Chapter 1
Michelle
The first thing I noticed about Precipice Bay, Maine, was that it didn’t just look cold; it looked like the kind of place where hope went to freeze to death in a snowbank.
I adjusted the rearview mirror of my matte black G-Wagon, checking my lipstick for the third time in ten minutes.
Perfect. A slash of Chanel 'Pirate' red that cost more than the average tuition payment at this godforsaken university.
It was my war paint. If I was going to be exiled, I was going to look expensive doing it.
My phone buzzed in the cup holder. I didn't need to look at it to know it wasn't my father. Victor Vane didn't send texts. He had assistants for that. He had lawyers for that.
“Your housing arrangements have been finalized. Key is under the mat. Do not cause a scene. - L.”
Lindsay. His current executive assistant. She was twenty-four, had a degree from Wharton, and looked at me like I was a stain on the family crest that wouldn't wash out, no matter how much money Victor threw at the dry cleaner.
"Do not cause a scene," I whispered to the empty car, testing the words on my tongue. They tasted like ash. "Too late, Lindsay. I am the scene."
I killed the engine. The silence that rushed in was immediate and oppressive. There was no hum of Los Angeles traffic, no distant wail of sirens, just the whistling of wind through the skeletal trees that lined the driveway.
I looked up at the house.
Calling it a "house" was generous. It was a sprawling, Victorian monstrosity perched on the edge of the cliffs, overlooking the churning grey Atlantic.
The paint was peeling in long, jagged strips of grey and black.
The porch listed dangerously to the left.
It looked like the setting of a horror movie where the blonde girl dies first because she tripped in her stilettos.
This was "The Ice Box." The off-campus housing for the elite players of the Blackwood Bruisers. And thanks to a "clerical error" in the dorms—which I knew for a fact was my father’s way of ensuring I was watched 24/7—it was my home for my final semester.
I opened the car door and the wind hit me like a physical slap. It bit through my cashmere coat, stinging my cheeks and instantly numbing my fingers.
"Okay," I muttered, stepping out onto the cracked pavement. My six-inch Louboutin boots crunched on a layer of salt and ice. "You can do this. It’s just four months. You’ve survived boarding school in Switzerland with no Wi-Fi. You’ve survived your mother’s third wedding.
You can survive a house full of sweaty Neanderthals. "
I moved to the trunk. My Louis Vuitton steamer trunks were stacked like a barricade against reality. I grabbed the handle of the largest one—filled exclusively with silk, lace, and poor decisions—and yanked. It hit the ground with a heavy thud that echoed in the quiet street.
I waited.
Usually, this was the part where a doorman, a valet, or a boyfriend rushed over to help. I stood there for ten seconds, the wind whipping my platinum hair into a frenzy around my face.
Nothing.
Just the caw of a crow watching me from the power line.
"Fine," I hissed, grabbing the handle. "I don’t need anyone."
It was a lie, of course. That was my specialty.
I needed everyone. I needed someone to look at me and see me, not Victor Vane’s checkbook.
I needed someone to tell me no, just to prove they cared enough to stop me from destroying myself.
But since I wasn't going to get that, I’d settle for dragging two hundred pounds of designer luggage up a rotting staircase.
I hauled the trunk up the steps, my breath puffing in white clouds. By the time I reached the front door, I was sweating under my coat and my manicure was at risk. I kicked the welcome mat aside with the toe of my boot.
The key was there. Just like Lindsay said.
I jammed it into the lock and twisted. The door groaned—a long, rusted screech that sounded like a warning—and swung open.
The smell hit me first.
It wasn’t dirty, exactly. It was… dense. It smelled of ozone, old wood, aggressive cleaning chemicals, and underneath it all, the undeniable, musk-heavy scent of male. Not the cologne-drenched boys back in LA. This smelled like hard work. It smelled like sweat that had been earned.
It made something twitch low in my belly, a traitorous little spark of interest that I immediately stomped out.
"Hello?" I called out. My voice bounced off the high ceilings.
The foyer was dark, lit only by the grey daylight spilling in from the open door.
A staircase that looked wide enough to drive a car up dominated the center.
To the left, a living room with a leather couch that looked like it had survived a war.
To the right, a kitchen that was surprisingly spotless.
A floorboard creaked above me. Then, heavy footsteps. Thud. Thud. Thud.
A figure appeared at the top of the stairs.
He was massive. That was the only word for it. Wide shoulders stretched a grey hoodie to its breaking point. He had a beard that softened a jaw carved from granite, and hair that stuck up in every direction. He was holding a protein shaker the size of a blender.
He stopped, blinking down at me. He looked from my boots, up my legs, past the coat, to my face. Then his eyes drifted to the mountain of luggage behind me.
"Is the circus in town?" he asked. His voice was deep, but there was a wobble in it. Uncertainty.
"I’m Michelle," I said, flashing my brightest, most dangerous smile. The one that usually got me free drinks or out of speeding tickets. "I’m moving in."
The giant paled. "You’re… Vane’s kid?"
"Michelle," I corrected, my smile tightening at the corners. "And you are?"
"Beef," he said automatically. Then he shook his head. "I mean, Brian. But everyone calls me Beef. Because… well." He gestured vaguely to his own enormity.
"Charmed, Beef. Which room is mine?"
He pointed a thick finger toward the end of the hallway upstairs. "The suite at the end. It’s… uh… it’s next to the Captain’s room."
"The Captain?"
"Sterling," Beef said, and the way he said the name sounded like a prayer or a plea for mercy. "Greg Sterling. The Gavel."
"The Gavel?" I let out a sharp laugh. "Please tell me he doesn’t actually call himself that."
"We call him that," Beef said, his eyes darting to the front door as if he expected this Sterling character to burst through the wood.
"Because he lays down the law. Look, Miss Vane, does he know you’re here now?
He hates noise during study hours. He hates…
things in the hallway. He hates…" Beef looked at my bright red luggage. "Colors."
"Perfect," I said, grabbing my handle again. "I love a challenge."
I dragged my trunk up the stairs, ignoring Beef’s offer to help. I needed the exertion. I needed to feel the burn in my muscles to distract me from the cold hollowness in my chest.
I reached the top landing and rolled my suitcase down the hall. The floorboards were dark mahogany, scuffed but polished. At the end of the hall, there were two doors. One was shut tight, a matte black heavy thing that looked like the entrance to a vault.
Sterling.
The other was slightly ajar. Mine.
I pushed it open and wrinkled my nose. It was freezing. The radiator hissed weakly in the corner. The room was large, furnished with a simple wooden bed and a desk, but it had the atmosphere of a crypt.
"Absolutely not," I muttered.
I abandoned my suitcase and marched back into the hallway to the thermostat I’d seen on the wall. It read 62 degrees. Barbaric.
I jammed my finger onto the 'up' arrow. 65. 70. 75. 80.
The furnace in the basement roared to life with a satisfying thrum.
I went back into my room, kicked the door shut, and pulled out my portable Bluetooth speaker. I needed energy. I needed to mark my territory. If I was going to live in a house full of oversized athletes, I was going to make sure they knew I existed.
I hit play. A heavy, bass-thumping pop track exploded into the room, vibrating the walls.
I stripped off my coat, tossing it onto the dusty chair. Then the sweater. Then the jeans. I was left in a matching silk camisole and shorts set—pale pink, mostly lace, entirely impractical.
I walked into the adjoining bathroom. It was a "Jack and Jill" setup. There was a door on the other side. Locked, presumably.
I turned on the shower, letting it run until steam began to fill the room, softening the harsh winter light. I grabbed my bag of toiletries—glass bottles of serums, heavy tubs of creams, oils that cost more than gold—and began arranging them on the counter.
I was here. I was loud. I was taking up space.
Let’s see if anyone notices.
Greg
Control is not a trait you are born with. It is a muscle. You build it, rep by rep, until the chaos of the world breaks against you like water against rock.
I repeated that mantra in my head as I skated the blue line, the sound of my blades carving into the fresh ice the only noise in the empty arena.
Scrape. Pivot. Scrape. Stop.
My lungs burned, a familiar, welcome fire. It was 4:00 PM on a Tuesday. Practice had ended two hours ago. The rest of the team was gone—playing video games, sleeping, or chasing puck bunnies at the local dive bar.
I was still here.
My senior year. My draft year.
The scout from the Boston Bruins had been in the stands during the last game. I had seen him taking notes every time I touched the puck. I played a perfect game. Zero turnovers. Four blocked shots. Two assists. Clean, brutal, efficient hockey.
But it wasn't enough. It was never enough.
I skated to the bench and vaulted over the wall, landing on the rubber matting with a heavy thud. I sat down and began unlacing my skates. My hands were steady, but the tension was there, coiling in my shoulders.
My phone sat on the bench next to me. The screen lit up with a notification.
From: V. Vane (Owner)
Subject: Update