Chapter 9: Heel Practice

Tyson's POV

Wednesday, 4:47 PM

There'll be a change of plans. I'm coming to you, be ready.

I sent it and kept my phone in my pocket before she could argue, she tried anyway.

Are you serious? You can't just...

I didn't read the rest. I already knew what it said. Roxanne Sinclair had exactly two modes when I made a decision she didn't like, immediate combative, or slow-burning furious, and right now she was somewhere in the middle of both, typing aggressively into her phone in whatever she was doing before I interrupted it.

I'd been watching her for three days, she was sharper than most people gave her credit for. Whether she was limping at the end of the day, whether she was favouring one side, whether the left ankle that had been collapsing in the lecture hall corridor was getting better or was going to be a problem I had to manage on Saturday.

The party was in less than three weeks. I didn't have room for problems.

That was why I was doing this. That was the only reason.

I knocked on her dorm room door at exactly five-fifteen and it swung open almost immediately, like she'd been standing on the other side of it.

She was already wearing the heels.

I didn't say anything, just stared at her in the black heels I'd picked, fitted dark jeans, a top that actually fit her for once . She'd clearly been at this for a while before I knocked, her curls were pulled back off her face.

"You could've texted," she said.

"I did text." I said.

"I mean before you just decided to come here..."

"Are you going to let me in?" I asked, cutting her off.

Her jaw tightened, then she stepped back.

I came in and looked around the room, small, two beds, Charlotte's side identifiable by the organized chaos of it. Wren's side was neater. Notes stacked in order, the heel box on the floor near her bed, the outfits I'd selected hanging visible on the back of her wardrobe door.

She'd been taking this seriously.

I turned around and crossed my arms. "Okay let's begin."

She looked at me for a moment, then she turned, squared her shoulders, and started across the room.

I watched the way she moved. The way I watched a player on the ice before I decided whether they were a problem, tracking the mechanics, the distribution, where the system was breaking down.

She was better than she'd been in my suite when she'd almost taken herself out just standing still, but the left ankle was still rolling outward on every third step, subtle enough that most people wouldn't catch it, not subtle enough that I could put her in a room full of wolves and call it convincing.

She reached the wall, turned, came back, stopped in front of me and raised her eyebrows like well?

"Your left ankle is collapsing," I said. "You're letting it roll."

Her expression didn't change. "I know."

"So fix it." I said

"I'm working on it." She turned again and started back across the room, and I could see her actively thinking about it now. "This would be easier if these shoes weren't designed by someone who actively hates women."

"They're standard heels." My voice was flat.

"Standard heels for who?" She asked. "For a person who weighs nothing and has a low center of gravity..."

"It's about your core, not your weight." I pushed off the wall and came to stand a few feet behind her. "When you step, you're dropping all your weight down into the heel first. You need to engage here..." I touched two fingers briefly to the side of her waist, indicating, and felt her go rigid immediately, "...before the foot lands. Stabilise before you commit to the step."

She stepped away from my hand. "I did not know I was getting a biomechanics lesson today."

"You're welcome." I said.

"That wasn't a thank you..."

"Try again." I said, cutting her off. "Engage first."

She exhaled through her nose and turned toward the other wall and started walking. This time she was thinking about it, actually applying it, and I watched the ankle correct itself on the first step.

Then the left heel caught the edge of the rug and I moved before she even started going down, crossed the distance, got my arm around her waist and pulled her back hard against my chest, my other hand gripping her arm, and she slammed into me and we both went completely still.

For a second neither of us moved.

She was breathing hard. I could feel it, her ribs expanding against my arm, the warmth of her coming through the clothe between us. She was soft, curves that had more presence than I'd anticipated, and my arm was still around her waist and I was very aware of that.

My wolf, who had been making my life interesting since the corridor outside that seminar room, chose this moment to push forward with zero care.

I ignored him.

She turned her head slightly, not enough to fully look at me, but enough that I could see the line of her cheek, the curl that had escaped near her ear. Her scent had shifted, something warm bleeding through the patch, something she wasn't producing voluntarily.

"You okay?" I asked, close to her ear because she was right there.

She made a sound that was not quite a word.

"That ankle going to be a problem?" I kept my voice even. My arm had not moved.

"I'm fine," her voice came out cracked.

"You sure?" I raised an eyebrow. "Because from where I'm standing..."

"I said I'm fine." She put both hands flat on my forearm and pushed and I let her. She stepped forward and away from me and turned around, her face flushed, set, eyes slightly too bright, trying to pull all of it back behind something controlled.

I looked at her and she looked at me.

"You know," I said, because I couldn't help it, "if you wanted an excuse to be in my arms, Pumpkin, you could've just asked."

Her mouth dropped open.

"I didn't..." Then the flush went three shades deeper and she pointed at the space in front of her. "Let's get back to training, come on."

"Alright." I said. "Back to training."

She turned around sharply and set her shoulders and started walking again, heels hitting the floor with slightly more force than necessary.

I crossed my arms and watched her go.

My wolf settled, slow and satisfied, into something that felt uncomfortably like interest.

I told him to cut it out.

He didn't.