S5

"You're late," Finn rumbles.

He’s leaning against the stone pillar of the Reyes Oceanfront Villa, his massive frame eating up the doorway. He’s tossed a thin t-shirt over his shoulders, but it’s not doing a damn thing to hide the way his chest tapers into those low-slung jeans. The gold in his eyes catches the porch light, tracking me as I kill the engine of his black Mustang.

"Traffic," I snap. I hop out, my boots crunching on the gravel. I can still taste the raw garlic on my tongue—a frantic, stinking shield against the deal he made. "And your muffler is loud enough to wake the dead. I’m surprised the neighbors haven't called the Enforcers."

Finn's grin is slow. Predatory. "I heard you coming from three miles away, Cruz. It wasn't the car. It was your heartbeat."

I stiffen. "We have a game to watch. The Blue Ridge Blue Mountains clash is in forty minutes."

"I was going to order pizza," he says, stepping back to let me pass. The scent of him—cold iron and ozone—swamps my senses. I try to hold my breath, but the heat coming off his skin makes me dizzy. "You hungry?"

"I could eat." I brush past him, careful not to let our skin touch. The villa kitchen is a temple of stainless steel and stone. "What are we getting?"

"I don't know. What do you like on your pie?"

"Vegetarian," I blurp out. My brain short-circuits. "I mean—meat. I love meat. Just... no processed junk. Nitrates are bad for the shift."

Finn’s chuckle is dark. He walks around the island, his movements fluid despite the head injury. "So you only like to put things that are good for you in your mouth. Is that the rule, Val?"

I glare at him. My notepad is trembling in my hand. "It's called a diet, Finn. Try it. Maybe you wouldn't be rotting in a villa while Ryan Burns is out there taking your minutes."

The air in the kitchen turns arctic. Finn stops. His jaw tightens, a silver scar near his ear flushing red.

"I'm not rotting," he growls.

"You're eating takeout boxes and staring at walls." I gesture to the stack of greasy cardboard in the trash. "Where's your Alpha? Where's Isabella? Doesn't anyone look after the star when he's cracked his skull?"

"Izzy’s on the coast. My father..." He stops. The name 'Hector' hangs unspoken in the air, heavy with old blood and resentment. "The guys are on the road. I handle my own shit."

Something in his voice—a jagged, lonely edge—cuts through my irritation. My stomach twists. I look at the professional-grade stove, then back at his pale face. He looks tired.

"Give me the keys," I say.

Finn blinks. "What?"

"We're going to the Bayside Market. I'm not letting you watch the playoffs on a diet of grease and nitrates. I'll cook."

"You?" Finn tilts his head. "The 'Quiet Fire' himself is going to slave over a hot stove for me?"

"Tit for tat, Reyes. You teach me the slang, I keep you from getting scurvy."

"Tit for tat." He reaches into his pocket, his fingers brushing the heavy ridge of his thigh as he pulls out the fob. He tosses it to me. "I can work with that. But I’m coming with you."

"You have vertigo. Sit down."

"I'm coming." He pulls a pair of dark lenses from the counter and slides them on. "The lights in the Market are a bitch. I need a spotter."

I grab his arm before I can think about it. His bicep is like a heated iron bar. I steady him as he sways, his weight leaning into me for a fraction of a second. The contact sends a jolt of raw, fated energy straight to my gut.

"Nina—Val," he corrects himself, his voice dropping to a rough whisper. "I'm sorry I wasn't there when you took that fall at the Dome. I was on the road. I should have come back."

My heart skips. "I wasn't your responsibility, Finn."

"Weren't you?" He looks down at me, his eyes hidden behind the glass, but I can feel the weight of his stare. "Let's go. Before I decide the game isn't the only thing I want to watch tonight."

We walk out to the Mustang together. The silence between us is thick, charged with the ghost of the kiss he promised. I slide into the driver's seat, my hands gripping the wheel.

"So," Finn says, his hand sliding over mine on the gear shift, his rough skin sparking against mine. "This is a grocery store?"

"So, what do they call this?" Finn murmured.

He was looming over me in the produce aisle of the Bayside Market, his massive frame making the industrial refrigerators look like toy boxes. He didn't grab a basket; he just tracked my movements like I was a puck sliding across the crease.

"It's called a grocery store, Reyes," I snapped, reaching for a head of kale. "Try to keep up. I know the concussion turned your brain to slush, but surely you remember how to buy a vegetable."

"I remember how to hunt," he rumbled. A low, vibrating sound started in his chest. "This feels like a trap. Too many lights. Too many people."

I cut a look at him. His dark lenses hid his eyes, but his jaw was set tight. "Stay close. Don't shift in the frozen food section. It’s bad for PR."

Suddenly, the usual hum of the market died. A group of local hockey fans near the citrus display stopped mid-sentence. Whispers rippled through the aisles like a cold front. A young fan named Leo, his arm encased in a bright blue cast, froze with a carton of juice in his hand.

Finn Reyes. The Alpha of the Miami Ice Dome. The most penalized—and most loved—enforcer in the league.

"Is that him?" Leo whispered, his voice cracking.

Finn stiffened. For a second, his lip curled, showing a flash of a canine that was a little too long to be human. But then he saw the kid’s cast. He saw the wide-eyed terror and adoration. The wolf receded. The star took over.

"Hey, Leo," Finn said, his voice dropping into that smooth, magnetic register that sold jerseys by the thousands. He dropped to one knee, ignoring the vertigo. "That looks like a battle wound. Who'd you have to hit to get that?"

"I took a spill during practice," Leo chirped, vibrating with excitement. "I'm a defenseman. Just like you."

"A defenseman, huh?" Finn pulled a marker from his pocket. "Hold it steady. You gotta be tough to play the blue line. You gotta be the wall. You love the game?"

"More than anything."

"Good. Then play it because you love the burn in your lungs. Not for the scouts. For you." Finn scribbled a jagged signature across the plaster. "Take a picture, Cruz. Make it look like I'm the nice guy for once."

I pulled up the camera on his phone. The wallpaper was a shot of him and Lucas at the Blue Ridge Mountains. My throat tightened. I snapped the photo, watching the kid’s mother practically swoon as Finn stood back up.

"You're a natural," I muttered as the crowd finally dispersed.

"It's a mask, Val. You know that better than anyone." He took a shaky breath, his hand catching the edge of the cart to steady himself. For a heartbeat, the "Magnetic Presence" cracked. His face went pale, a deep, hollow exhaustion haunting his features.

"Finn?" I reached out, my fingers brushing the heat of his forearm.

He blinked, the cocky smirk snapping back into place instantly. "I'm fine. Get the steaks. I want the ones that still look like they could run."

"You're impossible." I pushed the cart toward the meat counter. "And get some cereal. You need the fiber if you're going to keep being a prick."

"Whatever you want, Cruz. It's your kitchen tonight."

By the time we hit the Bayside Bayside checkout, the cart was a mountain of raw protein and greens. The Miami sun had vanished by the time we hauled the bags back to the villa. The humidity was a thick, wet blanket, making our clothes cling to our skin.

"I'll get the last one," I said, dodging his reach as we reached the Villa kitchen. I needed air. The scent of him—soap and wild predatory musk—was making it hard to think.

When I stepped back inside, Finn was already in the study, the massive screen glowing with pre-game stats.

"Game's on in five," he called out.

"Watch it in the kitchen," I countered. "I'm not burning these steaks because you want to watch the pre-show."

I started prepping the salad, my back to the door. I reached for the tongs, but my hand hit something solid. Something warm.

"Whoa." Finn’s arms wound around my waist, his large palms splaying over the small of my back. He pulled me flush against his chest, the hard heat of his body searing through my thin tank top.

"I... I didn't see you there." I tried to twist away, but his grip was iron. My heart hammered against his ribs.

"I didn't want you to." He leaned down, his breath ghosting over my ear. His voice was a jagged, low growl that made the hair on my neck stand up. "I've been thinking, Val."

"About the plays?" I asked, my voice cracking. "The slang?"

"No." He buried his face in the crook of my neck, his stubble grazing my skin. "About the kiss."

His mouth was an inch from mine. The garlic didn't matter. Nothing mattered but the way his thumb was dragging slow, heavy circles against my spine.

"The game is starting," I whispered, though I couldn't remember why that was important.

"Let it start," Finn groaned, his lips finally brushing mine. "I've waited ten years to do this to a Cruz. I'm not stopping for a puck drop."

He turned me in his arms, his eyes glowing a fierce, hungry gold.

"Tell me to stop, Val," he challenged. "Tell me right now."

I didn't say a word. I pulled him closer.

Who should walk in on them first—the sister or the rival?