Chapter 4
Maeve
There was a ghost in my room.
Not a literal one—though given the Gothic architecture of Blackstone University and the general vampire-lair vibe of this penthouse, I wouldn't have been surprised. No, this ghost was made of navy wool and smelled like sandalwood, winter air, and dangerously expensive cologne.
Kai’s suit jacket.
It was draped over the back of the velvet armchair in the corner of the guest suite, where I had tossed it last night after running away from him in the alley. In the harsh light of Saturday morning, it looked innocuous. Just fabric. Just a piece of clothing.
But it felt like it was watching me.
I lay in bed, staring at it. My head pounded with a dull, rhythmic thud—not a hangover from alcohol, but a hangover from adrenaline. My body felt wired, restless, my skin too tight for my bones.
I take. But only when you want to be taken.
The memory of his voice—that low, gravelly timbre that seemed to bypass my ears and vibrate directly in my core—played on a loop in my brain. I could still feel the phantom pressure of his body pressing me against the brick wall. I could still taste the phantom brush of his lips.
I rolled over, burying my face in the pillow. I screamed into the down feathers.
“You are an idiot, Maeve Sterling,” I muffled into the linen. “A colossal, tragic, desperate idiot.”
I was twenty-one years old. I was the Dean’s daughter. I was supposed to be sophisticated. I was supposed to be the girl who broke hearts, not the girl who hyperventilated because her roommate—her temporary, forced roommate—almost kissed her in a dirty alleyway behind a dive bar.
And the worst part? The absolute, most humiliating part?
I had wanted him to do it.
I had wanted him to ruin me.
I kicked the duvet off, swinging my legs out of bed. The cold air of the room hit my bare legs. I needed coffee. I needed caffeine strong enough to kill a horse, and then I needed to bury myself in my Textiles assignment until I forgot the name Kai Volkov existed.
I grabbed my silk robe—blush pink, feathers on the cuffs, ridiculous for a Saturday morning but essential for my armor—and cinched it tight.
Rule Number Two: The Kitchen is my domain.
“Screw your rules,” I whispered to the empty room.
I opened the door and stepped out into the living room.
The penthouse was silent. The floor-to-ceiling windows showcased a blindingly bright winter sky. The grey light washed over the sleek leather furniture, making the whole place feel like a sterile spaceship.
I tiptoed toward the kitchen, listening for signs of life. The door to Kai’s suite was closed. Good. Maybe he was at the rink. Maybe he lived there. Maybe he slept on a bed of frozen pucks.
I reached the kitchen island and let out a breath I didn't know I was holding.
Safe.
I moved to the espresso machine. It was a chrome monstrosity that looked like it required a pilot’s license to operate. I pressed a button. It hissed at me. I pressed another. It gurgled.
“Come on,” I muttered, tapping my nails against the countertop. “Mama needs juice.”
While the machine groaned, I leaned against the counter and looked around.
It was depressing, really. The kitchen was spotless. Not "clean," but uninhabited. There were no crumbs. No stray papers. No magnets on the fridge. It looked like a showroom.
Except for one thing.
On the far end of the island, there was a stack of papers.
They were crinkled, as if someone had balled them up in a rage and then tried to smooth them out again.
Next to the papers sat a half-empty bottle of ibuprofen and a bag of frozen peas that was slowly sweating a ring of water onto the granite.
Curiosity, as they say, is a fatal flaw.
I walked over.
I shouldn't look. It was an invasion of privacy. It was a violation of the treaty.
I looked anyway.
It was an essay. Ethics 101: The Moral Implications of Utilitarianism.
At the top of the page, in bold red ink that looked violent against the white paper, was a single letter.
D-
And underneath it, a note scrawled in the professor's handwriting: Mr. Volkov, this reads like an instruction manual for a toaster. Please see me immediately. Your grasp of the material is fundamentally lacking.
"Ouch," I whispered.
"If you touch that, you lose a finger."
I jumped, spinning around so fast I nearly tripped over my own robe.
Kai was standing in the hallway leading to the bedrooms.
He looked… wrecked.
That was the only word for it. The "King" was gone.
In his place was a guy who looked like he hadn't slept in forty-eight hours.
He was wearing grey sweatpants and a black t-shirt that clung to his chest, but his hair was messy, sticking up in tufts.
There were dark circles under his eyes that the grey light only accentuated.
But it was his hand that caught my attention.
His right hand—his dominant hand—was wrapped in white athletic tape. The knuckles were swollen, blue and purple bruising blooming around the edges of the bandages.
He wasn't looking at me with his usual arrogance. He was looking at me with a weary, defensive exhaustion.
"I wasn't snooping," I said quickly, backing away from the papers. "It was just… there."
Kai walked into the kitchen. He didn't move with his usual predator grace. He moved stiffly. He walked past me, ignoring my presence, and grabbed the bag of frozen peas. He hissed as he pressed the cold plastic against his taped knuckles.
"Coffee," he grunted, nodding at the machine behind me. "Is it done?"
"I… think so?"
He reached around me to grab a mug. For a second, he was crowding me against the counter again, his chest brushing my shoulder. But there was no sexual charge this time. No electricity. Just the heavy, oppressive weight of his bad mood.
He poured the coffee, took a sip black, and leaned his hip against the counter, closing his eyes.
"You hurt your hand," I said softly.
He opened one eye. "I hit something."
"A person?"
"A wall."
" Did the wall win?"
"The wall always wins," he muttered. He took another sip, then looked at the papers on the island. A look of pure, unadulterated self-loathing crossed his face. It was gone in a second, replaced by the mask of indifference, but I saw it.
It stopped me cold.
I knew that look. I saw it in the mirror every time I bought a dress I couldn't afford because I felt empty inside. It was the look of someone who was failing the one thing they were supposed to be good at.
"The paper," I said, nodding at the D-. "Is that why you fought the wall?"
Kai let out a harsh laugh. He set the mug down and picked up the essay. He crumpled it in his good hand and tossed it toward the trash can. It missed.
"It doesn't matter," he said. "It's just a class."
"It's not just a class if you're on probation," I pointed out. "My dad said—"
"I know what your father said," Kai snapped.
The anger flared, hot and sudden. He slammed his uninjured hand onto the counter.
"I know the stakes, Maeve. You don't need to remind me.
If I don't pass this midterm, I don't play.
If I don't play, I don't get drafted. If I don't get drafted, I go back to Russia and work for my father. "
He said work for my father the way most people would say get executed by firing squad.
"So fix it," I said.
"I can't," he admitted. The volume of his voice dropped. He looked away, staring out the window at the snow. "I don't… I don't get it. I read the books. I memorize the definitions. I write down the facts. And she fails me. She says there's no 'voice.' No 'argument.'"
He ran his hand through his hair, wincing as the movement pulled on his bruised knuckles.
"I'm a center, Maeve. I see angles. I see velocity. I see facts. I don't see… whatever the hell 'moral ambiguity' is supposed to be."
He sounded defeated.
And suddenly, the Ice King, the terrifying Alpha who had pinned me to a wall last night, looked like just a boy. A boy who was terrified that his entire future was slipping through his fingers because he couldn't write an essay about philosophy.
I looked at him. Really looked at him.
I saw the tension in his shoulders. The way he was favoring his hand. The sheer, overwhelming pressure he was carrying.
I hated him. He was arrogant, rude, and controlling.
But I also knew what it felt like to drown while everyone watched and applauded your "perfect" life.
"Let me see it," I said.
Kai looked at me, confused. "What?"
"The paper," I said. I walked over to the trash can, bent down—ignoring the way my robe gaped slightly—and picked up the crumpled ball of paper.
"Don't," Kai warned, stepping forward. "Maeve, leave it."
"Shut up, Volkov."
I smoothed the paper out on the counter. I ignored his protest. I started to read.
It was… painful.
Utilitarianism is the theory that the best action is the one that maximizes utility. Utility is defined as well-being. Therefore, we should do things that make people happy.
It read like a robot trying to explain human emotion to an alien. It was technically correct, but it had no soul. No persuasion. It was dry, brittle, and boring.
I looked up at him.
"Okay," I said. "I see the problem."
"The problem is I'm an idiot," he spat.
"No," I said firmly. "The problem is you're writing like an engineer. You're listing facts. Ethics isn't about facts, Kai. It's about selling a story. It's about convincing the reader that your version of 'right' is the only one that matters."
I tapped a manicured nail on the paper.
"You're trying to score a goal by shooting the puck in a straight line through three defenders. You can't do that. You have to deke. You have to feint. You have to manipulate the goalie."
Kai stared at me. His brow furrowed. "Manipulate?"
"Yes," I said. " writing an essay is just like marketing. You're selling a product. The product is your opinion. Right now? Your product is boring. Nobody wants to buy this."
He blinked. "And you know how to fix it?"