Chapter 68: The tables have turned

​For the past week, this arrogant, snobbish prick had done nothing but ruthlessly encroach on my personal space.

He had fucked me sensless even when I didn’t want to, barged into my house like he owned the place, overstayed his welcome, pushed his knee against mine under my family’s dinner table, cornered me in the studio corridor, and held me suffocatingly close under the blinding studio lights—all while completely ignoring my demands for him to get away.

​Now, the tables were turned. He was the one trapped on a couch, stripped of his athletic dominance, and forced to endure my presence while feeling thoroughly humiliated.

He desperately wanted me out of his luxury apartment so he could brood in peace, and watching his jaw clench in helpless fury made the justice feel incredibly sweet.

​"Get off the couch, Evans," Reid growled, his voice dropping into a low, warning register that lacked any of its usual playful mockery.

"No," I said plainly.

He glared at me from the pillows, his messy hair falling over his forehead as he tried to project his usual intimidating Alpha presence. "Go back to your apartment."

​"No," I said once again, this time taking a slow, deliberate sip of the water.

I leaned back slightly against the leather frame, tilting my chin up to look down at him with a faint, cynical smirk.

"I’m the Captain, remember? I stay until I’m satisfied that my first-line winger isn’t going to be a liability. You forced your way into my life, McCoy. You don’t get to choose when to lock the door."

Reid stared at me, a dangerous, dark current swirling in his smoky grey eyes. For a split second, I saw the instinctual urge to lunge at me in his posture—the raw, dominant reflex of an Alpha being actively challenged in his own space.

But the moment he tried to brace his left foot against the frame of the sofa, his face went completely bloodless.

A sharp, ragged gasp left his lips, and he dropped his head back onto the pillows, his knuckles turning white where his hands gripped the leather.

"You shouldn’t be pushing it if you want to play against Edward on Friday next week." I reminded him.

"Don’t push your luck, Evans," he rasped, his voice sounding entirely stripped of that high-and-mighty, old-money layer. He was breathing through his nose, his chest heaving with a mixture of physical agony and sheer, unadulterated frustration. "You think because I’m on this couch, you suddenly have the upper hand?"

"I don’t think, McCoy. I know," I replied smoothly, crossing one leg over the other.

I deliberately swirled the water in the glass, the faint clink of the ice cutting through the heavy silence of the penthouse.

I let my eyes slide down to his heavily wrapped ankle, then slowly brought them back up to trace the tense line of his jaw.

"Look at you. You can’t even stand up to throw me out," I murmured, letting a slow, deliberate edge of satisfaction seep into my voice. "You’ve spent days invading my space, breaking down my doors, and dragging me into your mess. How does it feel to be the one who has to sit there and take it?"

Reid’s jaw clenched so hard the muscle leaped beneath his skin. He didn’t look away this time. He kept his eyes locked onto mine, a low, rumbling vibration starting deep in his chest—a warning growl that echoed with the heavy, dark scent of frozen pine that was currently suffocating the room.

The pheromones were thick, laced with the bitter tang of his injury, pressing against my senses like a physical weight.

My inner Omega shuddered, a familiar, weak ache trying to blossom in my core, but I tightened my grip on the glass and locked it down. I wouldn’t let him see a single crack in my composure. Not today.

"You’re a real piece of work, Captain," Reid finally muttered, his voice dropping into a dark, mocking cadence that sounded entirely too sharp for someone flat on his back. "Sitting there looking so smug. You think this makes us even?"

"Not even close," I said coldly. "But it’s a start."

"If I wanted you gone, Evans, I’d make you leave. Leg or no leg," he whispered, a sudden, sharp glint of his usual arrogance flashing behind his eyes.

He tilted his chin up, staring at me through the messy strands of blond hair falling over his face, his expression turning into something far more predatory than a wounded athlete should possess.

"You’re playing a dangerous game coming in here, acting like you run the place just because I let my guard down on the ice."

"You didn’t let your guard down, McCoy. You lost your mind," I shot back, leaning an inch closer, completely refusing to back down from his gaze. "And until you tell me what exactly put you in that head space, you’re stuck with me on this couch. So start talking."

He kept his mouth shut and it began to infuriate me.

What in the world had him so completely distracted that he couldn’t even dare to speak about it?

​If it had something to do with me—like a typical Alpha getting hopelessly distracted by the scent of his Omega—I knew for a fact he wouldn’t keep it to himself. He would have already gone on and on about it with that foul, arrogant mouth of his, mocking me, talking about how his cock can’t get soft because he’s constantly thinking of me. He would have used it as another weapon to chip away at my dignity.

​But that didn’t seem to be the case here. It wasn’t lust.

​Then... pride? Did something happen to him behind the scenes that I didn’t know about? Was it something from his family, or was it truly just the infuriating existence of Edward Stein that had completely derailed his composure?

Because this all started going down after he acted weird and threatened to expose my identity to him if I went out to dinner with him.