Chapter 2
Chapter Two
Mila
Consciousness returned to me not as a friend, but as a violent assailant.
It started with the light—a piercing, grey-white blade slicing through a window I didn’t recognize, stabbing directly into my retinas. Then came the sound—a low, rhythmic thump-thump-thump that I realized, with a sickening lurch, was my own pulse hammering against the inside of my skull.
And finally, the smell.
My bedroom in the penthouse downtown always smelled like lavender and expensive linen spray. It smelled like safety.
This room smelled like cedar. It smelled like rain on pavement. It smelled like… him.
I shot up in bed, a gasp tearing from my throat. The movement was a mistake. My head spun like a tilt-a-whirl operated by a sadistic clown, and bile rose hot and acidic in my throat. I squeezed my eyes shut, clutching the duvet to my chest.
The duvet. It was heavy, charcoal grey, and threadbare in a way that suggested utility, not luxury.
Memory crashed over me in a humiliating wave. The frat party. The pool table. The vodka burning my throat. The auction. God, the auction. I had stood there like a piece of meat, begging for attention, desperate for someone to validate my existence with a dollar amount.
And then… The Tsar.
My hand flew to my backside. The phantom sting was gone, but the heat of it remained, branded into my skin. He had hit me. Theo Volkov, the walking refrigerator of a man, had thrown me over his shoulder and swatted me like a misbehaving toddler.
I opened my eyes, forcing the room to stabilize.
I was in a box. A literal concrete box. The walls were unfinished grey cinder block, the floor was polished concrete, and the furniture consisted of a black metal dresser and the bed I was currently occupying.
There was no art. No color. No warmth. It looked less like a bedroom and more like a holding cell in a dystopian sci-fi movie.
The Fortress. That’s what he had called it.
I scrambled out of bed, my bare feet hitting the freezing floor.
A shiver raked up my spine, violent and uncontrollable.
I looked down at myself. I was still in the ruined white Valentino dress from last night.
one strap was broken, hanging limply off my shoulder, and the silk was wrinkled and stained with god-knows-what. I looked like a discarded prom queen.
"Phone," I muttered, my voice raspy. "Where is my phone?"
I found it on the nightstand, next to a glass of water and two Advil. The sight of the pills made me pause. Had he put them there? The thought of his massive, scarred hands engaging in an act of mercy was almost more disturbing than the kidnapping.
I dry-swallowed the pills and snatched the phone. 10:14 AM.
I had five missed calls. All from "Chloe (Beta Zeta)." None from my father.
I dialed Chloe immediately. I needed an ally. I needed someone to tell me that this was illegal, that I could call the police, that a SWAT team was on its way to extract me from this Brutalist nightmare.
"Oh my god, Mila?" Chloe’s voice was high-pitched, shrill enough to make me wince. "Are you okay? Everyone is talking about it. It’s all over Barstool. The video of Volkov spanking you has like, ten million views."
My stomach dropped through the concrete floor. "Video?"
"Yeah, babe. It’s… intense. You look totally wasted." There was a pause, and then the tone shifted. It wasn't concern. It was hunger. "So, is it true? Is he, like, holding you hostage? Because that is so hot. Everyone wants to know if he’s as big as the rumors say."
I froze. My hand gripped the phone so hard the edges dug into my palm.
I was in crisis. I had been financially cut off, physically abducted, and dumped in the woods by a hockey player who looked like he murdered people for cardio. And my "best friend" wanted the tea on his dick size.
"I need a ride, Chloe," I said, my voice tight. "My car is still at the frat house. I need you to come get me."
"Oh. Ugh, I can't right now," Chloe said, her voice dripping with fake regret. "I have a spin class in twenty minutes. And then I promised Jason I’d help him study. Besides… if your dad cut you off, you can’t exactly pay for gas, right? Maybe you should just stay there. It’s good for your brand.
The 'Bad Girl' thing is totally working for you. "
I hung up.
I didn't say goodbye. I just pressed the red button and threw the phone onto the mattress.
The silence that followed was deafening. It pressed in on my ears, heavy and suffocating.
This was it. The Armor I had spent three years building—the clothes, the parties, the entourage, the reputation—it was paper-thin. One gust of wind from my father, and it had all blown away. I was alone. Truly, pathetically alone.
Tears pricked my eyes—hot, angry tears. I hated crying. Crying was an admission that something hurt, and if you admitted it hurt, you gave it power. I wiped them away aggressively, smearing day-old mascara across my cheekbones.
"Get it together, Kensington," I whispered to the empty room. "You are not a victim. You are a shark in heels. Even if the heels are ruined."
I needed coffee. I needed caffeine to jumpstart my brain so I could formulate an escape plan.
I walked to the door and pulled. It was unlocked. At least I wasn't literally a prisoner.
I stepped out into a hallway that continued the industrial aesthetic.
High ceilings, exposed ductwork, track lighting.
It was architectural, I had to admit. It had a severe, Bauhaus quality to it—function over form, stripping away the ornamental to reveal the structural truth. It was cold, but it was honest.
Unlike my life.
I followed the smell of roasted beans down the hall, my heels clicking loudly on the concrete. The house was massive, open-concept and echoing. The living room to my left was sunken, featuring a leather sectional the size of a swimming pool and a flatscreen TV mounted on a stone fireplace.
I rounded the corner into the kitchen and stopped dead.
It wasn't empty.
A guy was leaning against the counter, eating cereal directly out of the box. He was shirtless, wearing low-slung grey sweatpants that hung dangerously on his hips. He had messy blonde hair, a crooked nose that had clearly been broken at least twice, and a tattoo of a snake winding up his ribs.
He wasn't Theo. He wasn't terrifying. He looked like chaos incarnate.
He looked up, a Cheerio falling from his lip. His eyes widened, raking over me from my messy hair to my broken strap.
"Well, well, well," he drawled, a slow grin spreading across his face. "If it isn't the contraband."
I crossed my arms over my chest, trying to salvage some dignity. "Who are you?"
"I live here, Princess. The name’s Jax. Or 'Sinner,' if you believe the puck bunnies." He set the box down and leaned forward, his eyes dancing with amusement. "And you must be the reason Theo has been pacing the living room like a caged tiger since 6 AM."
"I am not a 'reason,'" I snapped, stepping fully into the kitchen. "I am a hostage. Where is the coffee?"
Jax pointed to a sleek, chrome espresso machine that looked more complicated than the space shuttle. "Help yourself. But fair warning, Theo has the grind settings calibrated to the humidity. If you mess it up, he might actually execute you."
I glared at the machine. I usually bought my coffee. Or had it brought to me. I pressed a button that looked promising. The machine hissed at me violently.
"Here," Jax said, stepping in. He smelled like dryer sheets and weed. He pressed a sequence of buttons with practiced ease. Liquid black gold began to drip into a cup. "So, did he actually spank you? Or is the internet hallucinating?"
I felt the heat rush up my neck. "That is none of your business."
"It’s totally my business," Jax laughed, leaning his hip against the counter. "Theo doesn't touch people. Like, ever. He’s a monk. A violent, Russian monk. Seeing him haul you out of Theta Chi was like watching a statue come to life and choose violence. It was poetic."
"He’s a psychopath," I muttered, grabbing the cup before it was full. The heat seeped into my cold fingers.
"He’s focused," Jax corrected, his smile fading slightly. "He’s got the weight of the world on his shoulders, sweetheart. The draft is everything to him. And now… well, now he has you."
"I didn't ask to be here," I said, my voice trembling. "My father—"
"Yeah, we know. The Deal." Jax’s eyes softened, just a fraction. "Look, Mila. This house isn't the Four Seasons. We’re animals. But Theo… he’s honorable. In his own twisted way. He won’t let anything happen to you."
"I don't need protection," I lied. "I need an Uber."
"You’re not going anywhere."
The voice came from behind me.
It wasn't Jax’s playful drawl. It was a baritone rumble that vibrated through the floorboards and straight up my legs.
I spun around.
Theo was standing in the archway of the kitchen.
If he had looked big last night in a coat, he looked monstrous now.
He was wearing a black Under Armour t-shirt that strained across his chest and black athletic shorts.
His legs were thick, powerful trunks of muscle, covered in dark hair.
His arms were crossed, the geometric blackout tattoos on his right forearm stark against his pale skin.
He was looking at me with that same cold, dead-eyed stare from the party. But in the daylight, I could see the storm clouds in the grey. He wasn't just cold; he was turbulent.
"Good morning, Sunshine," Jax said, grabbing his cereal box and backing away. "I’m gonna go… literally anywhere else. Good luck, Mila. Try not to get eaten."
Jax disappeared, leaving me alone with the wolf.
Theo walked into the kitchen. The air seemed to get thinner. He moved with a silence that was unnatural for a man of his size. He stopped on the opposite side of the massive granite island, placing his hands flat on the counter.
He stared at me. He didn't blink. He just… observed.
He looked at the broken strap of my dress. He looked at the smudge of mascara on my cheek. He looked at my bare feet on the concrete.