Behind His Mask : My Hockey Alpha

Chapter 9. Anselma

(Kai’s POV)

The door groaned. I stood. Feet grounded. The wolf in my bones clawed at my chest; my skin itched, my eyes began to burn. I took a breath—one, two—and let some of it in. My pupils stretched. More light bled into the world.

Metal complained. The latch squeaked. I counted—wrench on the left, iron bar on the right. The entry path was narrow. One person would enter first, two waiting behind. The first was usually the one reeking of confidence. Hit his knee, snap his elbow, drag him in as a shield. Simple. The blood would get messy, but… not on Rhea.

Then—click. The door cracked halfway open—enough to show a face. Not the raincoat man from the gallery. This one was younger; clean cheeks, gray eyes, a Sunday-school smile you’d believe until that same hand slipped something into your drink.

“Good evening,” he said, pleasant. “We were sent to—”

I smashed the wrench against the inside hinge before he could finish. The door shrieked, rebounded. He jolted, the back of his head cracking the frame. Before the other two could slip through, I kicked the door’s edge, forcing the space tighter. The iron bar drove into the first one’s shin—wet crunch—he screamed, a pitch that made Rhea flinch under the table. The ones outside cursed—I heard technical words, not prayers.

“Now!” I didn’t look back as I barked it. Rhea moved—fast, faster than I thought her body could. Her bag flung open, papers spilled, her hands shook. The door rattled again; another hand slipped in, gripping something that gleamed—not a gun, too calm—probably an injector.

I shattered that wrist with the wrench. A shriek ripped out. The door pushed back; force from both sides. I held it. Life shrank down to the grind of bones against wood; to the taste of iron on my tongue when my teeth scraped.

“Kaelan!” Rhea’s voice—afraid. “If I—”

“Two seconds!” I roared. “Now, Rhea!”

She pressed.

The world… blinked.

Not light. Not dark. A pause in the machine of reality—a second forced to sit. The symbols on the papers hummed—not in the air, but in bone. It felt like biting aluminum. The moon painting in my mind—its golden eyes—opened a little wider. Something stretched from this damp, narrow room to the canvas in the gallery hall, a taut line pulling air between two points. I felt the tug in my ribs, like a hook sunk and gently reeled.

The door—in those two seconds—stopped pushing. The men on the other side held their breath; their voices clipped like echoes inside a bottle. I twisted, dragged Rhea out from under the table, held her against the tool rack. “Now!” I slammed the rack’s back panel—the sheet metal I’d loosened this morning, its hinges hanging by two. The panel gave way, opening a narrow crawlspace into an older service corridor, wide enough for one at a time.

I shoved Rhea through first. “Right!”

“I’m not going to—”

“Now, Rhea!” I almost growled. My eyes no longer fully human—I knew it by the way light fractured into knives.

She slipped inside, scrambling fast. I turned, iron bar raised, as those two seconds evaporated—and time snapped back.

The door burst inward, faster than I’d counted. Two men slid in—the broken-legged one dragging himself, another lowering a sprayer. I smashed the iron into his jaw before the mist released; the device flew, bounced off the floor, hissing liquid across tile—wolfsbane vapor seared my nose. I staggered half a step, holding back coughs—staying in the space where its concentration thinned.

“Get the papers!” someone shouted outside.

“Too late,” I said, and drove the wrench into a skull.

They weren’t amateurs. Their movements were structured; one baited my strike, the other slid from the side. I changed rhythm, fought off-sync—the wolf in my bones wanted to finish it in blood, but in this small room, losing control was a death bell. I chose the dirty human path: eyes, knees, throat.

One, two, three—and the room went still. My breath tore. Iron in my chest. I grabbed the panel, slipped into the crawlspace, pulled it shut, braced it with my shoulder, breath rasping. Rhea crawled ahead, fast.

The old corridor reeked of wet stone and long mold, narrower, older, like roots forgotten. Dark pressed tight. I gave Rhea a small light—a strip clipped to my watch. I pressed it; white beam pierced ahead. “Keep going.”

“Kaelan…” her voice shook, not only from fear. “What just happened? Who were they? How did they know we were here?”

“You yanked a cable under reality’s desk,” I answered. “For two seconds.”

“How—”

“Not now.” I glanced back—the room behind was alive again. “Later.”

We crawled. My hand hovered behind her, not touching, but ready if she slipped. Vibrations echoed off the concrete; Callum, if he was on time, should already be arguing with two men on the fire stairs.

The corridor bent; at its end, I opened the lowest hatch—iron frame groaned. Air greeted us—cold, but freer. A narrow iron staircase climbed up. Rhea looked up, swallowed hard. “It’s so high.”

“Don’t worry. I’m right behind you.”

Step by step, our feet rang on metal. On the first landing, more sounds—heavy, muffled, the kind I knew: people fighting without wanting to be seen. Callum. A dull thud—stick to someone’s ribs, maybe. His short laugh followed—the i***t always laughed at the worst times, like his body hated silence.

We reached the door marked TECH OBSERVATION. I pressed an ear—muted alarms beyond. Keypad lock. I tapped a small pattern—two short, one long. Knockback replied. Callum.

I eased it open. White light. A cramped observation room, thick glass facing the ice machine. Callum leaned in the corner, dark hoodie, cap, tired eyes. On the floor, two men groaned, bound in industrial tape—his signature. He looked over. His gaze flicked to Rhea for half a second—enough to read: fragile but unbroken—then back to me.

“You promised twenty-five minutes. You show in twenty-four,” he said flat.

“Anyone missing?” I dragged in breath, shut the door. “You said one vanished.”

“Still gone.” Callum shrugged. “Either he ran or he’s a ghost.”

“Raincoat?”

Callum blinked. “You saw him?”

“At the gallery this morning.”

“Yeah.” Callum folded his arms. “I smelled him on the stairs, but trail cut.”

Rhea stood, clutching her bag to her chest. She looked at the bodies on the floor, her face tensing. Terrified.

“Who… are they?” she asked, voice small.

“Someone hunting you,” I answered.

“The hunters you mentioned before?” she asked again.

“Type that stepped out of that category,” Callum muttered. “You okay, Miss…?”

“Hale,” I answered for her. “Rhea Hale.”

Callum nodded, as polite as he could manage. “I’m Callum. His friend.” He squinted at me. “Friend… right?”

“Friend,” I echoed. I knew he was checking how much I’d told her.

“Good.” He looked at Rhea again. “Pretty miss looks like she needs water, Kaelan.”

He handed her a small new bottle he’d brought. Rhea glanced at me as if asking: can I? I nodded once, and she grabbed it immediately. She drank a little. Color slowly returned to her face.

“What’s the plan?” Callum asked, nudging one tied man with his boot—reflex check. “You keeping her here till morning? This place won’t hold long.”

I thought of the papers in Rhea’s bag, that two-second pulse still rattling my bones. “No. They know this route now. We move.”

“Where?”

“Somewhere even they hate going.” I looked at him.

Callum clicked his tongue. “You can’t be serious.”

“Serious.” I flexed my wrist, easing tension. “Backup freezer under the west block. Six degrees lower than standard. Bad for lungs, good for killing scent trails.”

He glanced at Rhea, then at me. “You wanna freeze her?”

“I need them to lose us first.” I looked at Rhea. “I won’t let you freeze. I promise.”

Rhea glared. “How many promises do you have tonight, Kaelan? And… why should I trust a stranger like you?”

“Enough for you to hate me. And… Rhea… I’m not a stranger to you,” I said, honest.

“No. You think after what just happened, I’ll see you the same? No, Kaelan. You’re terrifying, and I can’t trust a gangster like you.”

I raised an eyebrow. Gangster? Really? “I’m not a gangster. I’m… yeah… just a man different from most men.”

“I don’t care. I can’t trust you anymore.”

I pointed at the bodies sprawled on the floor. “We don’t have time to argue, Rhea.”

“I want to go home.”

“You can’t. Too dangerous right now. You can’t be alone.”

I shot Callum a look, cueing him to back me up. Thankfully, my Beta understood.

“They already found you. They won’t stop till they get what they want,” Callum said. “The world chasing you now isn’t the world you’ve been living in, Rhea,” he added.

“They even know your address, and your coworkers’ at Elaria Gallery. If you slip, the people closest to you—who shouldn’t be victims—might end up victims,” I pressed.

Rhea’s eyes widened. “They’re insane. Shouldn’t we just go to the police?”

I shook my head. “What’s happening isn’t that simple, Rhea.”

She fell quiet, thinking, before finally adjusting her bag. “Fine. I’ll come. But on one condition.”

I lifted my chin. “Name it.”

“Stop talking like I don’t have a choice.” Her eyes—oh, those eyes—sharp, steady. The wolf in me howled to claim her right then.

“If you want me to trust you, treat me as a person—not a package,” she added.

I stilled. Then nodded, deeper than politeness. “Alright.”

Callum looked at me like watching a comet fall. “Thought you only knew how to say no. Turns out you can say yes, too.”

“I can do more than that.” I turned to the door. “We leave in five. Tie them—” I nodded at the two on the floor. “Tighter. And take their gear.”

***