Chapter 7
Zoe
I stared at the phone screen until the pixels started to blur.
My knee bounced under the library table, a frantic, staccato rhythm that was shaking the entire surface.
"If you vibrate that table one more time, I’m going to tranquilize you," Mia whispered without looking up from her biochemistry notes.
"He hasn't texted," I murmured, ignoring her threat. "Do you think he failed? If he failed, he’s off the team. If he’s off the team, my dad wins. If my dad wins, Rory spirals. If Rory spirals—"
"Zoe." Mia slammed her highlighter down. "Breathe. You spent four nights teaching that man the laws of motion. You practically rewired his brain. He didn't fail."
"He freezes on tests," I argued, picking at a loose thread on my sweater. "He knows the material, but he sees the paper and he panics. It’s performance anxiety."
"Funny," Mia smirked, turning a page. "I heard a rumor he doesn't have performance anxiety in other areas."
My face went instantly, volcanically hot.
I kicked her under the table. "Shut up."
"Ow! Violence. I like it. You're spending too much time with the wolves, Z. You're getting feral."
My phone buzzed against the wood.
I snatched it up so fast I almost knocked over my water bottle.
Rory [11:45 AM]: Image Attachment.
My heart hammered against my ribs. I tapped the image. It was a photo of a quiz paper, crumpled at the edges as if gripped by a large, nervous hand. At the top, in red ink, was a circle.
78/100. C+.
Below the image, a second text popped up.
Rory: Passing. I believe you owe me dinner, Princess.
I let out a breath I hadn't realized I was holding, slumping back in my chair. A laugh bubbled up in my throat, bright and giddy. He passed. He actually passed.
I typed back, my fingers flying.
Me: A C+? Professor Vance is generous. I’m surprised you didn't eat the paper.
Rory: Thought about it. Tasted like dry wood pulp. Pick you up at 7. Wear jeans. We’re going off-campus.
Me: Is that a command?
Rory: It’s a tactical advisory. You look good in jeans. And I want you to myself.
I stared at the screen, biting my lip to suppress a smile that felt too big for my face.
"He passed?" Mia asked, watching me with amusement.
"He passed," I confirmed.
"And?"
"And we have a date."
Mia sighed, a dramatic, long-suffering sound. "Well. RIP to the Dean’s blood pressure. Go get ready. If you're going out with a Thorne, you need to look like you can handle a little trouble."
At 7:00 PM on the dot, the rumble of a diesel engine vibrated the floorboards of the duplex.
I took one last look in the hallway mirror.
I had followed instructions—mostly. I was wearing dark wash jeans that hugged my skater thighs (which Rory had spent the last week obsessing over during our "training" sessions) and a black turtleneck tucked in to show off my waist. Over it, I wore a leather jacket I had stolen from Mia’s closet.
I didn't look like the Ice Princess. I looked... capable. I looked like a girl who could sit in the passenger seat of a truck and not break.
I grabbed my phone and ran out the door before he could knock.
Rory was leaning against the side of his black truck, arms crossed, waiting.
The sight of him knocked the wind out of me. Every single time.
He was wearing a dark flannel shirt, the sleeves rolled up despite the freezing temperature, exposing his forearms. He had shaved the heavy stubble, revealing the sharp, brutal line of his jaw. His hair was messy in that deliberate way that made my fingers itch to tangle in it.
He pushed off the truck as I approached, his golden eyes raking over me from boots to hair. The hunger in his gaze was palpable—a physical weight that settled on my skin.
"Hi," I breathed, stopping a foot away from him.
"Hi." His voice was low, a rumble that I felt in my toes. He didn't move to open the door immediately. He just looked at me. "You stole the jacket."
"Mia's," I admitted. "Does it work?"
He took a step closer, invading my space. He reached out, his thumb hooking under the lapel of the jacket, tugging me gently toward him.
"It works," he murmured. "But I like my hoodie better. It smells like me."
"It’s in the wash," I lied. It wasn't. It was under my pillow.
"Liar." He grinned—a rare, genuine flash of white teeth that transformed his face from menacing to devastatingly handsome. He leaned down and pressed a quick, hard kiss to my forehead.
It was a casual, possessive gesture. The kind of thing couples did.
"Get in," he said, opening the passenger door. "I’m starving. And when I starve, I get grumpy."
"You're always grumpy, Rory."
"True. But I’m less likely to bite the waiter if I have a burger in me."
I climbed into the massive truck. The cab was warm, the heat blasting. It smelled of him—cedar, old leather, and that unnamable spice that was pure Alpha male.
He climbed in the driver’s side, the truck shifting under his weight. He put it in gear, his large hand resting casually on the stick shift.
"Where are we going?" I asked as we crunched down the snowy driveway.
"Mick's," he said. "It’s a dive about twenty miles out. No students. No faculty. No one who gives a damn who your father is."
"And the food?"
"Greasy. Unhealthy. Perfect."
He reached across the center console. He didn't look at me, keeping his eyes on the dark road, but his hand found mine unerringly. He laced our fingers together, his grip firm and warm. He rested our joined hands on his thigh.
I looked at our hands. His was scarred, calloused, and twice the size of mine. Mine looked pale and delicate against his skin.
"Rory?"
"Yeah?"
"I’m really proud of you," I whispered. "For the quiz."
His thumb stroked the back of my hand. "It was just a C plus, Zoe."
"It was a pass. It means you stay on the ice."
He glanced at me then, his eyes reflecting the dashboard lights. "It means I stay with you. That was the motivation."
My heart did a complicated gymnastic routine in my chest.
"Just me?" I teased, trying to keep it light. "Not the NHL scouts?"
He squeezed my hand. "Scouts come and go. You... you're stubborn. You stick."
We drove in silence for a while, but it wasn't the heavy silence of our first car ride. It was a comfortable silence. The radio played quietly—classic rock, something with a heavy bass line. I watched the snowy trees whip by, feeling safer than I had ever felt in my life.
We were in a bubble. Inside this truck, the Dean didn't exist. The rumors didn't exist. The fear of his "Feral" blood didn't exist.
It was just Rory and Zoe. And for tonight, that was enough.
Mick's Diner was exactly as advertised. It was a chrome-and-neon relic stuck to the side of the highway, surrounded by pickup trucks covered in snow.
Inside, it smelled of frying oil, coffee, and ketchup. The booths were red vinyl, patched with duct tape. The waitress, a woman named Barb with hair the color of a traffic cone, took one look at Rory and pointed to a booth in the back corner.
"The usual, hun?" she asked, slapping menus down.
"Yeah," Rory said. "Three doubles. Basket of onion rings. And a milkshake." He looked at me. "What do you want?"
"I... wait, three doubles? For who?"
"For me," Rory said seriously. "Metabolism runs hot. Wolf thing. You get used to it."
I blinked. "Okay. I’ll have... a cheeseburger. And fries. And a vanilla shake."
Barb scribbled it down and waddled away.
I looked at Rory. He was watching me, his arms resting on the table, taking up most of the space.
"You're staring," I said, picking up my water glass.
"I like looking at you," he said simply. "Usually, I have to be sneaky about it. Watching you across the quad. Watching you stretch in the gym mirrors."
"You watch me stretch?"
"Zoe, every man in that gym watches you stretch. I’m just the only one who threatens to break their legs if they don't look away."
I choked on my water. "Rory!"
"What? It’s true. You have no idea, do you?" He shook his head, looking almost angry. "You walk around with your head down, trying to be invisible. But you shine, Zoe. You're the brightest thing in any room."
"I’m just trying not to mess up," I admitted, tracing the condensation on my glass. "My whole life has been... curated. Don't eat that. Don't say that. Don't fall. If I shine, it’s because my dad polished me until I was reflective."
Rory reached across the table, covering my fidgeting hand with his.
"Tonight," he said intensely, "you aren't polished. You're real. You're messy. You're stealing a leather jacket and eating a greasy burger with a monster."
"You aren't a monster," I said automatically.
"To everyone else in this room, I am," he murmured, nodding his head slightly toward the counter.
I glanced over. Two men in camo jackets were sitting at the bar, nursing beers. They were watching us. They weren't looking at me. They were looking at Rory with a mix of wariness and hostility.
"Townies," Rory said quietly. "They know the pack. They don't like us. They think we're dangerous."
"Are you?"
"Only if provoked."
Our food arrived, a mountain of grease and calories.
I watched in fascination as Rory demolished his first burger in about four bites. It was primal. He ate with an efficiency and a hunger that was distinctly inhuman. It should have been gross. Instead, it was oddly erotic.
"Stop looking at me like I’m a zoo exhibit," he mumbled around a mouthful of onion ring.
"I’m just impressed," I dipped a fry in my shake. "My dad eats with a knife and fork. Even pizza."
Rory grimaced. "Psychopath behavior."
I laughed. It felt good to laugh.
We talked. We didn't talk about school. We talked about hockey—the violence of it, the beauty of it. We talked about skating—the feeling of flight, the terrifying precision.
"Why figure skating?" Rory asked, stealing one of my fries. "Why not speed skating? Or hockey? You have the aggression for it. I’ve seen you attack a squat rack."
"I like the edge," I said thoughtfully. "You know that feeling when you're on the outside edge of the blade, leaning so far over that physics says you should fall, but momentum keeps you up?"