Chapter 2 #2
When the class ended, I felt a strange sense of accomplishment. I hadn't checked my phone once. I hadn't thought about my father. I hadn't even thought about the mountain of muscle living on the other side of my bathroom wall.
Until I walked into the campus center to get coffee.
The "Daily Grind" was the heartbeat of campus. It smelled of burnt espresso and desperation. The line was out the door.
I waited, tapping my foot, checking emails on my phone.
From: Victor Vane's Office
Subject: Allowance Disbursement
Attachment: Budget_Schedule.pdf
I didn't open it. I knew what it said. It was a leash. A reminder that I was only free as long as he held the other end of the rope.
I shoved the phone into my pocket, anger flaring in my gut. I needed caffeine. A triple shot. Maybe four.
I finally reached the counter, ordered my oat milk latte with two pumps of vanilla (sugar-free, because habits die hard), and moved to the waiting area.
That’s when I saw them.
The Blackwood Bruisers.
They were impossible to miss. A table in the back corner, taken over by six guys who looked like they were carved out of oak. They were all wearing matching black tracksuits with the team logo—a snarling wolf—embroidered on the chest.
They were loud. Laughing, shoving each other, taking up space.
And in the center of them, sitting perfectly still, was Greg.
He wasn't wearing a tracksuit. He was wearing a black cable-knit sweater that fit him so well it should be illegal, and dark jeans. He had a pair of reading glasses perched on the bridge of his nose.
Glasses.
Oh, God. He wore glasses. That wasn't fair. That was a direct attack on my ovaries.
He was reading a textbook that looked thicker than a Bible. He wasn't laughing. He wasn't engaging in the horseplay. He was just… existing. Anchor-like.
I should leave. I should grab my coffee and run.
But my feet were rooted to the spot. I watched him.
He turned a page. His hand was large, his fingers long and blunt. I remembered those hands on the doorframe last night. I remembered the way he had gripped the sink.
Suddenly, he looked up.
It was like he felt me staring. His gaze cut through the crowded coffee shop, past the line of students, past the barista calling out names, and locked onto mine.
He didn't smile. He didn't wave.
He just stared. His face was unreadable, a mask of stone. But his eyes… even from across the room, I could feel the weight of them. They were dark, intelligent, and assessing.
He looked at me like I was a variable in an equation he couldn't solve yet.
"Latte for Michelle!" the barista yelled.
I jumped, breaking the contact. I grabbed my cup, my hand shaking slightly.
I turned to leave, walking as fast as I could without running.
Stay away from the hockey player, Chloe had said.
Too late. I had a feeling I was going to be crashing into him at every turn.
I spent the next three hours in the library.
I wasn't hiding. I was… strategically avoiding the house until I knew he would be at practice.
The library at Blackwood was massive—three stories of towering bookshelves, rolling ladders, and silence so deep it felt holy. I found a table on the second floor, tucked away in the "Economics and History" section, where no one ever went.
I spread out my sketches. I opened my laptop. I put in my headphones, playing classical music this time (trying to be scholarly), and started to work on my mood board for the project.
Time slipped away. I got lost in the flow of fabric swatches and color palettes.
I didn't hear him approach.
I smelled him first.
That scent. Cedar. Cold air. Expensive, clean soap. It cut through the dusty smell of old books and woke up every nerve ending in my body.
A shadow fell over my table.
I looked up.
Greg was standing there.
He was still wearing the glasses. And up close, they were devastating. They softened the harsh lines of his face, making him look less like a warlord and more like a professor you’d fantasize about during a lecture.
He was holding a stack of books.
He looked at my table—covered in fashion sketches, fabric samples, a Vogue magazine, and my coffee cup.
Then he looked at me.
I pulled one earbud out. "Can I help you?"
"You're in my spot," he said.
His voice was a low rumble, meant to be a whisper but carrying the weight of a command.
I looked around. The library was huge. There were hundreds of tables.
"Your spot?" I raised an eyebrow. "I didn't see a nameplate. Did you pee on the leg of the table to mark it?"
His jaw tightened. A muscle feathered in his cheek. "This is the table with the outlet that actually works. And the lighting is better."
"Well," I said, leaning back in my chair and crossing my arms. "I'm using it. Find another outlet, Gavel."
He flinched at the nickname. "Don't call me that."
"Make me stop."
The words hung in the air between us, vibrating with double meaning.
He stepped closer. He was so tall that even sitting down, I felt like I was in his shadow. He placed his hands on the edge of the table and leaned in.
The air between us compressed. I could see the flecks of gold in his dark brown eyes. I could see the faint stubble on his jaw.
"You think this is a game," he said quietly. "You think because your father owns the arena, you own the campus. But you don't own this table. And you don't own me."
"I don't want to own you," I lied, my heart hammering against my ribs. "I just want to finish my project."
He looked down at my sketches. His eyes scanned the drawings—aggressive, sharp, rebellious designs. He paused.
"You drew these?" he asked.
"Yes."
"They're… angry," he observed.
"Fashion is art," I said defensively. "Art is supposed to provoke."
"They look like armor," he said. He looked back up at me, and for a second, the mask slipped. He looked… curious. "What are you afraid of, Michelle?"
The question was so unexpected, so invasive, that I almost recoiled.
"I'm not afraid of anything," I snapped. "Especially not you."
He held my gaze for a long, agonizing moment. Then, slowly, he straightened up.
"Move your bag," he said.
"Excuse me?"
"Move your bag. The table is big enough for two. I need the outlet."
He wasn't leaving. He was invading.
"No," I said.
He didn't argue. He just reached out, picked up my Louis Vuitton tote—which weighed about twenty pounds—with one hand, as if it were made of feathers, and set it on the floor next to me.
Then he pulled out the chair opposite me, sat down, and plugged his laptop into the wall.
He opened his book. He put his head down.
"Don't talk to me," he said, without looking up. "I'm studying."
I sat there, stunned. My mouth was actually open.
He had just… steamrolled me. Efficiently. Quietly.
I stared at him. I wanted to scream. I wanted to throw my coffee at his beautiful, cable-knit chest.
But mostly, I wanted to keep staring at him.
He was sitting less than three feet away. I could hear his steady breathing. I could see the way his brow furrowed as he read about… whatever boring thing he was reading.
This was forced proximity hell.
"Fine," I whispered, grabbing my pencil. "Don't talk to me either."
"Wouldn't dream of it," he murmured.
He turned a page.
I looked down at my sketch. My hand was shaking. I tried to draw a straight line, but it came out jagged.
I looked back at him. He hadn't moved. But under the table, his foot bumped against mine.
I jerked my leg back.
He didn't react. But I saw the corner of his mouth twitch. Just a tiny, microscopic upward tilt.
He knew. He knew he was getting to me.
I gripped my pencil so hard it snapped in half.
Crack.
The sound was like a gunshot in the quiet library.
Greg looked up over the rim of his glasses. He looked at the broken pencil in my hand. Then he looked at my face.
"Control, Michelle," he whispered, his voice dark and mocking. "It's a muscle. You should try exercising it."
He went back to his book.
I hated him. I really, truly did.
I reached into my bag for another pencil, my face burning.
This was going to be a very long semester.