, her voice dropping to a low, protective growl. "You want to keep Valentina’s Bayside Condo? You want to keep meat in the fridge? This series for the pack gazette is your only play. If you don’t get the inside track on the werewolf hockey circuit, you’re finished."

I let out a jagged breath. She was right. My bank account was a graveyard. "Fine. I'll message him. But if he tries to mark his territory on my laptop, I'm out."

"That's the spirit." She smirked, already grabbing her keys. "I’ll drive. We’re going now before you lose your nerve."

"Now? Mariana—"

"Doors are locked. Let's go."

The drive to the coast was a blur of neon and salt air. Twenty minutes later, she pulled the car up in front of the Reyes Oceanfront Villa. It was an offensive display of glass and stone, perched on the edge of the Atlantic like it owned the tide.

"Get out," Mariana commanded.

"I'm going. Relax." I stepped out into the humid Miami night, the mist from the private infinity pool dampening my curls.

I forced my legs toward the massive oak door. I reached out to knock, but the heavy wood swung inward before my knuckles could graze it.

Finn Reyes stood there.

He was barefoot, wearing nothing but low-slung faded jeans that hung precariously off his hips. His chest was a map of muscle and faint silver scars from old games. The raw, predatory scent of him—pine and cold iron—hit me like a physical blow.

He was devastating. And I was an idiot for coming here.

"Lost, Cruz?"

His voice was a low rumble that vibrated in my marrow. He leaned against the doorframe, his golden eyes tracking the way my gaze accidentally dipped toward the heavy ridge behind his denim fly.

"I... heard you were dead," I lied, my voice cracking.

"Only from the neck up, according to the press." He stepped closer, crowding my space until I could feel the heat radiating off his skin. "What do you want, Val? You don't usually come around unless Lucas is holding your hand."

"I have a problem." I stepped back, trying to reclaim my air. "A work problem."

"Yeah?" He tilted his head, a slow, wolfish grin spreading across his face. "Does it involve me teaching you some 'hot moves' for your little stories?"

Heat surged into my neck. "No. It's about the Ice Dome. The rules. The shift dynamics."

"Hard to believe the brother of an Enforcer doesn't know how to play the game." He reached out, his fingers hovering just an inch from my damp shirt. "Or maybe you just wanted an excuse to see the Villa."

He was mocking me. He was always mocking me. But as he looked me over, his eyes darkening with a sudden, intense focus, I realized the 'Quiet Fire' I’d been nursing was about to meet a goddamn hurricane.

"So," Finn murmured, his breath hitting my ear. "Are you going to stand there staring at my package all night, or are we going to talk shop?"