Chapter 1 #2
“Try me, Princess.”
The way he’d said it—low, gravelly, vibrating in his chest—had sent a shiver down my spine that had nothing to do with the cold. It was terrified me. And, God help me, it had annoyed me.
"Okay," I whispered, wiping the tear away with a numb hand. "Figure it out, Ivy. Improvisation. Think like a dancer."
I couldn't go back to the front door. He wouldn't open it. He’d probably let me freeze just to prove a point.
I dragged my suitcase off the porch, the wheels crunching in the snow. I trudged around the side of the house. The snow was deeper here, reaching my calves, soaking through my jeans. I bit my lip to keep from crying out.
I saw a light.
It was faint, coming from a window on the ground floor toward the back. The kitchen, maybe?
I abandoned my suitcase. I couldn't lift it anyway. I’d come back for the Louis Vuitton later. Right now, survival was the priority.
I pushed through a bush, scratching my cheek on a branch, and reached the window. It was high up. I stood on my tiptoes, peering in.
It was a kitchen. A messy, bachelor-pad kitchen with granite countertops and a mountain of protein powder tubs on top of the fridge. But it was warm. I could see the heat shimmering off the radiator.
I tried the sash. Locked.
Of course.
I looked around. A brick? A rock? I couldn't feel my hands well enough to grip anything.
Then I saw it. The latch wasn't fully engaged. It was an old house; the wood had warped. There was a tiny gap.
I pulled a credit card from my pocket—my cancelled AmEx Black Card. Useless for buying a hotel room, but maybe, just maybe, useful for breaking and entering.
I jammed the card into the crack, wiggling it upward. My fingers were clumsy, frozen claws. "Come on," I hissed, "Come on, you piece of junk."
I pushed up. The latch clicked.
Relief flooded me, so intense I almost collapsed. I shoved the window up. It groaned, sticky with paint, but it opened wide enough.
I didn't hesitate. I hoisted myself up, stomach scraping against the sill, and tumbled headfirst into the sink.
I landed with a crash among dirty shaker bottles and a drying rack, knocking a metal pan to the floor with a clang that sounded like a gong.
I scrambled off the counter, hitting the linoleum floor.
The warmth hit me instantly. It smelled like stale beer, bleach, and something savory—meat? It was heaven.
I stayed on the floor for a second, just breathing, hugging my knees to my chest. I was safe. I was inside.
My stomach growled. A loud, angry protest. I hadn't eaten since breakfast. An apple and a black coffee.
I looked up at the counter. A container of meal prep was sitting there. Chicken, rice, broccoli. It looked dry and bland, but right now, it looked like a Michelin-star meal.
I stood up, my legs shaky. I grabbed the container. I didn't care whose it was. I pulled a fork from the drying rack and took a bite of the cold chicken.
It was dry. It needed salt. It was the best thing I’d ever tasted.
"Make yourself at home," a voice rumbled from the darkness of the doorway.
I froze, the fork halfway to my mouth.
The shadows in the hallway shifted, and the giant emerged.
He hadn't put a shirt on.
If he looked big at the door, he looked monstrous now.
The kitchen lights were off, illuminated only by the streetlamp outside and the open fridge door, casting long shadows across his torso.
His abs were defined ridges of muscle, his pecs broad and hard.
The blackout tattoo on his left arm seemed to swallow the light.
He was wearing gray sweatpants that hung low on his hips, the strings untied.
He wasn't looking at my face. He was looking at my muddy boots on his clean floor. Then his eyes tracked up to the puddle of melting snow forming around me. Then to the chicken in my hand.
Slowly, his eyes met mine.
He didn't yell. He didn't scream. He just stared, and the silence that radiated off him was more terrifying than any shout.
"I..." I swallowed the dry chicken, choking a little. "I knocked."
"You broke in," he said. His voice was flat. Deadpan.
"Technically," I said, my voice trembling, my bratty defense mechanism kicking in despite the fear, "the window was unlocked. So it’s more like... unauthorized entry."
He took a step toward me.
I took a step back, bumping into the counter. "Look, I just need a place to crash. My cousin is Ty. Ty Miller? He played here two years ago? He said there’s a spare room. He said the guys would be cool."
"Ty isn't captain anymore," the giant said, taking another step. "I am."
He was in my personal space now. He smelled like cedarwood soap and aggressive masculinity. I had to crane my neck back just to see his face. He was staring down at me with a look of pure disdain.
"And I don't run a homeless shelter for spoiled little girls in five-thousand-dollar coats."
He reached out.
I flinched, closing my eyes, expecting... I don't know. A shove?
Instead, large, calloused hands clamped around my waist.
His grip was iron. Unyielding. He lifted me effortlessly, like I was a doll. My feet left the floor.
"Hey!" I kicked my legs, my muddy boots brushing his sweatpants. "Put me down! You can't just manhandle me!"
"Watch me," he growled.
He turned toward the back door, carrying me like a sack of flour.
"No! Please!" The panic spiked, real and sharp. "Please, don't throw me out there. I really have nowhere to go."
My voice broke on the last word.
He stopped.
His hands were burning hot through my coat. I could feel the individual fingers digging into my sides. He held me suspended in the air, my face level with his chest. I could see the rapid thud of his pulse in the hollow of his throat.
He looked down at me. For the first time, I saw something other than annoyance in those steel-gray eyes.
He was looking at my mouth.
The air in the kitchen changed. It wasn't just cold anymore. It was charged. Thick. Static electricity danced across my skin.
He held me there for five seconds. Ten. His thumbs brushed the underside of my ribs, almost unconsciously. He was checking my weight. Feeling how fragile I was compared to him.
"You're shaking," he noted. It wasn't a question.
"I'm freezing," I whispered. "Please."
His jaw ticked. A muscle feathered in his cheek. He looked at the back door, then back at me. He looked like he wanted to throw me through a wall. He looked like he wanted to devour me. I couldn't tell which impulse was stronger.
"One night," he rasped, the sound vibrating through my chest.
He didn't put me down. He walked back into the kitchen, carrying me toward the hallway, effortlessly adjusting his grip so I was pressed tighter against his bare chest. My cheek brushed his skin. He was scorching hot.
"One night," he repeated, darker this time. "And if you touch my food again, I'll tie you to the goal post during practice."
"Is that a threat?" I breathed, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs.
He stopped at the bottom of the stairs and looked me in the eye. His pupils were blown wide, swallowing the gray.
"It's a promise, Princess."
Ben
I dropped her in the spare room.
I didn't offer to carry her bag (which was apparently still outside in the snow). I didn't offer her a towel. I pointed to the dusty mattress in the corner of the office-turned-storage-closet and said, "Stay."
Like she was a dog.
Then I walked out and slammed the door.
I marched back up the stairs to my attic, my blood roaring in my ears. The silence was gone. The peace was shattered.
I paced the length of my room. My skin felt too tight. My hands were shaking. Not from cold, not from adrenaline, but from... something else.
I looked down at my hands. I could still feel the ghost of her weight. She was nothing. Bird bones and soft curves wrapped in expensive fur. When I had grabbed her waist, my fingers had nearly met on the other side.
I should have thrown her out. It was a liability. She was a distraction. She was trouble wrapped in pink and blonde.
But when she had looked at me with those wide, terrified eyes, begging... something in my chest had twisted. A dark, primal instinct that I spent every waking hour suppressing had surged to the surface.
Protector.
Provider.
Predator.
I went into my bathroom and turned on the cold water. I splashed it on my face, gasping as the icy shock hit my skin. I looked at myself in the mirror. My eyes were wild.
"Get a grip, Sterling," I hissed at my reflection.
She was just a girl. An annoying, entitled, trespassing brat who would be gone in the morning.
But as I lay down in my bed, staring up at the black ceiling, the silence didn't feel peaceful anymore. It felt empty.
And down two flights of stairs, I could feel her presence in my house like a splinter under my skin. A foreign object. A fever.
I closed my eyes, but all I could see was the way her lips had parted when I threatened to tie her up. She hadn't looked scared then.
She had looked interested.
I groaned, dragging a hand down my face.
This was going to be a long fucking night.