Chapter 4

Keshera 

Dexter wrapped his arms around me from behind, burying his face in my hair, his chest heaving as he caught his breath. His hands rested gently over my flat stomach, his fingers broad and warm.

I leaned into the intoxicating heat of his chest, my eyes fluttering shut as a strange, overwhelming exhaustion dragged my body down. My brain was completely foggy, wrapped in a euphoric haze that made the entire world fade away.

Then, a sharp, shrill ringing shattered the quiet room.

My phone.

I jolted, my eyes snapping open as blinding, harsh sunlight stabbed at my vision through the living room blinds. Sunlight.

I gasped in shock, ripping myself out of Dexter's grip and stumbling forward.

"Kesh?" Dexter mumbled, his voice thick and disoriented as he reached for my wrist.

"Oh my god," I breathed, staring in pure horror at the digital clock on his microwave. 

8:14 AM. "I slept out. I stayed here all night!"

Could my life get any more complicated?

The ringing from my blazer pocket didn't stop. I frantically dug my phone out, my stomach violently dropping to my shoes when I saw the caller ID. Sarah - Managing Editor.

I swiped answer, my hands shaking so badly I almost dropped the device. 

"Sarah, hi—"

"Where the hell are you, Keshera?!" 

"The Vipers' morning press briefing started ten minutes ago! You begged for this trial task! If you miss this exclusive with Drey, you can pack up your desk by noon!"

"Shit!”

 "I'm on my way! Traffic on the interstate is at a complete standstill. I’m literally two blocks away, I swear!"

"You have ten minutes. Get in that locker room, or you're fired." She hung up.

I started running around the living room in panic, grabbing my microphone pack and shoving my feet into my heels.

"Kesh, wait," Dexter said, his voice dropping into that dark, lethal octave from last night. He stepped into my path, his dark hair a messy halo.

 "You can't leave. The mark—"

"I don't have time for whatever weird, biting roleplay this is, Dexter!" I yelled, shoving past his solid chest and grabbing my blazer. 

“You've been saying weird things since last night.”

"I am about to lose my career!"

I dashed into his bathroom, grabbing a makeup wipe. I hadn't even showered. I aggressively scrubbed under my eyes, slapping on a thick layer of concealer over my dark circles. I caught a glimpse of my neck in the mirror. A weird bruise was forming exactly where he had bitten me, pulsing with a strange, dull heat.

I snatched my silk scarf from my bag and wrapped it tightly around my throat, hiding the mark completely.

"Keshera, listen to me!" Dexter growled, his hands gripping the doorframe.

 "You don't understand what happened. You can't go near him looking like that!"

"Please let me go." I snapped, slamming the front door behind me and practically flying down the stairs.

I made it to the arena with exactly one minute to spare.

Drey was sitting alone on the media bench in his practice gear, a bag of ice strapped to his right knee. The memory of his cruel, venomous words from yesterday flooded my mind instantly. You think I don't know what you media rats do?

All the silly, naive crush I had harbored for him for the past six months completely dissolved into anger. He was an arrogant, overpaid prick with a model like complex.

"Nice of you to join us," Drey sneered as I approached, his blue eyes raking over my disheveled state with obvious, arrogant disdain. 

"Rough night, sweetheart? You look like a complete mess."

I simply sat down on the stool directly opposite him, pulling out my notepad and clicking my pen.

"Let's keep this professional, Drey.”

 "I have questions, you have contractual media obligations to fulfill. Let's get this over with so we never have to look at each other again."

His jaw ticked. He clearly wasn't used to anyone, especially a woman, speaking to him like that. His eyes narrowed.

"Go ahead, interviewer."

"Your power play percentage has dropped to a dismal seventeen percent in the last three games.”

 "Your left-wing coverage is slipping, and yesterday, before you threw a tantrum in the tunnel, you completely missed the slot pass from your defenseman. Is your knee injury affecting your peripheral vision on the ice, or are you just losing your touch?"

Drey went entirely still. The arrogant, mocking smirk wiped clean off his face.

He leaned forward, resting his forearms on his thighs, his shoulders tensing under his dark jersey. 

"My touch is perfectly fine."

"The stats say otherwise," I countered, flipping a page in my notepad.

"You're playing aggressive, but reckless. You took three penalty minutes in the second period alone, leaving your defensive zone completely exposed. Are the rumors true? Is the pressure of the captaincy finally getting to you?"

He stared at me. Really stared at me.

For a split second, the toxic tension in the air shifted. I saw a flicker of genuine respect—and intense, burning irritation—cross his sharp features. He realized he wasn't dealing with a puck-bunny or a nervous intern anymore.

 I knew the sport. I knew his weaknesses.

"You've done your homework," he murmured.

"It's my job."

"Well, let me correct your stats," he said, suddenly standing up.

The ice pack fell. He closed the distance between us in two long strides, entirely invading my personal space. The sheer size of him was overwhelming, blocking out the stadium lights.

I held my ground, tilting my head up to glare at him. "Back up."

"Make me," he challenged softly, his chest almost brushing against my microphone.

I scoffed, rolling my eyes. 

"You are unbelievable."

I stepped backward to grab my bag, refusing to let him intimidate me, but my heel caught violently on the coiled wire of the camera equipment left on the floor.

I gasped, my arms flailing wildly as gravity yanked me backward.

Drey lunged, his reflexes blindingly fast. He caught my waist, but my momentum was too strong. We both went down.

He hit the padded media bench hard, and I landed squarely, entirely, on his lap.

Right on his injured knee.

 "Fuck!"

"Oh my god, I am so sorry!" I gasped, scrambling instantly to get off him.

If I broke the captain's knee, Sarah wouldn't just fire me, the entire city would riot.

But Drey didn't let me go.

Instead, his large hands locked around my hips, completely freezing me in place on his lap. The pain on his striking face vanished in a split second, replaced by shock.

He froze. His chest stopped heaving.

And then, he inhaled.

It was a deep, ragged, desperate sniff that made his chest expand flush against mine.

His eyes snapped up to my face. The cold, icy blue irises were completely gone, flooded with an inky, terrifying, luminous black that swallowed his pupils entirely.

"Mate." he whispered intensely.

 "What!? Excuse me?"

"Mine," he growled against my skin.

He leaned closer, his eyes locking onto my lips as the distance between us vanished, his mouth stopping just a fraction of a millimeter away from mine.