Chapter 3
Zoe
I was trying to memorize the origin and insertion points of the sternocleidomastoid muscle, but all I could think about was the man living on the other side of my drywall.
It had been twenty-four hours since the incident in the driveway. Twenty-four hours since Rory Thorne caught me mid-fall, his hand searing a brand of heat through my winter coat, his eyes dark and terrified and furious all at once.
Twenty-four hours since I had knocked back.
I stared at the anatomy textbook open on my lap, the diagrams of muscle fibers blurring into gray smudges. The duplex was silent. Not the peaceful silence of the library, but a heavy, pregnant silence. The kind of silence that holds its breath.
I knew he was there.
I could feel him. It sounded insane—I was a science major, a creature of logic and physics—but I swear I could feel the hum of his existence radiating through the shared wall. It was a low-frequency vibration, like living next to a high-voltage generator.
Thump.
A sound from his side. A heavy footfall.
My heart stuttered. I looked at the wall, biting the inside of my cheek until I tasted copper. Was he pacing? Was he sleeping? Was he thinking about me?
Stop it, Zoe. You are the Dean’s daughter. You are an Olympic hopeful. You are not a groupie obsessing over the resident beast.
I forced my eyes back to the book. Sternocleidomastoid. Origin: Manubrium of the sternum and the clavicle...
"Okay, that’s it. I’m calling it. Time of death: Your social life."
I jumped, the heavy textbook sliding off my lap and hitting the floor with a dull thud.
Mia stood in the doorway of my bedroom, holding a garment bag in one hand and a bottle of cheap prosecco in the other. She looked like a Valkyrie prepared for war, dressed in leather pants and a mesh top that left very little to the imagination.
"Mia," I breathed, pressing a hand to my racing heart. "How did you get in?"
"You gave me a key, remember? In case you slipped in the shower and needed someone to delete your browser history." She kicked the door shut behind her and marched into the room, tossing the garment bag onto my bed. "Get up. Strip. We’re going out."
I picked up my book, hugging it to my chest like a shield. "I can't. I have studying. And practice at six a.m. And—"
"And you have been sitting in this house for two days staring at a wall like a tragic heroine in a Victorian novel," Mia interrupted, uncorking the prosecco with a practiced pop.
She took a swig straight from the bottle.
"It’s Friday night. The Timber Wolves are throwing a rager at the main Hive house. Everyone is going."
"The Hive?" My stomach did a traitorous flip. "Rory lives at the Hive."
"Rory lives here," Mia corrected, pointing a black-nailed finger at the wall. "Which means the main house will be devoid of his brooding presence. It’ll just be the fun ones. Jax. The twins. You know, guys who don't look like they want to murder you for breathing their air."
"I don't do parties, Mia. You know that. My dad—"
"Your dad isn't here," Mia said softly, her voice losing its edge. She sat on the edge of the bed, her expression serious. "Zoe, look at you. You’re wound so tight I’m afraid you’re going to snap.
You execute perfect jumps, you get perfect grades, you eat perfect meals.
When was the last time you just… existed? Without performing?"
The question hung in the air, heavy and suffocating.
Never, I thought. I have never just existed.
I looked at the wall again.
Rory Thorne had looked at me with open hostility, yes. But he had also looked at me with hunger. He hadn't looked at the Gold Medalist. He hadn't looked at the Dean's daughter. He had looked at me.
And I wanted to know if he would look at me again.
"He might be there," I whispered, admitting the secret motivation I barely dared to acknowledge to myself.
Mia grinned, a wicked, predatory expression. "Honey, if he’s there, we’ll make sure he regrets ignoring you." She unzipped the garment bag. "Now. Put this on. It’s time to melt the Ice Princess."
The main Hive house was a monstrosity of log and stone, hidden deep in the woods about a mile from the duplexes. Even from the driveway, I could feel the bass. It thumped against my sternum, a rhythmic, artificial heartbeat.
The air smelled of woodsmoke, pine, and the sharp tang of cheap beer.
"Ready?" Mia linked her arm through mine, her grip tight.
I took a deep breath. The cold air rushed into my lungs, stinging and sharp. I was wearing a coat, thank god, but underneath it, I felt naked. Mia had put me in a slip dress. It was silk, the color of crushed berries, and it skimmed my body like water. It was backless. It was dangerous.
"Ready," I lied.
We walked up the massive stone steps. The front door was open, spilling golden light and noise into the night.
Stepping inside was like walking into a different world.
The heat hit me first. It was a physical wall of humidity—sweat, breath, and body heat trapped in the massive living room. Then the smell. It wasn't just beer. It was something earthier. Musk. Leather. A deep, woodsy scent that seemed to radiate from the skin of the people crowded into the room.
It smelled like him.
"Drinks," Mia shouted over the music, dragging me toward the kitchen.
I kept my head down, trying to make myself small. I knew people were looking. I could feel the eyes. The whispers.
“Is that Zoe Carmichael?”
“The Dean’s kid?”
“What is she doing here?”
I kept my gaze fixed on the floor, navigating the sea of bodies.
The hockey players—the Wolves—were easy to spot.
They were massive. They took up space differently than the other students.
They didn't just stand; they loomed. They moved with a fluid, lethal grace that made the human frat boys look clumsy.
We reached the kitchen. It was less crowded, the granite island covered in red solo cups and bottles of liquor.
"Tequila," Mia announced, pouring two shots. "No arguments."
I took the cup, the smell of cheap alcohol making my nose wrinkle. "Mia, I have practice—"
"One shot, Z. For courage."
I looked at her. She was beaming, her eyes bright. She was alive. I wanted to be alive.
I tipped my head back and downed the shot. The burn was immediate and welcome. It clawed its way down my throat, settling in my stomach like a hot coal.
"Good girl," Mia cheered.
The words triggered a sensory memory so sharp I almost dropped the cup.
Good girl.
Rory hadn't said those words to me. Not yet. But in the quiet of my room, in the darkest part of my imagination, that was the voice I heard.
"I need air," I choked out, handing Mia my empty cup.
"We just got here!"
"Just… I’ll be right back. I’m going to find the bathroom."
I turned and pushed my way out of the kitchen, needing to escape the heat. I didn't head for the bathroom. I just moved away from the noise, drifting toward the back of the house where a sliding glass door led to a deck.
The crowd thinned out near the back hallway. I took a breath, smoothing the silk of my dress over my hips.
"You look lost, little girl."
The voice didn't come from behind me. It came from the shadows of the hallway stairs.
I froze.
I didn't need to turn around to know who it was. The air pressure in the hallway had dropped. The fine hairs on my arms stood up, sensing the electricity before my brain registered the threat.
Slowly, I turned.
Rory Thorne was sitting on the bottom step of the massive wooden staircase.
He was holding a bottle of water, his elbows resting on his knees, his legs spread wide in a posture of arrogant, lazy dominance. He wasn't wearing a jersey. He was wearing a black t-shirt that strained across his chest, the cotton worn thin enough to hint at the ink that covered his skin.
He looked… feral.
His hair was messy, as if he’d been running his hands through it. His jaw was covered in dark stubble. But it was his eyes that pinned me to the floor. They were dark, hooded, and burning with a cold, terrifying fire.
"Rory," I whispered.
He stood up. The movement was smooth, silent, and predatory. He unfolded his massive frame, rising until he towered over me, filling the hallway.
"What are you doing here, Zoe?"
His voice was a low rumble, barely audible over the thumping bass from the living room, but I heard every syllable. It vibrated in the floorboards.
"I… I was invited," I said, lifting my chin. My "Ice Princess" armor slammed into place. Don't let him see you sweat.
"Not by me," he said, taking a step closer.
"It’s a team party. You don't own the house."
"I own the team," he murmured. He took another step. He was too close now. I could smell him—that intoxicating mix of cedar, rain, and raw power. It drowned out the cheap beer and the sweat of the party. It made my head spin.
"You shouldn't be here," he said, his voice dropping an octave. "This isn't your world. You belong in the glass castle with your trophies and your ribbons. You don't belong in the wolf’s den."
"Stop telling me where I belong," I snapped, surprised by my own anger. The tequila was working. "Maybe I’m tired of the glass castle. Maybe I want to break something."
Rory’s eyes flared. A flash of gold—bright, molten gold—flickered in his irises before vanishing.
He leaned down, his face inches from mine. "Be careful what you wish for, Princess. Some things, once broken, can't be put back together."
"Is that a threat?"
"It’s a warning." He reached out, his hand hovering near my waist, but he didn't touch me. The heat radiating from his palm soaked through the thin silk of my dress, scorching my skin. "Go home. Before the wolves smell you."
"I’m not afraid of you," I lied.
"You are," he whispered, leaning in until his lips brushed the shell of my ear. "I can hear your heart, Zoe. It’s beating like a hummingbird trapped in a cage. You’re terrified."
He pulled back, his dark eyes searching mine. "And you should be."
"Hey! Thorne!"