His Trouble Maker

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

while you still

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where he was. Forgot whose territory he’s sitting in. He stands slowly, dragging his eyes

My teeth grind.

toward the door, stumbling over his boots like an idiot,

I freeze.

only ten feet away

Tank top.

Fucking flawless, even angry.

body goes hot. Every instinct howls to move. To rip through the glass and take what’s mine. Her hand reaches for the curtain. She pauses–just for a second. And I wonder… Does she feel

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

like that’s going to stop me. I bare my teeth. The second I hear Logan’s engine roar to life outside, my body moves before I think. I

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

My teeth grit.

hard enough to split my zipper. I should leave. This was never

her bed, elbows on my knees, waiting for her to step

wearing nothing but a fucking towel and a look that

Her eyes meet mine.

freezes. Mid–step. Towel tight in her

voice already cracking. “What the

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 hand to the wall beside her head and lean in. “You are

still too proud to admit

passed me in the hall–didn’t even flinch. Bold.” I tilt my head. “And then you let that pathetic little beta sit on my fucking bed. That’s the part

and I laugh–not because it’s funny, but because she’s giving me

out a low, humorless laugh, sharp enough to cut. “Drunk? Really, Jessica?” I tilt my head, eyes locked on hers. “You think I fucking

lands and slam her into the wall so hard the drywall cracks. The towel slips halfway off her chest. She scrambles for it, fumbling like a weak little thing. I don’t help. I don’t even blink. I

panting. “What the hell

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

Lock her down. “You,

She stiffens. “W–What?”

into the wall again. I hear the plaster groan. “You think! hate you?” I sneer, my voice a snarl

her chin–firm, possessive, fingers digging into her jaw until I

“I don’t hate you.”

I lean closer, bury my nose in the crook of her throat and breathe her

resent you,” I hiss into her

She shudders.