Chapter Five
Rey
My palms sweat, clinging to the strap of my rucksack, and I try to look casual as Reeve walks me past the wide double exterior doors into the interior foyer.
Where another set of locked doors awaits.
I start to dig into my bag for the key card that came with my syllabus, but Reeve is already tapping his against the black box by the door.
It blinks green, unlocking with a cheerful beep that contrasts sharply with his deadpan expression.
As I pass through, I notice a carving above the electronic lock that looks a lot like the rune Algiz. Interesting choice.
“Curfew’s midnight on weekdays. Weekends? Just don’t get caught out after two.” He winks like he’s doing me a favor. “Your RA’s a real hard-ass.”
He pauses, eyes dancing.
“It’s me, by the way. Didn’t want the suspense to kill you.”
Then he jerks his chin toward the corner above the door.
“Oh—and there are cameras. Everywhere. So try to commit your crimes indoors.”
I nod, pulling my sunglasses off and hooking them onto the collar of my gray sweater. “I’m only here for one thing, Reeve. But note taken. I’ll definitely murder you where you sleep if you get in my way.”
And with that, I walk through the door, letting it shut swiftly behind us.
“I have to admit, I’m still curious why you’re here when your father could just conveniently bury a body to open up a spot at Harvard or Yale instead. I mean, isn’t that just a typical business lunch on a Tuesday for him?”
I swallow the bile in my throat. Reeve is not wrong, but it irritates me anyway. The enemy should never be right. I grit my teeth while he hits the elevator button to go up.
“My family doesn’t work that way.” Lie. Total lie. I may not work that way, but my father has spent the last few years torturing person after person in the dark underworld of the mafia in order to gain the intel I’m holding.
“Mobster.” He coughs.
“Tycoon.” I snarl defensively.
He raises a hand. “Does ‘crime syndicate’ sound friendlier? Asking for a friend.”
I roll my eyes as the elevator doors open. “You’re one of the most annoying people on the actual planet and I barely know—”
I run right into a wall.
Not a wall.
A person.
A very warm, tall person.
I exhale and stumble back.
It’s him.
I should not be fixating on the fact that he smells so good, like the outdoors combined with the sea and fresh rain. Crisp and cool, like water itself.
He has no reaction. He’s unfeeling. His expression is as cold as his body is warm. He finally looks down at me and tilts his head. I try to keep my face impassive.
I can tell from the twitch that begins in his jaw and the narrowing of his eyes that he recognizes me.
How could he forget the girl he so openly and blatantly rejected?
The world freaking knew about our little alliance gone wrong.
Most teens’ rejections circle around their friends and family—mine made the local news.
Bad Blood? Broken betrothal between business moguls Eriksons and Stjernes.
I meet his unblinking eyes—dark brown, like wet bark or bitter coffee—and wait. No response, none whatsoever. Except for that little tick, tick, tick that’s going in his jaw. Still, I may as well be the paint on the wall behind me for all he acknowledges me.
My heartrate kicks up. It shouldn’t. But it’s a traitorous bastard.
So I wait.
Aric says nothing. His expression gives away nothing.
He looks at me like I’m nothing.
He looms over me, easily six foot six, maybe taller. His presence is completely overwhelming. Electric. His gaze is sharp, analytical, like he’s already decided that I’m not worth his time. Or worse, that maybe I am.
His wavy jet-black hair falls over broad shoulders, the kind of effortless perfection that shouldn’t exist outside of a dream—or a nightmare. His full lips are so devastatingly tempting, it doesn’t matter if he’s about to throw me a compliment or stab me with a dagger.
High cheekbones and eyes the color of the earth after rain—dark, rich, and impossible to escape once you’re in too deep—make him into something almost inhuman, a force of nature wrapped in fury. And those arched eyebrows? I doubt they’ve ever had the audacity to lift in anything close to amusement.
He’s angry, a lightning storm bottled tight, and the worst part is, he has no clue why.
Confusion flickers across his face for half a second, a micro-expression of hesitation, before his jaw sets like iron.
And now he’s leaning in closer. My pulse spikes, betraying me.
Finally, he leans down as if to get on my level. His sneer has me almost taking a step backward. “So are you lost or just looking to get burned again?”