Chapter 1 #2
Ezra draped the towel over his shoulder. His biceps flexed with the movement, thick veins traversing the skin of his forearms like a roadmap of violence.
“Amara Vane,” he said.
His voice was a low rumble, a baritone that I felt in the soles of my feet. It wasn't a question. It was a statement of fact, delivered with the dry disinterest of a judge reading a sentencing.
“What are you doing in my house?”
Ezra
I liked silence.
Silence was predictable. Silence didn't lie. Silence didn't ask you for money, or affection, or validation. Silence just was.
My apartment was designed for it. Soundproofed walls. Triple-paned glass. I kept the temperature at exactly sixty-two degrees. Cold sharpened the mind. Heat made people sloppy, emotional. I lived my life on the ice, and I lived my life off it the same way: controlled, precise, brutal.
I had just finished a workout—an hour on the bike, forty minutes of core—and I was looking forward to a night of absolute nothingness. The team was away. The campus was buried in snow. The world was shut out.
Then I heard the elevator.
The distinct whoosh of the hydraulic doors. The sharp clack-clack-clack of heels on my slate floor.
I didn't panic. Panic was a waste of energy. I grabbed a towel, wiped the sweat from my neck, and walked out to see which member of the building staff had a death wish.
But it wasn’t staff.
Standing in the center of my living room, looking like a snow angel that had fallen from grace and landed in a pile of designer labels, was Amara Vane.
She was ridiculous. She was wearing a white coat that probably cost more than the average tuition, boots that looked impossible to walk in, and she was shivering so hard she looked like she was vibrating.
Her platinum hair was damp with melted snow, sticking to her cheeks.
Her eyes—wide, brown, and perpetually defiant—were staring at me with a mixture of horror and recognition.
Amara Vane. The brat. The princess of campus. Leo Vane’s little sister.
I hated her.
I hated everything she represented. The noise.
The excess. The way she walked through campus like she owned the pavement beneath her feet.
I’d seen her at games, screaming in the stands, wearing jerseys that were cut too short, flirting with my teammates just to annoy her brother. She was a distraction. A liability.
And right now, she was trespassing.
“What are you doing in my house?” I asked.
I kept my voice level, but I let the weight of it settle on her. I watched her throat bob as she swallowed.
“I…” She took a step back, clutching her coat tighter. “I thought this was Leo’s.”
“Leo lives in 4B,” I said. “This is the Penthouse.”
“He said he was on the top floor,” she snapped, the defensiveness kicking in instantly. That was her reflex. Corner a cat, it hisses. Corner Amara Vane, she lies.
“He lied,” I said simply. “Or you didn't listen. Which seems more likely.”
Her jaw tightened. A flash of pink rose high on her cheekbones. She was beautiful, in an annoying, high-maintenance way. Her skin was flawless, her mouth a perfect, pouty bow that looked like it was designed for talking back.
“Well, clearly there’s been a mistake,” she said, lifting her chin. She grabbed the handle of her bag, struggling to lift it. “I’ll just go. Don’t worry, Sterling, I’m not interested in stealing your… whatever this is. Your serial killer furniture.”
She turned toward the elevator and pressed the button.
Nothing happened.
She pressed it again. Harder.
“Come on,” she muttered, jabbing it with a manicured thumb.
“The elevators lock down during a blizzard alert,” I said. I didn't move. I just watched her unravel. It was fascinating, like watching a car crash in slow motion. “Building policy. Power conservation. They won't run again until the grid stabilizes.”
She froze. Her shoulders went rigid under the white fur.
Slowly, she turned back to face me. The panic was real now. I could smell it on her—a sharp, metallic scent cutting through the vanilla perfume she wore.
“What do you mean?” she asked, her voice slightly higher than before. “I need to leave.”
“You can take the stairs,” I said, nodding toward the emergency exit behind the kitchen. “It’s forty flights. In heels. Assuming the stairwell isn’t locked from the outside for security.”
She looked at the stairs. She looked at her boots. She looked back at me.
“I can’t stay here,” she said.
“I agree.” I crossed my arms over my chest. The movement drew her eyes down to my torso. Her gaze lingered for a split second on the V-cut of my hips before snapping back up to my face.
Interesting.
The Princess wasn't as innocent as she pretended to be.
“So fix it,” she demanded, stomping her foot. Actually stomping. “Call someone. Make it work. You own the building, don’t you? Or your daddy does.”
I felt a muscle in my jaw feather. That was the wrong thing to say.
I took three steps toward her. It was enough to close the distance. She gasped, backing up until her calves hit the leather sofa. She stumbled, falling back onto the cushions in a heap of white fur and flailing limbs.
I didn't stop until I was standing over her, looming. I blocked out the light. I blocked out the room. I wanted her to feel exactly how small she was.
“Careful, Amara,” I said softly. “You’re not in the student union. You’re in my territory. And unlike the boys you toy with on the team, I don’t find your bratty attitude charming. I find it exhausting.”
She stared up at me, her chest heaving. Her lips were parted, breath coming in shallow hitches. Fear. And something else. Heat.
I saw her pupils dilate. I saw the way her hands gripped the leather beneath her, knuckles white. She was terrified of me, and she was turned on by it.
The realization hit me like a puck to the chest.
Leo Vane’s sister wanted me to hurt her. Or at least, she wanted me to control her.
“I’m not… I’m not toying with you,” she whispered. Her bravado was crumbling, brick by brick.
“Why are you really here?” I asked. I leaned down, bracing my hands on the back of the sofa, caging her in. My face was inches from hers. I could feel the heat radiating off her skin. “Leo is in North Dakota. You know that. Why did you come here with a suitcase the size of a body bag?”
She looked away, biting her lip. “I just needed a place to stay. For a few days.”
“Why?”
“It’s none of your business.”
“It is my business when you’re bleeding melting snow onto my Italian leather,” I countered. “Tell me the truth, or get out and walk down forty flights of stairs in the dark.”
She squeezed her eyes shut. A single tear leaked out, cutting a track through her perfect foundation.
“My father cut me off,” she whispered. The words were so quiet I almost missed them. “I have no money. I have nowhere to go. Leo isn’t answering his phone.”
She opened her eyes. They were wet, glassy, and filled with a raw, desperate humiliation that hit me harder than I expected.
“I’m homeless, Ezra. Are you happy?”
I stared at her. The spoiled princess, stripped of her crown.
She waited for me to laugh. She waited for me to mock her. She waited for me to throw her out.
But I didn't move. My gaze dropped to her mouth, then down to the pulse fluttering wildly in her throat.
A dark, twisted idea began to form in the back of my mind. It was a bad idea. It was a dangerous idea. It was exactly the kind of leverage I had been trained to exploit.
She needed a place to stay. I needed... a distraction.
I needed to know if the look in her eyes was real. I needed to know if the brat would break if I applied the right amount of pressure.
“You can stay,” I said.
Her head snapped up. “What?”
“You can stay,” I repeated. I stood up, backing away from her, giving her air. But I didn't look away. “The storm is going to last three days. You can stay here until it clears.”
She let out a breath, her body sagging with relief. “Okay. Thank you. I’ll just—I’ll stay in the guest room and—”
“I didn't say it was free, Amara.”
She froze again. “I just told you, I don’t have any money.”
“I don’t want your money,” I said, my voice dropping to that low, dangerous register that made my teammates flinch in the locker room.
I walked toward the kitchen to pour myself a glass of water, speaking over my shoulder.
“You’re messy. You’re loud. You’re disrespectful. If you’re going to live in my space, you’re going to follow my rules. My protocol.”
I turned back to look at her. She was watching me warily, like a deer watching a wolf circle the perimeter.
“What kind of rules?” she asked.
I took a slow sip of water, letting the silence stretch until it was tight enough to snap.
“Total obedience,” I said. “You do what I say, when I say it. You clean up your mess. You speak when spoken to. You drop the attitude.”
I set the glass down with a sharp clack.
“I’m not offering you a roommate situation, Amara. I’m offering you a structure. You want to be taken care of? Fine. But you have to let me take the lead. Completely.”
Her eyes widened. She understood the subtext. We both did. This wasn't just about chores. This was about power.
She should have run. She should have taken her chances with the stairs and the snow.
But she didn't.
She looked at me, her breath hitching, and I saw the curiosity warring with the pride.
“And if I say no?” she asked.
“Then you can sleep in the lobby,” I said. “Your choice.”
She looked at the window, where the whiteout conditions were battering the glass. Then she looked at me. At my hands. At my mouth.
She took a deep breath, lifted her chin, and sealed her fate.
“Fine,” she said. “What’s the first rule?”
I smiled. It wasn't a nice smile.
“Take off the coat,” I commanded. “And hang it up. Properly.”