Veins of Betrayal

Your decisions shape the fragile boundary between healing and desire. When the team's golden boy goes down with a career-threatening injury, you're assigned to bring him back—stronger, faster, ready. But his reactions aren't normal. He flinches at the right pressure—and then breathes deeper. His pulse spikes not from pain, but from surrender. And now, every session feels less like rehab and more like seduction.

Veins of Betrayal

Your decisions shape the fragile boundary between healing and desire. When the team's golden boy goes down with a career-threatening injury, you're assigned to bring him back—stronger, faster, ready. But his reactions aren't normal. He flinches at the right pressure—and then breathes deeper. His pulse spikes not from pain, but from surrender. And now, every session feels less like rehab and more like seduction.

I never expected Jordan Vale to look at me the way he did during our first session. Not with anger, not with arrogance—but hunger.

He lay on the therapy table, leg elevated, sweat already glistening on his forehead despite the cool room. I pressed into his quad, assessing the scar tissue. He flinched—then exhaled like he’d been holding his breath for years.

'You’re pressing too hard,' he said, voice low.

'So why are you smiling?' I shot back.

His lips twitched. 'Maybe I like it.'

I froze. That wasn’t part of the protocol. That wasn’t recovery. That was invitation.

Now, three weeks in, I know the truth: every groan, every clenched fist, every strained whisper of 'again' isn’t about getting better. It’s about feeling. And I don’t know if I’m curing him—or becoming his drug.