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She looks up at me, her lips parted, her cheeks flushed. I dip my hand into her panties, finding her slick and warm. I knew I would find her wet.

She moans softly, her head falling back against the shelf.

Then, a loud throat clears behind us.

We both freeze.

Turning, I see none other than Caleb, standing at the end of the aisle with a look that could kill.

Sienna yanks away from me, her face a deep shade of red as she fumbles to fix her shorts.

I smirk, not even trying to hide my amusement.

“Grayson,” Caleb barks, his tone sharp. “Follow me. Now.”

I glance at Sienna, who’s still avoiding my gaze, her hands trembling as she smooths her shirt.

I wink at her, enjoying the way her blush deepens, then turn to follow Caleb.

This ought to be good.

Caleb doesn’t say a word as I follow him down the hallway and out the back door of the library. His shoulders are stiff, his jaw tight. I’m not exactly scared. Caleb’s an asshole, but he’s notgoing to throw punches in public. Still, the guy’s got that way of making you feel like you’re about to get benched for breathing wrong.

We stop near the dumpsters, where it smells like old sandwiches and regret. He spins on me, crossing his arms.

“What the fuck are you thinking?”

I raise a brow, leaning against the brick wall. “You’re gonna have to be more specific.”

“Coach’s daughter, you idiot. Sienna.”

“We were just talking.”

He snorts. “Talking, huh? That why your hand smells like pussy right now?”

My tongue rubs my bottom lip as I let out a chuckle. I bring my fingers up and sniff. “Smells like a perfect little puck bunny if you ask me.”

His gaze bores into mine.

I grin because pissing him off is kind of fun. “Relax. She’s a big girl. She can make her own decisions.”

“This isn’t about her. It’s about the team, the dynamic. Coach. You fuck this up, and you’re gonna regret it, newbie. It doesn’t matter how good of a player you are.”

I sigh, rubbing the back of my neck. “Noted.”

“Good,” he says, but then his expression shifts, like he’s about to drop something heavier. “Now, about tonight.”

“Tonight?”

He steps closer, lowering his voice like someone can hear us. “The Reapers–”

I blink. “The what now?”

“The Brotherhood,” he repeats, like that explains anything.

“What about it?”

“You’re invited,” he says. “Square at midnight. Don’t be late.”