Chapter 1 #2
I didn't run. Running was frantic. I surged. A burst of kinetic energy that propelled me through the gap in the crowd. I shoved a donor in a tuxedo out of the way—he spilled his red wine, but I didn't care—and cleared the velvet rope just as Imogen Sterling tipped backward.
She fell with a shriek, a flash of silver and pale skin plummeting toward the marble floor.
She would have cracked her skull open. A concussion, minimum. Maybe a spinal injury.
But I was the wall. And nothing got past the wall.
I braced my legs, absorbing the impact as she crashed into my arms. She was heavier than she looked—dense with muscle and dead weight—but I caught her easily. Her momentum slammed against my chest, knocking the wind out of her, but I didn't stumble.
I had her. One arm hooked under her knees, the other wrapped like a vice around her back.
For a second, the ballroom was dead silent.
I looked down. Imogen was blinking up at me, her chest heaving, her hazel eyes wide and unfocused. She smelled like expensive peonies and cheap decisions. Her skin was flushed, hot against the cold wool of my suit. A stray lock of platinum blonde hair was stuck to her lip gloss.
She was a mess. A beautiful, chaotic, infuriating mess.
"Hi," she breathed, her voice slurring slightly.
My grip tightened on her, my fingers digging into the bare skin of her waist through the gap in her dress. "You're done."
"Put me down," she demanded, pushing weakly at my chest. She tried to scramble out of my arms, her knee knocking into my groin.
I growled, a low sound that rumbled in my chest. I didn't have patience for this.
I didn't have patience for her. The Dean—her father—was pushing through the crowd, his face purple with rage. If he got to her, he’d scream at her in front of everyone.
It would be a scene. It would ruin the night. It would distract the scouts.
I made a command decision.
I didn't put her down. instead, I shifted my grip, hauling her up and flipping her over my shoulder like a sack of equipment.
"Hey!" She yelped, slapping my lower back. "Put me down, you neanderthal! Do you know who I am?"
"Unfortunately," I muttered.
I turned and marched toward the exit. The crowd parted for me like the Red Sea. I saw Leo staring at me, his mouth open. I gave him a sharp nod—I’ve got this—and he stayed put, intercepting his father to buy us time.
"Max! Put me down! I’m going to vomit!"
"You vomit on this suit, Imogen, and I will make you pay for the dry cleaning with your soul," I said calmly.
I pushed through the double doors of the ballroom, ignoring the horrified gasps of the elderly alumni. I marched through the lobby, past the concierge who pretended to be very interested in his computer screen, and shoved open the main doors.
The cold was violent. The snow was falling harder now, coating the world in silence.
I walked ten paces into the courtyard, away from the valet stand, toward a pristine, untouched snowbank.
"Where are we going?" Imogen demanded, her voice muffled against my back. She was kicking her legs now, her bare feet hitting my chest. "I’m cold! My shoes!"
"You should have thought about that before you climbed an ice sculpture," I said.
I stopped. I gripped her waist. And I dumped her.
I didn't throw her. I just... released her.
Imogen landed butt-first in the snowbank with a soft poof.
She shrieked, the sound sharp enough to crack glass. "You asshole!"
She scrambled to sit up, brushing snow off her arms, her silver dress stark against the white powder. She looked ridiculous. Her hair was a bird's nest, her mascara was smudged, and she was shivering violently.
But she looked... real. For the first time all night, the plastic smile was gone. Her eyes were blazing with genuine, unadulterated fury.
"You dropped me!" she screamed, grabbing a handful of snow and throwing it at me. It hit my shin harmlessly. "I’m the Dean’s daughter!"
I stood over her, hands in my pockets, unbothered by the cold. I blocked the light from the hotel, casting her in my shadow.
"I know who you are, Imogen," I said, my voice low and even, cutting through her hysterics. "You're a brat who thinks negative attention is better than no attention."
She froze. Her mouth opened, then snapped shut. She bit her lower lip—a nervous tic.
"I hate you," she whispered, her teeth chattering.
"Good." I took a step closer, looming over her. The proximity did something to the air between us. It thickened. Charged. I could see the rapid pulse in her neck. I could smell the sweetness of her perfume mixing with the crisp scent of snow.
My gaze dropped to her lips, then back to her eyes.
"Hate me all you want," I said softly. "But you're done performing for the night. Get up."
"Or what?" she challenged, tilting her chin up. Defiant to the end. "You'll spank me?"
The words hung in the freezing air, heavy and unintentional.
My eyes narrowed. A dark, twisted heat coiled in my gut. I shouldn't answer that. I should walk away. I should call her a cab and go back inside to charm the scout from Montreal.
But I didn't.
I leaned down, bracing my hands on my knees so we were face to face. My voice dropped to a gravelly whisper that I knew, I knew, she would feel in her bones.
"Don't tempt me, Princess. I don't play games unless I intend to win."
She swallowed hard. Her pupils dilated, swallowing the hazel. For a second, just a second, the brat was gone, replaced by something terrified and fascinated.
"Get inside," I commanded, straightening up. "Before you freeze to death and I have to explain to your father why his tuition investment turned into a popsicle."
I turned on my heel and walked back toward the hotel, the crunch of my boots loud in the silence.
I didn't look back. I didn't need to.
I could feel her eyes on me, burning hotter than the whiskey in my flask.
I clenched my fists in my pockets.
The scout. Focus on the scout. Focus on the draft.
But as I reached for the door handle, all I could think about was the weight of her in my arms, and the terrified, thrilling look in her eyes when I told her no.
This was going to be a long season.