Page 9 of Wild Games

“Fine,” I manage, forcing my muscles to relax. “Just thought I recognized someone.”

Thankfully, she doesn’t press further. “Grab some food, and I’ll introduce you to a few more of the competitors. Deanmentioned you might want to observe their training sessions today.”

The server says something else to Jax, tugging on his arm.

He jerks away from her touch like it burns, never breaking eye contact with me. The hunger in his gaze matches the ache in my core, raw and desperate, and tinged with something that might be fear.

I follow Jamie to the buffet, piling food onto a plate that I know I won’t be able to stomach. The encounter has left me shaky, and the professional investigator in me hates that I’m so rattled by a mere look from across a crowded room.

“Coffee?” The man next to me points to the machine and gives me a warm smile.

Fixing what I hope looks like a friendly expression on my face, I nod, grateful for the distraction. “Please.”

As he pours me a cup, chatting about his trip here and how excited he is for the final, I zone out of the conversation, unable to ignore the weight of Jax’s stare as he observes our interaction.

“Sugar? Or are you sweet enough already?”

He’s harmless really, so I give him a good-humoured groan as I accept the cup and ignore the way he attempts to join me and Jamie as we turn away from the food and drinks, then move toward the alpha’s table.

Behind us, I hear a scuffle, some cursing and growled threats, but I resist the urge to turn despite knowing exactly what’s going on.

“Dean also mentioned,” Jamie continues as we find empty seats, “that he’d like Jax to assist with your investigation. He has the sharpest nose in the pack, and a penchant for lurking in the shadows.”

My fork pauses halfway to my mouth. “Oh?”

Keeping my expression neutral, I pretend I’m not watching the scene unfolding behind me in the mirror on the wall. I don’t want to give him the satisfaction.

Jamie’s eyes travel over my shoulder, and she frowns in confusion at the sight of Jax being dragged away from the poor man by an exasperated Callum.

Kain steps into the middle of the fracas when Jax lunges at the friendly stranger again.

“Breathe,” Kain whispers, locking eyes with Jax, nodding, encouraging him to re-centre himself and regain control.

Jax stares up at the ceiling, sucking in deep breaths and squeezing his eyes shut while Lynn swoops in to get the friendly stranger out of there before Jax reopens them.

It would be comical if he weren’t mine.

“But he’s... indisposed today,” Jamie states. The lie is obvious in the way she won’t meet my eyes. “But perhaps tomorrow.”

Finally, Jax eases his eyes open, and our gaze locks in the mirror. One second. Two. Then he’s moving, abandoning his untouched plate to stride toward the exit instead of me. Not running exactly, but close enough.

Whispers ofbroken, dangerous, feralfollow him as he leaves the dining room.

His scent wafts toward me and I close my eyes, fighting the urge to follow him.

Indisposed? No. Incapable of controlling his temper? Yes. Avoiding me like the plague? Yes.

The rejection stings more than I want to admit, salt in a wound that’s already raw, but it won’t stop me from doing what I came here to do.

The morning passes in a haze of forced concentration. I examine the training grounds, pretending to fan girl over the remaining competitors, while documenting the magical residue that clings to certain areas.

I chat with some of the shifters knocked out in the earlier stages without arousing any suspicion, those who were affected by the strange goings on and mysterious ailments.

The late afternoon sun slants through the trees as I settle onto the porch with Callum’s detailed event schedules and a list of attendees at each event to cross-reference with the incidents. As I attempt to figure out which competitors were present at each event where something happened, but were unaffected, I sip on a glass of wine, hoping alcohol will dull the edge of need that’s been sawing at my control all day.

The first glass tells me it won’t, but I keep drinking anyway.

The evening passes in a blur of restless energy. I shift positions constantly, unable to get comfortable. The wooden chair creaks beneath me as I move, finally giving up on work, and set aside the detailed profiles of the entrants remaining at these late stages of the Games.