Chapter 14
Aurelia
There is a specific kind of invincibility that comes from being loved by a dangerous man.
It’s a narcotic. It floods your system, replacing anxiety with adrenaline, turning fear into fuel.
When Atlas Thorne—The Anvil, the six-foot-five wall of muscle and scar tissue—looked at me like I was the only oxygen in the room, I felt like I could walk through fire and come out holding a bouquet of roses.
I was no longer the fragile St. James porcelain doll. I was forged steel.
It was Friday, the day before the Gala. I was at the studio for my final rehearsal before the winter showcase (which, conveniently, was scheduled for January, buying me time). I was running my solo—the Black Swan variation.
Usually, this variation terrified me. It was sharp, aggressive, demanding a level of arrogance I had to fake.
Today, I didn't have to fake it.
I hit the fouettés with a precision that startled even me.
One, two, whip. One, two, whip. My spotting was laser-focused.
My core was iron. I finished the sequence with a flourish, holding the final pose—chin up, chest open, eyes blazing—for a full three seconds before collapsing into a graceful bow.
The studio was silent.
Then, slow applause broke out from the corner.
I turned, breathless, sweat dripping down my neck.
Madame Ivanov, my notoriously impossible instructor, was standing by the mirror. She wasn't smiling—she never smiled—but her eyebrows were raised.
"Better," she said in her thick Russian accent. "Much better, St. James. You finally have... fire. Where did this come from?"
"I don't know," I lied, wiping my face with a towel. "Just... practice."
"No," she corrected, walking toward me. "Practice makes technique. This..." She gestured to the empty space where I had just danced. "This is passion. You are dancing like you have something to lose. Or perhaps... someone to fight for."
My heart skipped a beat. Was it that obvious? Was the scent of Atlas so thoroughly imprinted on my soul that even my pliés screamed his name?
"I'm just focused, Madame," I said.
"Keep focused," she warned. "But be careful. Fire burns. It consumes. Do not let it eat your discipline."
She turned and walked out, her heels clicking on the hardwood.
I stood there, panting, feeling a wild grin spread across my face.
Fire burns, she said.
Good. Let it burn. I was tired of being cold.
I showered quickly in the locker room, changing into jeans and a thick wool sweater. I checked my phone.
Atlas (2:15 PM): Practice ended early. Miller is in a mood. I need food. And you.
Me (2:16 PM): Meet me at The Grind? Back booth?
Atlas (2:17 PM): Too public. Come to the Hive. Everyone is gone. Jax is at a 'study group' (sleeping).
My stomach fluttered. The Hive. His room. His bed.
Me (2:18 PM): On my way.
I knew I shouldn't. We were pushing our luck. Vance’s warning hung over us like a guillotine blade. One more incident.
But the narcotic was strong. I felt untouchable. We had been so careful for two weeks. No photos. No PDA. Just secret smiles and midnight texts. We were experts now. We were spies in a romance novel.
I walked across campus toward the off-campus housing district. The snow was falling lightly, dusting the world in white. I felt like I was floating.
I reached the Hive—the crumbling Victorian mansion that smelled of wet dog and testosterone. I texted Atlas I was outside.
The side door opened instantly.
Atlas pulled me inside before I could even stomp the snow off my boots.
He dragged me into the mudroom, kicking the door shut. He pressed me against the wall, his hands tangling in my wet hair, his mouth finding mine with a desperation that stole my breath.
"Hi," he growled against my lips.
"Hi," I gasped, wrapping my arms around his neck. "You're eager."
"Miller ran us for two hours. Suicide drills. I need a reason to live."
"I'm your reason to live?"
"You're my reason not to quit and become a hermit in Alaska."
He kissed me again, deeper, his tongue sweeping into my mouth. I tasted mint and coffee. I tasted him.
"Upstairs," he murmured. "Before Jax comes back."
"I thought you said he was gone."
"He is. But Jax is like a bad penny. He always turns up."
We ran up the back stairs, giggling like teenagers. It was reckless. It was stupid. It was perfect.
Atlas’s room was exactly as I remembered it—spartan, clean, smelling of cedar. The single bed was neatly made (military corners).
He locked the door.
For the next hour, the world didn't exist. There was no Gala. No contract. No Vance.
There was only skin. Sweat. Friction.
We didn't have sex—his ribs were still too tender for the full gymnastics, and we didn't have much time—but we did everything else. His hands were everywhere, worshipping me, learning me. My hands traced the healing bruise on his side, the scar on his brow, the ink on his arms.
We lay tangled on his narrow bed, my head on his chest, his arm wrapped around me.
"You're good at this," I murmured, tracing a rune on his bicep.
"Good at what?"
"Being a bad influence."
"I try." He kissed the top of my head. "So. Tomorrow. The Gala."
I groaned. "Don't remind me."
"It's the finish line, Aurelia. We get through tomorrow night... we get the contract. We get the freedom."
"I have to wear white," I complained. "Do you know how hard it is to keep white clean for six hours?"
"You'll look beautiful. You always do."
"You have to wear a tux."
"I rented one. It smells like mothballs and sadness."
I laughed. "I'll bring cologne. We'll mask the sadness."
"Hey," he said, shifting so he could look at me. His expression turned serious. "Are you sure about this? About us? After the contract is signed... things get real. The press. Your dad. It's going to be a war."
"I'm sure," I said without hesitation. "I'd rather fight a war with you than live in peace without you."
He smiled—that soft, rare smile that was only for me. "Okay. War it is."
He checked his watch. " shit. 4:00. Jax will be back any minute."
"I should go," I said, reluctantly untangling myself from him.
"Yeah. Go out the back. Take the alley."
"So romantic. Sneaking out down the fire escape."
"It's part of the charm."
I dressed quickly. He helped me with my coat, buttoning it up to my chin. He kissed my forehead.
"Be safe. Text me when you're home."
"Always."
I slipped out the bedroom door, down the back stairs, and out the side door.
I walked down the alley behind the Hive, adjusting my scarf. I felt triumphant. Another successful rendezvous. Another stolen hour.
I turned the corner onto the main street.
And ran straight into Topher.
"Whoa, easy there, killer," Topher laughed, steadying me by the shoulders.
I froze.
Topher was wearing his Sig Ep fraternity jacket and carrying a case of beer. He looked surprised to see me.
"Aurelia? What are you doing back here? This is the hockey house alley."
"I... I was taking a shortcut," I stammered. My heart started to race. "To the library."
"The library is that way," he pointed in the opposite direction. "And you're coming from the back of the Hive."
He looked at the house. Then back at me. Then at my hair, which was probably messy. Then at my lips, which were definitely swollen.
His eyes narrowed.
"Were you with Thorne?"
"No," I said too quickly. "I was... I was looking for Sloane. She said she was here."
"Sloane hates hockey players. She wouldn't be caught dead here."
Topher took a step closer. The playful vibe evaporated. He looked suspicious. And hurt.
"You're sleeping with him, aren't you?"
"Topher, stop. It's none of your business."
"It kind of is," he said, his voice rising. "We were dating."
"We went on three dates, Topher. And I broke up with you in October."
"Because you were 'focusing on ballet.' Turns out you were just focusing on the help."
"Don't call him that," I snapped.
"Oh my god. You are. You're banging the scholarship kid." He laughed, a cruel, bitter sound. "Does your dad know? Does Arthur St. James know his princess is slumming it with the trailer trash?"
"Shut up, Topher."
"Or what? You'll have your boyfriend beat me up again? Oh wait... he can't. Because if he touches me, he loses his contract. Right?"
I went cold. Topher knew about the contract. Everyone knew about the contract. It was the worst-kept secret on campus.
"Get out of my way," I said, trying to push past him.
He blocked me. "Does he know you're just using him to piss off your dad? Or does he actually think he has a shot with you?"
"I'm not using him," I hissed. "And if you say one word about this... I swear to God, Topher..."
"What? You'll ruin me? Please. Your dad likes me. My dad is a Senator. We're on the same team, Aurelia. Thorne is the outsider."
He leaned in close. He smelled of cheap beer and entitlement.
"Be careful, Ri. You play in the mud, you get dirty. And daddy doesn't like dirty things."
He stepped back, smirking. "See you at the Gala. Save a dance for me."
He walked away, whistling.
I stood in the alley, shaking.
The invincibility was gone. The narcotic had worn off.
I felt exposed. Naked.
Topher knew. And Topher was petty. He was exactly the kind of person who would drop a hint to my father just to watch the world burn.
I pulled out my phone. My thumb hovered over Atlas’s name.
Topher saw me. He knows.
I started to type it.
Then I stopped.
If I told Atlas, he would freak out. He would go find Topher. He would do something stupid—like punch him. And if he punched the son of a Senator the day before signing his NHL contract... it was over.
Miller’s voice echoed in my head. Feelings make you distracted.
I deleted the text.
I couldn't tell him. I had to handle this myself. I had to contain Topher at the Gala. I had to charm him, distract him, ensure he kept his mouth shut.
I was a St. James. Manipulation was my birthright.
I put the phone away and walked home, the sense of doom settling onto my shoulders like a heavy coat.
We were invincible, I told myself.
But even Superman had kryptonite. And mine was named Topher.
Atlas
Saturday. The Gala.