Page 69 of Chaos At Second Sight

After kissing me before the exit, after the exit, and again in the parking lot, Logan wrapped me in a big Lucien-like hug, the kind you disappear into, like a living lycan coat.

I closed my eyes and breathed him in.

The late afternoon sky provided a shifting color palette of salmon, pink, crimson, and ivory against a royal-blue canvas, but I barely noticed the free spectacle.

Logan pulled back, broad hands sliding down my arms. His silver eyes held mine for a second, hesitant. “I’ll call you later?”

I nodded, biting my lip, the thought of separating unpleasant.

His expression mirrored mine. “I’ve got wereball training that I can’t skip, but I can come see you beforehand.”

The workload waiting for me rivaled the Comet wereball arena in size. “I have classes and a family dinner at seven. After?”

His smile faltered. “The guys planned to grab drinks afterward.”

My family did too. “Oh. That’s nice.”

“Come! They’re gross but fun.”

“Your campus is almost an hour away…” I mentally flipped through my schedule. I’d only just returned, yet my life had already slipped back into its old rhythm, the Highlands a beautiful dream.

“You can stay over,” Logan offered too quickly.

A red tint spread over my cheeks. A dimple appeared on his face. “Or I can drive you home afterward if you want to sleep at yours.”

His hand squeezed my waist when I didn’t answer. I jerked. “O-okay! I’ll stay over.”

We lingered there, just looking at each other.

After one last kiss, Logan jogged toward his car, Bellatrix already inside waving at me, and I already missed him.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

LOGAN

Killian slammed into me with a chest bump. “That was fuckin’ awesome, T!”

The boys piled in, laughing and growling, all pumped up and drenched in sweat. We’d just played a friendly game against some small pack—I called them the Gollums because they looked half-starved and fought over the ball like it was the One Ring.

Not to brag, but—actually, fuck it, I played exceptionally. The blood on my knuckles and the rival team’s chorus of groans were proof enough.

A proud smirk curled my lips as they whined like little bitches. It wasn’t that they were terrible, but my boys and I chewed them up and spat them out.

I had too much pent-up energy, and they just happened to be my punching bag.

My mate was to blame.

Ever since I last saw her two days ago, hot flashes kept rolling under my skin, along with this fucking itch over my shoulders, arms, and neck. The game dulled it for an hour, but now it was back. Part of me knew this had to do with my fucking genetic lycan bullshit.

Folks loved judging me because I broke bones during matches. They said I was unfair, my game style brutal and violent. Did I write the rules, or rather, the lack of them? Nope. Was I allowed to punch, kick, tackle, and break? Hell yeah.

And werewolves healed. Worst case scenario, a doctor had to shove a bone back in where it belonged before it set crooked.

What nobody understood, since they were all werewolves, was that to me, wereball was a pressure valve.

Werewolves played because they loved the sport. I played because I needed to release that wild part of myself.

Being a lycan wasn’t like being a werewolf. It was like you were born to dominate everything around you. Destroy. Fight. Win.