Chapter 6 #2
"So," Jax interrupted, spraying taco shell crumbs. "Are we going to talk about the elephant in the room? Or are we just going to play footsie under the table?"
I jerked my knee back. Theo didn't move.
"What elephant?" Theo asked, his face turning back to stone.
" The Gala," Jax said. "Preston Reynolds is telling everyone you threatened to dismember him if he touched Mila again. People are taking bets on whether you two are secretly married or if you’re just her bodyguard with benefits."
I choked on a piece of spinach.
Theo slowly turned to look at Jax. "Let them bet. I don't care what they think."
"I do," I gasped, reaching for water. "My father cares. If rumors start—"
"Rumors are just noise," Theo said firmly. He placed his hand on the table. It was close to mine. His pinky finger brushed against the back of my hand. He didn't pull away. "Let them talk. As long as they don't touch, it doesn't matter."
He looked at me then. The look was possessive. It was heavy. It was a public claiming that only I could understand.
Let them look. You’re coming home with me.
I felt a shiver race down my spine. It wasn't fear. It was the thrill of being part of the secret.
"Eat your chicken," Theo ordered softly.
I ate the chicken. It tasted like cardboard, but I ate every bite. Because he asked me to. And because, terrifyingly, I wanted to please him.
The crash came at 8:00 PM.
I was in the living room of the Fortress, attempting to read about the French Revolution while Jax and Theo played FIFA on the Xbox. It was a domestic scene. Normal. Safe.
Then my phone rang.
The screen lit up with a picture of a golden retriever—the contact photo for my dad. I had set it ironically years ago because he demanded loyalty but only gave affection when I performed well.
"I have to take this," I said, standing up.
The room went quiet. Theo paused the game. He watched me, his eyes sharp. He knew.
I walked into the kitchen, my safe zone, and answered. "Hi, Daddy."
"Mila," his voice was crisp, devoid of warmth. No 'how are you,' no 'hello.' "I just got off the phone with Dr. Evans at the Met."
My stomach dropped. "Oh. I… I can explain. The application—"
"He told me you were rejected," my father cut in. "He said your portfolio lacked 'maturity.' Do you know how embarrassing that is for me? I called in a favor to get your application on the top of the pile, and you couldn't even manage to impress them."
"I tried," I whispered, gripping the granite counter. "I worked really hard on it."
"Hard work doesn't matter if the result is failure," he snapped. "This is exactly what I’m talking about, Mila. You dabble. You play. You waste time and money on these… hobbies. Art history? It’s a joke. I thought cutting you off would wake you up, but clearly, you need a harsher lesson."
"I’m doing the deal," I argued, my voice trembling. "I’m living with Volkov. I’m getting good grades. I’m—"
"You’re treading water," he said dismissively. "I’m coming up for the game on Friday. I expect to see a change. If I don't… well, maybe it’s time we discussed withdrawing you from Blackthorne entirely. Your mother thinks a finishing school in Geneva might be more your speed."
"No," I gasped. "Daddy, please. I have a life here."
"Then start acting like it. Stop embarrassing the family name."
Click.
He hung up.
I stood there in the kitchen, the phone pressed to my ear, listening to the dial tone.
Stop embarrassing the family name.
The crack in my chest that had started yesterday split wide open. It wasn't a crack anymore; it was a chasm. I felt the familiar spiraling panic—the urge to scream, to break something, to go find a bar and drink until the voice in my head shut up.
But I couldn't. I had no money. I had no car keys. I was trapped.
I slid down the cabinets until I hit the floor. I pulled my knees to my chest and buried my face in my arms. I didn't cry. Crying made noise. I just shook.
I sat there for what felt like hours.
"Mila."
I didn't look up. I knew who it was. The footsteps had been silent.
Theo sat down on the floor next to me.
He didn't try to pull me up. He didn't ask what was wrong. He just sat there, his long legs stretching out across the kitchen tile, his shoulder pressing firmly against mine.
"He hung up on you," Theo stated. It wasn't a question.
"He wants to send me to Switzerland," I mumbled into my knees. "To a finishing school. Because I’m an embarrassment."
Theo was silent for a moment. I could hear his breathing—slow, steady, rhythmic. It was grounding.
"He’s wrong," Theo said.
"He’s not," I argued, lifting my head. My eyes were dry, burning. "I am a mess, Theo. Look at me. I’m living in your house because I can't support myself. I got rejected from the internship. I have nothing."
"You have talent," Theo said. "I saw the painting."
"Talent doesn't pay the rent."
"No. Resilience does."
He turned his head to look at me. In the dim light of the oven clock, his scar looked silver.
"My mother," he started, his voice rough, like he was dragging the words over broken glass. "She didn't call me when I got the scholarship to Blackthorne. She didn't call me when I made Captain."
I turned to him, surprised. He never talked about his family. The file said 'Father Unknown, Mother: Low Income.'
"She called me three weeks ago," he continued, staring at the cabinets opposite us. "To ask if the signing bonus from the draft comes in a lump sum or installments. She has debts. Gambling debts."
My heart broke. A clean, sharp snap.
"Theo," I whispered. "I’m so sorry."
"I don't tell you this for pity," he said, looking at me. His gaze was fierce. "I tell you so you understand. Family… sometimes they are not the people who protect you. Sometimes they are the first check you have to slip."
He reached out. His hand covered mine on the floor. His palm was warm, rough, and enormous. It swallowed my hand completely.
"You are not an embarrassment, Mila," he said firmly. "You are chaotic. You are loud. You are frustrating as hell. But you are not worthless."
"You really think that?" I asked, searching his face for a lie.
"I don't lie," he said. "Especially not to you."
He squeezed my hand.
"We have a deal," he reminded me. "Discipline for Charm. I teach you how to stand your ground. You teach me how to smile."
"I don't feel like smiling right now," I admitted.
"Good. Don't." He shifted, turning his body so he was facing me more fully. "But don't run away. Don't let him send you to Geneva. You stay here. You fight."
"Fight for what?"
"For yourself," he said. "And… for the team."
"The team?" I raised a brow. "You mean the hockey team?"
"No," Theo said softly. His thumb brushed over my knuckles. "Us. The roommate team. Whatever this is."
Whatever this is.
It was the most romantic thing anyone had ever said to me.
The tension shifted. The sadness in the room evaporated, replaced by that heavy, magnetic pull. We were sitting on the kitchen floor, surrounded by stainless steel and shadows, and I felt safer than I had ever felt in my penthouse.
I looked at his lips. I remembered the taste of them.
"Theo," I whispered.
"Yeah?"
"If I stay… will you teach me how to check someone?"
A low chuckle rumbled in his chest. It was a real sound. A warm sound.
"Yeah, Malyshka," he said, lifting my hand to his mouth. He pressed a kiss to my knuckles—gentle, reverent, and completely devastating. "I’ll teach you how to hit back."
He didn't let go of my hand.
We sat there in the dark for a long time. The silence wasn't predatory anymore. It was a shelter. And for the first time, I realized that the danger wasn't that Theo Volkov would break my heart.
The danger was that I was going to hand it to him, wrap it in a bow, and beg him to keep it.
And I had a terrible feeling that when the contract ended in May, getting it back was going to be impossible.