His Trouble Maker

Chapter 8

Chapter 8

GRAY

She hasn’t looked at me in three fucking days.

Three. Goddamn. Days.

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I’ve had rogues gutted for less disrespect. It’s been three days since I made Jessica Wilkinson cry–and I haven’t slept right since. I don’t lie awake regretting shit I meant to do. That’s not who I am. But the tears? Those shook me.

I’ve snapped. Growled. Manhandled her just fine and she always bounced back like a damn rubber band–spitting fire, chin high, that smart little mouth of hers begging to be shut.

So why the fuck did she cry?

When I told her I was going to train her, I meant it. Physically. Brutally. Like I train my warriors. She wanted to be stronger. She said she could handle it. Said she wanted to be taken seriously…

So I didn’t hold back.

But that doesn’t explain why I’m here now, ten feet from her window, in the freezing goddamn woods like a rabid fucking animal.

I don’t even remember walking here. My wolf took over hours ago, and all I’ve been doing is pacing. Watching. Breathing her in from a distance like the scent of her is enough to keep me from losing it entirely.

It’s not.

Through the glass, I see her. She’s in bed. Hair loose. Skin flushed from the heat of her room. And she’s not alone.

Logan.

That soft little prick is sitting on the edge of her mattress, grinning like he has a shot.

I step closer to the glass. Just one step. But it’s enough.

My whole body is vibrating–rage, lust, the kind of raw, violent hunger that can only be satisfied with bruises and cries and spit and submission.

I want to kick that window in. Grab her by the throat. Drag her down to the fucking floor and bury myself so deep in her she forgets her own name. I want her gagging on my cock while Logan watches. I want her moaning through tears, trying to breathe while I fuck every thought of him out of her mouth.

I want her wrecked. Smeared. Spit–slick and cum–drunk and sobbing my name like it’s the only word she remembers.

She is fucking mine.

And then I hear it her voice. Sharp. Breathless. Annoyed.

“It’s late!” she shrieks, scrambling upright, shoving Logan’s chest with both hands. “You need to go home, Logan. We have

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Chapter 8

training tomorrow!”

the fuck

you still

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whose territory he’s sitting in. He stands slowly, dragging his eyes across her legs like a dead man trying to get

My teeth grind.

an idiot, and that’s when she does

I freeze.

only ten feet away

Tank top.

Fucking flawless, even angry.

howls to move. To rip through the glass and take what’s mine. Her hand reaches for the curtain. She pauses–just

scan the woods. She’s looking right at me. I can feel my own fucking heartbeat in

teeth. The second I hear Logan’s engine roar to life outside, my body moves

her. Vanilla. Skin, shampoo, heat, memory. It wraps around me, clogs my throat, makes my

My teeth grit.

I should leave. This was never my plan but the second the water shuts off, I

the edge of her bed, elbows on my knees, waiting for her

skin still damp, hair dripping down her back, wearing nothing but a fucking towel and a look that says she

Her eyes meet mine.

Mid–step. Towel

already cracking.

I stand.

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Chapter 8

by step, stalking across her floor like a loaded weapon. Her pupils blow wide. Her pulse stutters. I press my

she’s beautiful like this–cornered, guilty, and still too proud to admit she missed

tilt my head. “And then you let that pathetic little beta sit on my fucking bed. That’s the part that really got

into my chest. I stumble half a step, and I laugh–not because it’s funny, but because she’s giving me exactly what I fucking want. “What the fuck

“Drunk? Really, Jessica?” I tilt my head, eyes locked on hers.

cracks. The towel slips halfway off her chest. She scrambles for it,

panting. “What the hell

bed, and fuck her until she forgets her own name. Not because I want to make love to her. No. Because I

instead–I level our eyes. Lock her down. “You, Jessica,” I whisper. “You’re what’s wrong

She stiffens. “W–What?”

chest. Force her back until her spine slams into the wall again. I hear the plaster groan. “You think! hate you?” I sneer, my voice a snarl in

her chin–firm, possessive, fingers digging into

“I don’t hate you.”

stunned. Confused. I smell it–fear spiked with something filthier. I lean closer, bury my nose in the crook of her throat and breathe her in like a man deprived of

I hiss into her

She shudders.

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