Page 43 of Shattered Hate

“Beer?” I ask the table, raising my empty glass. Everyone lifts their glasses, signaling they’re still good. I weave my way through the crowded room toward the bar. It’s packed, and I find myself standing there for five minutes, watching as the bartenders move like choreographed dancers. One finally glances my way, holding up two fingers to signal it’ll be a couple more minutes. I’m in no rush, so I lean against thebar, observing the chaos of people shouting for attention. That’s when I feel someone squeeze in beside me. Without looking, I move along slightly.

“Thanks,” he says. I turn my gaze to him.

Mike. I kinda forgot how hot he was. His dirty-blond hair falls in casual waves, and his ocean-blue eyes have a depth that could easily pull someone under. A sharp jawline frames his face, leading down to a smile that could melt ice.

“Hi, Mike.”

“Daxton.” He smirks. There’s a slight awkwardness, but I would have expected him to be hostile toward me. Instead, he just stares at me with a hot-as-fuck smirk. Then the barman interrupts us.

“What can I get ya?”

“Beer and whatever Mike here is having.” The words slip out of my mouth before I can stop them, my usual restraint nowhere to be found. It’s just a drink, right? Mike’s face lights up with an ice-melting smile again, a dangerously attractive grin that makes my heart skip. He turns to the bartender with a nod.

“Make that two,” he says smoothly before focusing entirely on me. His gaze flickers to the table where the guys are gathered, then back to me, taking in my five-foot-eleven frame and one-hundred-and-eighty-pound build. “You’re with them a lot, aint ya?”

I chuckle, nodding my head. “Cope’s my roomie.”

He nods. “Now it makes sense why he has a constant death glare on the side of my face,” he says, smirking down at me. He’s taller than me by a few inches, his broad shoulders filling out his snug shirt, hinting at the strength beneath.

He leans in, his lips almost brushing my ear, sending a shiver down my spine. “Are you checking me out, Daxton?” he murmurs. The warmth in my cheeks betrays me, and his fingers lightly trace the blush.

“Cute,” he teases. His smirk exudes a charm that’s impossible to resist.

We chat for about twenty minutes, the world around us fading into the background, until Cope interrupts. His eyes narrow at Mike, his posture tense as if ready for a confrontation. But Mike just responds with that irresistible smirk.

“I’m going back to the dorm. You coming?” Cope asks firmly.

I glance between Cope and Mike, my mind racing. “I was hoping to get to know Daxton a little better tonight,” Mike interjects, his words layered with suggestive possibilities. Maybe casual encounters are more my speed than dating. It’s all I’ve ever known, and I can handle that. “We got rudely interrupted last time.”

“Cope, I’ll see you back at the dorm later,” I assure him.

“Or tomorrow,” Mike adds. Suggestion is thick in the air. Cope growls—yes, actually growls—and pulls me aside.

“Dax,” he says all serious.

“It’s fine, it’s nothing. I’m happy with that,” I say, placing my hand gently on Cope’s arm, trying to reassure him. “I’m good. I know he’s a bear or whatever you call them, but it’s just harmless fun.” Cope stares at me, his brow furrowed with concern.

“I don’t care that he’s a bear. I just don’t want him taking advantage of you.”

“I’m good,” I repeat, hoping my eyes will convey the certainty I feel in what I’m saying. Cope’s gaze flickers between me and Mike, then back to me, his jaw clenching tightly.

“Hurt him, and you can kiss the ice goodbye because I’ll break both your legs,” Cope warns.

Mike bursts into laughter, the sound echoing. “He’s good,” Mike says, his eyes sparkling with amusement.

Just when I thought Cope wasn’t going to drop it, he lets out a deep breath and walks away, his shoulders still tense. “Just going to the restroom,” Mike says as he stands up. I nod, settlinginto my chair and picking up the drink, the condensation leaving a cool ring on the table.

I’ve done this before. Bex and I went to enough parties, and I’ve hooked up with a few guys, but that’s it. So why do I feel a flutter of nerves now, like butterflies in my stomach?

“You’re fucking joking, aren’t you?” A harsh voice cuts through my thoughts.

Fucking great.

I turn in my chair to face Trayton; his expression is furious. “Why did Cope just say you’re staying here with that fucking loser?” he demands, his eyes blazing.

“Go home, Trayton.” I sigh, trying to turn away. But before I can fully swivel my chair, he grabs it, spinning it back so that he’s right in my face. The intensity of his presence is overwhelming—his scent, his glare, his proximity.

“He’s a fucking rival,” Trayton growls, low and rumbling. “You don’t fuck the rivals.”

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