The Gamma’s Second Chance (Crescent Lake #3)

9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9

NOLAN

I’m convinced Cassandra is stalking me.

Not only did she “happen” to run into me at my favorite spot on the mountain, but she also sits directly behind me in the theater seats at every rehearsal.

At first, I thought it was a coincidence. Just me reading too much into something. But then I started moving around, sitting in a different seat and a different row than my usual to see if she’d move too.

And she did.

Every rehearsal.

That’s when I realized it was no mere coincidence. It was intentional.

I’m not sure what her end game is. I don’t know if she’s spying on me or if she’s doing it to push my buttons.

All I know is I’ve been staring at the same damn line of coding for this new computer program since this rehearsal started, and I’ve not made any headway on this project. Because all I can think about is her sitting right behind me, nose buried in her book.

“Fuck it,” I say under my breath, shutting my laptop after saving the file. I toss it back into my bag and grab my phone instead, prepared to distract myself with a mindless game. But I catch Cassandra’s reflection in the darkened screen of my phone, and I can’t bring myself to unlock it and start a game because her image will vanish.

She’s so captivating. I can’t deny it. All the little things I insisted drove me crazy are now the things I can’t stop thinking about, the traits that are slowly luring me in. Like a siren to an unwary sailor, she’s ensnared me with her charismatic smiles, her charming daisies, her beguiling personality, and the delightful dresses she always wears.

Today, she’s in a pink floral one, with laces up the back, cinching her waist slightly and pushing her breasts a little higher into the curving neckline of the bodice. Her shiny, silky brown hair—normally curled and down—is up in a high, straight ponytail, drawing more focus to her cheekbones and her bow-shaped lips.

My dick twitches as my eyes linger on those lips, and thoughts I shouldn’t think flash through my mind. Thoughts of her on her knees in front of me, her tongue darting out to wet those pretty pink lips as she prepares herself to take my cock in her mouth. She’d stare up at me, her eyes wide and framed by those gorgeous long lashes, and I’d wrap that ponytail around my fist and yank it just hard enough to tilt her head so she’s at the perfect angle for me to slide my dick between her parted, waiting lips…

Damn it. I can’t think of her like that. She doesn’t want me. Hell, I don’t think she even likes me all that much. I wouldn’t like me either if I were her. I’ve been mostly rude to her, sending her mixed signals and pushing her away when all I want to do is keep her close and do all the things to her I know I can’t. Like fucking her mouth or kissing up the length of her long legs, my hands cupping and massaging her ass the entire time I devour her pussy, bringing her to a screaming orgasm.

I drop my phone into my lap and rest my head in my hand, my fingers massaging my forehead. What the fuck is wrong with me?

She’s not doing anything other than sitting there, and yet she’s all I can focus on.

I shift slightly in my seat to adjust my dick and glance at her out of the corner of my eye without her knowing, to get a better glimpse of her than what my darkened phone screen depicted.

Except she’s looking right at me, lips tipped into a tiny smirk.

Goddess, damn it.

“Nolie,” she says, shutting her book but keeping her index finger inside to hold her place.

“Daisy,” I reply, the moniker slipping from my lips before I can stop myself.

Her brow lifts at my use of the nickname I promised myself I would never actually say out loud to her, but she says nothing to me about it. “Did you need something?” she asks.

“What are you reading today?” Maybe a change in topic will help with the… difficult… situation happening in my pants right now. And I can’t see the title, but I can tell it’s not the mafia romance book I defaced and replaced. She finished that one a while ago and has read at least two more physical books since then, and probably even more digital books.

I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone read as much or as fast as she does.

Her cheeks turn pink, and she glances around the theater, avoiding my eyes at all costs. “‘Puck it All.’”

I blink at her. “‘Puck it All?’”

She smooths her hair back from her face. “It’s a sports romance. Hockey.”

“I gathered as much from the ‘pucking’ cringy pun in the title.”

Her lips twitch with a quiet laugh. “It’s about a hockey player who falls for his coach’s daughter, even though he knows it could get him kicked off the team.”

“Forbidden love.” I nod. “Do they get caught?”

“I’m not sure yet,” she says, rummaging through her bag. “But I’m going to hazard a guess at yes, based on other books I’ve read with this trope.”

“Why read it then if it’s so predictable?” I ask her as she sticks a bookmark between the pages.

She shrugs and gives me a genuine smile. “Reading is an escape. Even when I figure out the twists before they’re revealed, it’s fun to wait and see how the author reveals them. And the satisfaction of being correct?” She inhales and closes her eyes, her book hugged to her chest. “Priceless,” she says with a sigh.

I start to ask her something else, but she straightens in her chair, brow furrowed as her focus shifts to the impassioned voices filtering towards us from the stage of the theater. I’m immediately on alert, my wolf pushing forward in my mind, both of us ready to defend our luna.

But all I see when I look at the stage is Haven standing there, arms crossed, embroiled in an intense discussion with Peter, the director of the company. Her nostrils flare and her eyes glisten with unshed tears. I can sense her frustration, aggravation, and disappointment—three emotions that in recent months have triggered her aura to release without her permission. And when it does, it’s visible to other supernatural beings and palpable to them and humans, creating disturbances with the lighting and the mirrors in the studio rooms.

Today, however, there is no aura to be felt or seen. Anywhere.

I glance over my shoulder, and Cassandra sits on the edge of her seat, hands gripping the arms, her eyes still locked on Haven. The silvery, glittery starlight I’ve grown accustomed to seeing swirl around and from Haven now swirls within the green irises of Cassandra’s eyes, like she’s pulling the aura into herself, absorbing it so no one else can see it or sense it. The only way they’d notice is if they were close enough to see her eyes or paid enough attention to her to notice the change in their color.

It’s mesmerizing watching her use her ability. It’s subtle, hidden, and yet just as enchanting as watching Taryn heal someone or Maya cast a spell. Perhaps even more so.

Her body tenses, and she grips the arms of the seat harder, her shoulders rising and falling faster than normal and her chest heaving. Her lashes flutter, and she leans back into the seat, almost collapsing into the cushion. But she grits her teeth and stays upright, forcing a normal, neutral look on her face.

The urge to jump over the row of seats and comfort her, envelop her in my arms, overtakes me, but my phone rings, preventing me from acting on that desire.

“Hello?” I ask, answering the phone without checking to see who it is.

I already know anyway.

“Is Haven all right?” Wesley asks without greeting me or acknowledging me.

Not that I blame him. Haven is his everything; his priority is her well-being.

I glance at Cassandra once more, but I push my concern for her aside and turn my focus back to the stage, to Haven and the other company members. Except Haven isn’t there anymore.

Fuck.

“I—”

“Let me talk to him,” Haven says from the row behind me, easing my rising panic. Peter stands next to her, arms crossed.

She takes the phone from me without waiting for me to respond and walks down the row of seats to the aisle, talking to Wes as she does. “Hey,” she says, rubbing her forehead, her shoulders caving forward in exhaustion. “I’m fine. I mean, I’m not, but…”

“She couldn’t do a double pirouette properly,” Peter says, his voice blocking out the rest of Haven’s words to Wes. “That’s a turn with her leg bent and her foot against her knee, and—”

“I’ve been attending ballet rehearsals with Haven for four years now, Peter. I know what a double pirouette is,” I say.

“I know you do,” he says. “I was talking to her.” He jerks his head towards Cassandra, who still grips the arms of the seat tighter than normal and who forces a smile and a nod out in response to Peter. “Anyway,” he continues, “her pregnancy is throwing off her balance. Which is normal, and expected. But add in the hormones and her perfectionist tendencies and—”

“And you get a very upset luna,” I finish for him.

He laughs. “She needs a break. Physical and mental. I told her to take the rest of the day off.” I nod and grab my bag, shouldering it as I stand. “Actually, I suggested she start her leave now. Lily—her temporary replacement—knows all the roles she’s covering and doesn’t need Haven’s coaching anymore. And the stress isn’t good for her or the baby.”

I shake my head and sigh, peeking around him to see Haven. A tear runs down her cheek as she listens to Wesley on the phone, her lip quivering as she holds in her cries. “I’m guessing she wasn’t too thrilled with that suggestion?”

“She wasn’t. But I’m hopeful Wesley—or you—may be able to talk some sense into her?”

I huff out a laugh. “We can try, but you know how she is.”

“I do. That’s why I’m just asking you to try.”

I nod and press my lips together as Haven walks towards me, phone held out. “I’m ready to go,” she says with a sniffle.

“Your stuff?” I ask, glancing around for her bag even though I know it is either upstairs in her dressing room or backstage near the fly lines.

She nods, still sniffling, her eyes red-rimmed and puffy. “I’ll go grab it.”

She turns, but I reach for her and pull her in for a quick hug, squeezing her. She wraps her arms around me and I feel her smile, even though it’s just a tiny smile and only for a short moment. “You’re still my favorite ballerina,” I say as I pull away.

“Thanks. You’re still my favorite gamma.”

“I’m your only gamma.”

“Exactly.” Haven laughs, then winks at me through her tears. “I’ll meet you and Cassandra in the parking lot.”

She leaves to gather her belongings, and Peter trails behind her, already yelling directions to the dancers remaining on the stage. And I turn my focus to Cassandra again.

At first glance, she looks fine. The same as always. A bright smile on her face, reclining in her seat, her green eyes observing everything. But upon closer examination, it’s clear she’s struggling right now. Her smile is forced, her body is tense, and her green eyes are dull, their sparkle gone. The surface level image paints one picture, but what’s underneath tells a different story. She’s tired, or drained, but she doesn’t want anyone to know or ask her about it.

My instincts scream at me to ask her anyway, to set my bag down and pick her up instead, or at least take her hand in mine and soothe her with my touch. The desire to comfort her, to ensure she’s all right, is overwhelming, almost as strong as my urges to slap her cute butt when she’s being sassy or kiss her when she’s driving me crazy with her sparkling smiles and personality.

I bite my tongue, though. This isn’t the place or the time. She’ll either finally snap at me—which, I admit, I’d give anything to see, if only because she seems so infallible—or someone in the theater will hear, which will lead to more questions and suspicions, and our goal is to be as inconspicuous as possible.

“Daisy?” is all I say instead. I pray she understands the meaning underneath my use of her new nickname, that she recognizes it’s out of concern for her and not me asking her if she’s ready to leave the theater.

She gives me a smile that looks more like a grimace and shoves her book into her bag before hooking her arm through the handles and rising from her seat. She swallows and closes her eyes for a second, hand gripping the back of the seat in front of her for balance as she sways on her feet. It’s almost imperceptible, except I’m much closer to her than I realized, on the verge of climbing over the seats to wrap my arms around her waist and hold her against my body so she doesn’t fall down.

Goddess, she’d look so good in my arms. The bright colors of her dress would stand out beautifully next to the muted, somber colors of my clothes—the gray of my shirt and the dark blue of my jeans. Her petite stature would fit perfectly against me, her head tucked under my chin, my nose burying into the strands of her hair as I held her until she regained enough of her strength to walk to my truck on her own. And even then, I’d keep her hand in mine or place mine in the small of her back while guiding her to the parking lot, always at the ready should she need to lean on me.

But like every other time I’ve had the urge to treat her like something more than an unexpected, unwanted houseguest, I don’t act on it. Instead, I grip the strap of my brown leather bag that holds all my work supplies tighter, keeping my hands to myself. She’s not anything to me, and she can’t be anything to me. Not with my track record. Not when she’ll only be here for a short while.

I want her—Goddess, do I want her—but there’s too much at stake. My heart. Her heart. My job. She’d end up hurt or resenting me, or both. It’s inevitable.

Her jaw ticks as she grits her teeth and removes her hand from the back of the chair. “Let’s go home,” she says, heading down the row of seats without waiting to see if I follow.

And even though it shouldn’t, even though she didn’t mean it the way I want her to mean it, a little thrill of joy rushes through me at the sound of her voice referring to Crescent Lake as “home.”