CHAPTER FIVE

 A Name I Wasn't Meant To Hear

 Mercy's POV

My chest was still rising and falling too fast when Timothee reached for me again.

He didn't pull back this time, Instead he crouched there on the ice, his hand hovering close to my arm like he wasn't sure if touching me would hurt me again.

"Are you sure you're okay?" he asked, his voice was low.

"I told you, I'm fine," I said, even though my skin still tingled from the shock.

He studied my face for a second too long."You're shaking," he said 

"It's cold here, Timothee. In case you haven't noticed."

He almost smiled at that, but it didn't reach his eyes.

"Mercy," he started, and something in the way he said my name made my stomach flip.

He looked like he wanted to say something real, something that wasn't a joke or an insult.

His mouth opened again. Then he stopped himself.

"Forget it," he muttered, shaking his head. "You should get up before you freeze to this ice, and I have to explain to the coach why there's a dead werewolf on his rink."

"Wow. So thoughtful," I said, rolling my eyes.

He reached his hand out to help me up. So I took it.

His grip was warm, warmer than it should have been after everything that just happened.

I pulled myself to my feet, but my legs were still wobbly from the pain and the shock. I stumbled forward.

He caught me by the waist without thinking, steadying me against him.

For a second, neither of us moved.

His hand was still on my arm, while mine was still curled into his.

I could feel his heartbeat where my palm rested against his chest, steady now, nothing like the wild, panicked rhythm from minutes ago.

"You can let go now," I whispered, but I didn't move either.

"Right," he said, but his hand didn't move.

"Timothee,";I said.

"I heard you," he said, but he still didn't let go.

Then there was a loud clang rang out from somewhere near the entrance of the rink.

We both froze immediately.

Timothee's whole body changed in an instant.

The softness in his face vanished, replaced by something sharp and alert.

"Get behind me," he said, already stepping in front of me.

"What was that?" I asked.

"I don't know," he said.

"Maybe it's just the door," I said, trying to keep my voice steady. "Or the wind."

"There's no wind in here, Mercy," he said.

He was right, though.

The rink doors were shut, the vents above us silent.

He walked slowly toward the entrance, motioning for me to stay back, but I followed anyway because staying alone on the ice felt worse than following him into the dark.

"I told you to stay there," he whispered.

"And I told you I don't listen well."I said immediately 

He shot me a look, but he didn't argue.

We reached the entrance hallway, the one that led out toward the parking lot. It was empty.

No one was there, no shadows moving, no sound except our own footsteps against the concrete.

"See," I said. "Nothing."

Timothee didn't answer.

He was staring at the floor near the bench by the door, his jaw tightening.

Then I followed his gaze and saw it too. But something small and silver was sitting there, catching the dim light from the exit sign above us.

"What is that?" I asked.

He didn't move at first.

"Timothee," I said.

Then he crouched down slowly and picked it up between two fingers, as it might burn him.

It was a lighter, sleek and black with a silver engraving on the side.

I leaned closer to get a better look at it, but he angled it away from me before I could read what it said.

"Whose is that?" I asked. "Is it yours?"

"No," he said.

"Then whose?" I asked again.

He turned it over in his palm, and I watched the color drain from his face.

"Timothee, you're scaring me," he said.

"It's not yours either," he said, more to himself than to me. "You don't smell like this."

"Smell like what?" I asked.

He lifted it slightly, like he was checking again, like he was hoping he was wrong the first time. But he wasn't.

I could see it now in his eyes, something between disbelief and fear. An expression I hadn't seen on him before, not even when his own heart was failing him on this same ice minutes ago.

"Talk to me," I said, stepping closer. "Whose lighter is that?"

He looked up at me, his green eyes darker than usual.

"It can't be," he muttered under his breath.

"Timothee."

He closed his fist around it so tight his knuckles turned white.

"Kaelen," he said.

The name landed strangely in my ears, foreign, heavy with something I couldn't name.

"Who's Kaelen?" I asked.

He didn't answer.

"Timothee, who is that?"

His eyes lifted to mine, and for the first time since I'd met him, I saw real fear on his face, not the kind from pain, not the kind from his illness.

This was different.

"I need you to go back to your dorm," he said quietly. "Now."

"Not until you tell me who Kaelen is," I said.

He stepped closer, gripping my shoulders, his voice low and urgent.

"Mercy, please. Just go."

"Timothee, you're not making any sense. Just tell me who he is."

He looked down at the lighter in his palm one more time, then back at me, his jaw clenched so tight I could see it twitching.

"He's not supposed to be here," he said.

"Timothee, please. Just tell me who he is."

"Not now, Mercy. Please go back to your dorm."

I wanted to argue, but the look on his face told me this wasn't a fight I would win tonight.

Then I turned and walked out of the rink, my legs still weak, my mind spinning.

I made it back to my dorm and sat on my bed, staring at the wall, but I couldn't stop thinking about the way his voice had cracked on that one name.

Kaelen. I didn't know who he was.

But I knew, whoever he was, he mattered enough to make Timothee afraid.