Chapter 3
Elijah
The ink on the contract was barely dry, but the shift in the atmosphere of the penthouse was tectonic.
Down the hall, behind the solid oak door of the guest suite, Angela Moretti was sleeping.
I stood in the center of my kitchen, the black marble countertops cold beneath my palms, staring down that hallway.
I hadn't gone in. I hadn't checked on her.
But I could feel her. It was a phantom sensation, like the ghost ache of a bruised rib after a game.
Knowing she was there, curled up in my sheets, under my roof, breathing my air...
it didn't bring the peace I had negotiated for.
It brought a low, humming static to the base of my skull.
I checked my phone. The transaction had cleared at midnight. Her tuition was paid. Her mother’s medical arrears were zeroed out. Angela Moretti was now debt-free.
And she was mine.
I set my mug down with a sharp clack.
We had a game tonight. The rivalry match against Denver State.
My focus should have been on the face-off percentages and the left-wing’s tendency to drop his shoulder before a shot.
Instead, I was wondering if Angela slept on her side or her back.
I was wondering if she snored. I was wondering if she would be awake when I returned, or if she would hide in that room like a frightened animal.
I didn't want a frightened animal. I wanted the girl who had kneed a donor in the balls.
I grabbed a notepad from the counter. My handwriting was jagged, architectural.
Rule #1: Attendance is mandatory.
The Ice House. 10:00 PM. Dress like you belong to me.
- E
I left the note next to the coffee machine—the one appliance I knew she couldn't resist—and walked out the door. I didn't lock it.
She wouldn't run. She had sold her freedom, and Angela Moretti was many things, but she wasn't a welcher. She honored her debts. That was the thing about the poor; they respected the value of a dollar far more than the people I grew up with.
The game was a bloodbath.
We won 4-1, but the score didn't reflect the violence. Denver State played dirty, trying to goad us into penalties. I spent sixty minutes orchestrating the ice, moving my teammates like chess pieces. I assisted on two goals and scored the third myself—a slapshot from the blue line that cracked the goalie’s mask.
The crowd screamed my name. Vance. Vance. Vance.
It meant nothing. The roar of the arena was just white noise. I felt nothing when the puck hit the net. Just the cold satisfaction of a calculation resolving correctly.
But in the locker room afterward, the noise was different. It was the scent of testosterone, Axe body spray, and adrenaline crashing into exhaustion.
"Ice House is gonna be insane tonight," Jax yelled, snapping a towel at a rookie. "Sorority row is out in force. I heard the Tri-Deltas are bringing a keg."
I sat in my stall, unlacing my skates with methodical precision. Left skate first. Then right. Always the same.
"You coming, Cap?" Jax asked, flopping down on the bench next to me. He was nursing a swollen lip, grinning through the blood. "Or are you gonna go back to your ivory tower and count your money?"
"I’ll be there," I said, peeling off my compression shirt.
Jax paused, blinking. "Wait. Seriously? You haven't been to a post-game rager since sophomore year. You said they were—and I quote—'a cesspool of mediocrity and sexually transmitted diseases.'"
"I have business to attend to," I said, grabbing my suit from the hanger.
"Business," Jax scoffed. "At a frat party. Right. Is this business wearing a skirt?"
I stopped. I looked at him. My face remained impassive, the mask firmly in place, but inside, a muscle in my jaw twitched.
"Don't worry about it, Jax," I said quietly. The temperature in the immediate vicinity seemed to drop ten degrees.
Jax held up his hands in surrender. "Alright, alright. Chill, Iceman. Just happy you’re joining the mortals for once."
I wasn't joining them. I was supervising.
I had given Angela an order. Tonight was the first test of the contract. Would she show up? Would she defy me? The anticipation coiled in my gut, tighter and hotter than the adrenaline from the game.
The Ice House was a sprawling Victorian mansion on the edge of campus that had been condemned by the health department three times and saved by alumni donations four times. It was the unofficial headquarters of the Sterling Silverbacks.
When I walked in at 10:15, the sensory assault was immediate.
The bass from the speakers vibrated in the floorboards, traveling up through the soles of my boots. The air was a humid soup of cheap beer, marijuana smoke, and sweat. Bodies were packed wall-to-wall, a grinding, heaving mass of students desperate to forget about midterms.
I hated it. I hated the lack of control. I hated the chaotic variables.
I moved through the crowd like a shark through a school of fish.
People parted for me. They always did. I didn't have to push; I just had to look at them.
A nod here, a cold stare there. I made my way to the "Throne Room"—the elevated VIP section near the back, guarded by two defensive linemen who doubled as bouncers.
I took my spot on the leather couch that had seen unspeakable things, accepting a glass of whiskey from a trembling freshman pledge. I didn't drink it. I just held it, swirling the amber liquid, watching the door.
10:20 PM.
She wasn't here.
A dark irritation began to bloom in my chest. Had she run? Had she taken the money and bolted?
No. She wouldn't.
"Hey, Elijah."
A blonde girl in a dress that was little more than a suggestion of fabric slid onto the couch next to me. I didn't know her name. Ashley? Brittany? It didn't matter. She was a 'puck bunny.' She wanted the status of being seen with the Captain.
"Great game tonight," she purred, placing a hand on my thigh. Her fingers walked upward. "You looked so... aggressive out there."
I stared at her hand. It was manicured. Pink polish. It meant absolutely nothing to me.
"Remove your hand," I said. My voice was low, barely audible over the music, but she froze.
"Oh," she stammered, pulling back as if she’d touched a hot stove. "I just thought—"
"Don't think," I said, turning my gaze back to the door. "Go find Slayton. He likes shiny things."
She scrambled away, flushed with embarrassment. I felt a pang of annoyance at myself. I was usually better at the polite rejection. But tonight, my patience was nonexistent.
Then, the crowd near the entrance shifted.
The sea of bodies parted, not out of respect, but out of confusion.
Angela walked in.
I stopped breathing for a fraction of a second.
I had told her to dress like she belonged to me. I hadn't specified what that meant. In my head, I had pictured a black cocktail dress. Something elegant. Something that screamed 'hands off.'
Angela was wearing black, but it wasn't a cocktail dress.
She was wearing high-waisted black skinny jeans that looked like they had been painted onto her legs. A black turtleneck bodysuit that clung to every curve of her torso, modest in its coverage but devastating in its silhouette. And over it, she wore my leather jacket.
I blinked.
She must have taken it from the coat rack in the penthouse foyer. It was three sizes too big for her. The sleeves were rolled up, engulfing her hands. The hem hit her mid-thigh.
She looked... consumed by me.
It was the most possessive visual I could have imagined, and she had done it accidentally. Or maybe on purpose.
She stood near the door, looking uncomfortable. Her eyes scanned the room, wide and wary. She looked like a dove that had accidentally flown into a falconry exhibit.
I stood up. The movement was involuntary.
I saw the exact moment she spotted me. Her gaze locked onto mine across fifty feet of crowded room. Her chin went up. That defiant tilt that drove me crazy.
I didn't wave. I didn't smile. I just lifted two fingers, beckoning her forward.
Come.
She hesitated. I saw her throat work as she swallowed. Then, she started walking.
She had to weave through the crowd. I watched the heads turn. I watched the guys stop talking mid-sentence to look at her. They didn't know who she was—she wasn't part of this social circle—but they knew she was beautiful.
A surge of territorial aggression spiked in my blood. It was irrational. It was chemical.
Mine.
When she finally reached the roped-off area, the lineman at the entrance moved to block her.
"List only, sweetheart," he grunted.
"She's with me," I called out, my voice cutting through the bass.
The lineman looked back, saw me, and immediately stepped aside. "Sorry, Cap. Didn't know."
Angela stepped into the VIP area. Up close, she looked tired. There were faint purple circles under her eyes, but her skin was glowing from the cold walk over. She smelled like winter air and the expensive sandalwood soap from my guest bathroom.
She stopped in front of me, crossing her arms over her chest—over my jacket.
"I’m here," she said, her voice flat. "Do I get a treat? Or just a pat on the head?"
I looked down at her. The brat was awake.
"You’re late," I said, checking my watch. "10:32."
"I had to walk," she countered. "Unlike some people, I don't have a driver on retainer. And it’s snowing."
"You’re wearing my jacket."
She flushed slightly, her fingers curling into the leather. "It was by the door. My coat isn't... warm enough. I figured since you technically own me now, you wouldn't want your property freezing to death. Bad for the asset value."
Her words were sharp, designed to cut, to remind me that this was a transaction. But her eyes betrayed her. Her pupils were blown wide. Her breathing was shallow. She was nervous.
"It suits you," I said softly.
The compliment caught her off guard. Her mouth opened slightly, then closed.
"So, what now?" she asked, looking around at the debauchery surrounding us. "Do I have to serve drinks? Dance on a table?"
"Sit," I said, pointing to the spot on the couch next to me.