Chapter 2
Two days later, I’m sitting on a cold stone bench in the campus courtyard, watching my breath fog in the December air while Karolina rants about Professor Oberin’s latest assignment.
“—and then she had the audacity to say my color theory was ‘derivative,’” she says, gesturing wildly with her coffee cup. “Derivative! Like every artist since the Renaissance hasn’t been derivative of something.”
“Mmm,” I murmur, only half-listening. My mind is elsewhere. Specifically, on the slow-motion car crash that is my life right now.
“Earth to Artie.” Cameron snaps his fingers in front of my face. “You’ve been staring at that brick wall for five minutes. What’s going on?”
I sigh and slouch lower on the bench. “I’m clearly screwed, that’s what’s going on.”
“Because of Blackwell?” Stella asks. She’s perched on the arm of the bench, braiding her red hair with quick, efficient movements. “Come on. How bad could it be?”
“How bad? He’s going to make my life a living hell. You saw him in that auditorium. He was enjoying himself.” I drop my head into my hands. “I basically challenged him in front of three hundred people. He’s going to destroy me.”
“Or,” Josh says thoughtfully, pushing his glasses up his nose, “he’ll actually help with the party and you’re catastrophizing.”
I look up at him. “Have you met Raiden Blackwell?”
“Fair point.”
Karolina sits down beside me and bumps my shoulder with hers. “Hey. Look at me.” I turn to face her. Her dark eyes are serious. “You’re going to pull this off. We’re all going to help you. And if Blackwell tries anything, we’ll handle it together, okay?”
The thing is, they don’t really understand why this matters so much to me.
No—that’s not fair. They do understand.
I told them once, late at night in Karolina’s dorm room after too much wine, about how Christmas used to be magical when my mum was alive.
How she’d transform our tiny flat into something out of a storybook, all twinkling lights and cinnamon smells and carols playing on the old radio.
How she’d save up all year just to make sure I had presents under the tree.
And then she died when I was eight, and I went to live with my aunt and uncle, who treated the holidays like an inconvenient obligation. Just awkward dinners where they reminded me how much of a burden I was.
For eleven years, Christmas has been something to survive, not celebrate.
This party… it’s my way of reclaiming it. Of creating something good again.
“I just want one perfect Christmas,” I say quietly. “Is that too much to ask?”
“No,” Karolina says firmly. “It’s not. And you’re going to get it.”
I want to believe her. I really do.
I pull out the crumpled piece of paper from my jacket pocket. My master list of everything that needs to happen before the party. It’s color-coded and annotated with tiny sketches in the margins because I can’t help myself.
“Okay,” I say, standing up and smoothing out the paper. “I need to talk to the facilities manager about the water hookup, confirm the food truck vendors, pick up the lights from—”
I back up, reciting my list under my breath, while my friends wave goodbye and head out.
Feeling safe and alone, I take another step… right into what hits me like a brick wall.
A brick wall that’s warm. And solid. And smells like expensive cologne.
My face smashes into a very muscular chest.
Oh no.
Oh God, please, no.
I stumble backward and look up—way up—into piercing blue eyes.
Raiden Blackwell stares down at me, flanked by three of his hockey teammates. They’re all wearing Ashford Beasts hoodies, looking like they just came from practice.
“Didn’t you used to wear glasses so you wouldn’t bump into every lamppost?”
His voice is flat, almost bored, but there’s something underneath it that makes goosebumps prickle down my arms. Something I refuse to examine too closely.
“I switched to contact lenses,” I say, trying to sound normal. “They’re very comfortable.”
Shit. They’re very comfortable? What am I thinking, replying to him like we are buddies?
I straighten my shoulders. “I didn’t know the lampposts would be moving now.”
One of his teammates—the blond one from the auditorium—snickers.
Raiden doesn’t react. He just reaches out and plucks the paper from my hands in one smooth motion.
“Give it back,” I say immediately.
He holds it up, scanning it with theatrical interest. “Of course. The legendary Christmas preparation sheet.”
“Give it back to me!” Heat floods my face.
“No wonder your eyesight is ruined. With handwriting like that, you could go blind trying to decipher your own scribbles. Oh, hot cocoa and even sweet pie.” He tilts his head. “Did you really have to write the list by hand?”
“No one expects you to actually participate,” I snap, stepping closer and reaching for the paper. “So give it back.”
He raises it higher. Of course he does. Because he’s six-foot-three and I’m five-nine on a good day, and he knows exactly how humiliating this is.
“Maybe the list includes milk,” one of his friends says with a smirk. “So Patton can finally grow up a little.”
I turn toward the speaker, anger flaring hot in my chest, but suddenly Raiden is right in front of me, blocking my view.
“I think you forgot to say the magic word,” he says softly.
I freeze.
He’s looking at me with that intense focus again, the one that makes me feel like I’m under a microscope. His eyes are so blue they’re almost unreal.
“The magic word to get your list back,” he adds, his mouth curving slightly.
He means please.
My throat goes dry. There’s something about the way he says it…
“You know what?” I force myself to sound steady. “Actually, I have an electronic version of this list. You can keep the paper. Maybe it’ll help you finally learn the alphabet.”
For a second, nobody moves.
Then Raiden’s mouth twitches into a half-smirk. “Get out of here,” he says to his teammates without looking at them.
“But—”
“Now.”
They exchange glances but leave, their footsteps echoing across the courtyard.
And then Raiden starts walking toward me.
I take a step back instinctively. He keeps coming. Another step back. He matches it.
We’re moving into the shadowed archway that leads to the east wing—a narrow passage that’s always dark and empty this time of day. My back hits cold stone.
He plants his hand on the wall beside my head.
“You’ve been very brave lately, Patton.”
My heart is hammering so hard I’m sure he can hear it. “I’m hoping for a Christmas miracle and that your brain will finally get fixed.”
But my voice shakes. Betrays me.
His eyes narrow slightly. He notices. Of course he notices.
He leans in closer. So close I can feel the heat radiating off him. His other hand comes up to brace against the wall on my other side, caging me in completely.
“You seem old enough not to believe in Christmas miracles,” he says quietly.
I can’t breathe. Can’t think. Can’t do anything except stare at him.
This close, I notice something I’ve never seen before. His right eye—there’s something wrong with the pupil. A dark, irregular shape bleeding into the blue, like ink dropped in water.
“What happened?” I ask before I can stop myself.
He goes very still. “What?”
“Your eye. The pupil—it’s…”
“Hockey stick,” he says flatly. “Caught me right in the eye after a game. You know, that day. Guy didn’t like that I won.” His jaw tightens. “Didn’t damage my vision, though. I made sure to tell him that in the next game. Told him he’d failed… I could still see him lose just fine.”
“Does it still hurt?”
He blinks. “What?”
“I mean—does it hurt? There?”
The silence stretches out. He’s staring at me like I just spoke a foreign language.
Then he shifts, pressing forward, and—
Oh God.
That’s definitely not my imagination.
I can feel him, hard, pressing against my hip through layers of clothing. My face goes hot. My entire body goes hot. This can’t be real. This has to be some kind of fever dream brought on by stress and sleep deprivation.
I lick my lips nervously.
His gaze drops to my mouth and stays there.
“Your lips are too dry. Seems your mouth isn’t wet enough,” he says, his voice rough. He opens his mouth slightly, showing me the piece of gum on his tongue. Then he nods at me. “Take it, Patton.”
He wants me to take it. Right out of his mouth.
This is insane. Completely—
But he’s not moving. He’s just waiting, watching me with those piercing blue eyes, and I realize he won’t let me leave until I do it.
My hand shakes as I reach up.
“No.” He looks down at me, gaze dark, but the muscles in his face are twitching. “Take it right from my mouth. Your hands are dirty, sweet pie.”
He can’t be serious, right?
But I can’t look away from his eyes, and I’m starting to realize he is very serious.
Instead of taking the gum, my tongue darts out and accidentally touches his lower lip.
He flinches.
“Sorry,” I breathe, feeling like the world’s biggest idiot. “I’m sorry, I didn’t—”
He presses harder against me, and there’s no mistaking it now. He’s definitely aroused. I can feel every inch of him.
Somehow, I manage to extract the gum from his mouth with my lips. It’s warm and mint-flavored. And all of this is completely surreal.
“Your lips,” he murmurs, his gaze burning into mine as he leans in just enough, “should never be dry. They should always be wet… and yet, they’re not. Good. They should only ever be wet for me… only because of me.”
Then he pushes off the wall with his fist and steps back.
He gives me one last hard look before turning and walking away.
I stand there in the archway, heart racing, with absolutely no idea what the hell just happened.