Chapter 10
The words “there was a fire” echo in my head all the way across the frosted quad.
I’m not running, but it feels like I am, my feet crunching on the icy grass, each step a jarring impact that travels up my spine.
My mind is a frantic slideshow of worst-case scenarios: the whole common room gutted, the rink melted, all our work, my one chance at a good Christmas, turned to ash.
When I get there, the door is propped open.
The air that spills out is cold and smells wrong, a bitter cocktail of wet ash, melted plastic, and the sharp chemical tang of a fire extinguisher.
Inside, Frank is gone, his shift over. A younger, bulkier security guard I don’t recognize is standing in the middle of the room, clipboard in hand, surveying the scene with a bored expression.
The damage… isn’t what I expected.
A large, ugly black scorch mark mars the wall near the back entrance, crawling up to the ceiling. The floor beneath it is a mess of white powder and sooty water. One of our tables, the one we’d designated for the hot chocolate station, is a melted, skeletal ruin of plastic and metal. But that’s it.
The garlands are damp but intact. The fairy lights are off, but they don’t look broken. The half-finished rink frame outside is untouched.
“You Artie Patton?” the guard asks without looking at me.
“Yeah. What happened?”
He shrugs, gesturing with his pen at the blackened wall.
“Someone piled a bunch of decorations and spare wiring on that table and lit ‘em up. Trip wire on the back door was cut, too. Amateur hour. Sprinklers went off in this zone thirty seconds after the heat sensors tripped. Barely had time to do any real damage.” He finally looks at me, his gaze cynical.
“Looks like a prank, you ask me. End-of-semester bullshit. Some frat probably trying to get a rise out of you artsy types.”
A prank. The word feels too small for the cold dread coiling in my stomach. “It does seem that way,” I agree, my voice tight.
A prank, yeah. Like the broken coolant line was a prank. Like all the other little acts of sabotage were just kids having fun.
My eyes scan the room, looking for anything else out of place, anything that doesn’t fit.
And then I see it.
Leaning against the far wall, away from the mess, in a spot that was definitely empty when I left last night, is a large, rectangular object draped in a canvas drop cloth.
I walk toward it, my boots squelching softly on the damp floor. The guard watches me, mildly interested now.
“What’s this?” I ask, my hand hovering over the cloth.
“No idea. Wasn’t there on my first sweep. Must’ve been tucked away in a corner somewhere.”
With trembling fingers, I grab the corner of the drop cloth and pull it away.
The breath leaves my lungs in a silent whoosh.
It’s my painting.
Winter’s Respite. The one Marianne just sold.
The birch trees are stark and white against the deep indigo sky, the snow rendered in thick, textured strokes of oil paint.
It’s my work, my soul, right here in front of me.
But it’s different. When it was sold, it was in a simple, gallery-mandated pine frame.
Now it’s housed in a magnificent, dark wood frame, almost black, with intricate silver leaf detailing at the corners.
It looks antique, expensive, and perfect for the painting it feels like it was born from the canvas itself. It makes my art look… important.
I stare, my mind completely blank with shock. How? Why?
I stumble back a step, pulling out my phone and dialing Marianne before I’ve even fully processed what I’m doing. She picks up on the second ring, her voice groggy.
“Artie? It’s six in the morning. Is everything okay?”
“The painting,” I say, my voice a strangled whisper. “Winter’s Respite. I need to know who bought it.”
“What? Darling, what’s going on?” Her voice sharpens with concern.
“I can’t explain right now, Marianne, I just… I need a name. Please.”
I can hear the sound of typing on her end.
A pause. A frustrated sigh. “I’m sorry, Artie.
The final sale was processed through a third-party acquisitions agent.
The buyer made it very, very clear they wished to remain anonymous.
Wires were sent from an untraceable corporate account.
There are layers of legal protection. It’s a dead end. ”
“Anonymous,” I repeat hollowly, staring at my painting standing in the wreckage of my Christmas party. “Right. Of course.”
~ ~ ~
The rest of the morning passes in a surreal blur.
After a useless meeting with a campus dean who promises a “full investigation,” I somehow manage to drag myself to my ten a.m. Modern Art Theory lecture.
I sit in the back, not hearing a word the professor says, my mind replaying the image of the painting, the scorch marks on the wall, the look in Raiden’s eyes last night. The pieces of the puzzle are swirling around me, but they form a picture I’m too terrified to look at.
As the professor dismisses the class, I gather my things, my only thought to get to the arena, to find Raiden.
“That was brutal, right?”
I look up. It’s Chase, the volunteer with the untangled lights, slinging his backpack over his shoulder. I hadn’t even noticed we were in the same class.
“Professor Davies could make the apocalypse sound boring,” he continues with an easy grin. “Heard about the fire. That sucks, man. After all our hard work.”
“Yeah,” I say, distracted, inching toward the door. “It sucks.”
“Well, if you need any extra hands for cleanup, let me know. We’ll get it back in shape.” He walks out the door just ahead of me, turning to give my shoulder a quick, firm pat. “Hang in there, Patton.” The touch is weirdly familiar, a little too forceful, and his smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes.
I step out into the crowded corridor, my mind still snagged on Chase’s odd gesture, and then I see him.
My breath catches.
Raiden.
He’s standing by a tall window directly opposite the lecture hall, bathed in the pale winter light. He’s not leaning. He’s standing stock-still, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his dark jeans, his shoulders squared. And he’s looking right at me.
I’ve never seen him look so tense, not even in the final seconds of a tie game. His jaw is so tight I can see the muscle jumping from across the hall. He’s watching me from under his brow, his expression a thunderous mask.
A wave of stupid joy washes over me. He’s here. He was waiting for me. I fight the smile that wants to break across my face, sensing it would be the exact wrong thing to do.
So I school my features into a neutral mask and walk toward him, the sea of students parting around him like he’s a rock in a stream.
As I get closer, I feel the sheer force of his presence, the dangerous energy rolling off him in waves.
“Hey,” I say when I finally reach him, my attempt at casualness sounding ridiculously thin. “I was just about to come looking for you.” I offer a small, nervous chuckle. “Sorry I didn’t call. Turns out I don’t have your number.”
His eyes flicker from my face down to my shoulder—the one Chase just touched—and then back up. His voice, when it comes, is a low, flat rumble. “Yeah. I can see you’ve been busy accepting pats on the back.”
I blink, completely thrown.
Then the meaning sinks in, and the most bizarre, idiotic feeling unfolds in my chest. A warm flutter of pure happiness. He’s really jealous.
He saw that brief, meaningless interaction and he is gut-wrenchingly, undeniably jealous. I try to quash the feeling, to tell myself how pathetic it is to be thrilled by this caveman possessiveness, but my traitorous heart doesn’t listen. It’s singing.
“I just got out of class,” I say, my voice softer now, trying to soothe the unseen beast. “He was just… talking about the fire. I was even going to look for your teammates. Ask them to give me your number.”
“You have my number,” he grinds out, his gaze unwavering. “I put it on the volunteer list. Same as everyone else.”
Oh. Right. The list. With the fire and the painting and my entire world tilting on its axis, I’d completely forgotten I had access to his number the whole time. I must look as stupid as I feel, because the corner of his mouth ticks downward.
I can’t help myself. The emotional impulse is too strong, this sudden need to bridge the gap between us, to touch him. I look around the bustling corridor. It’s a terrible idea. I do it anyway.
I reach out and touch the knuckle of his index finger—still inside his pocket—with the tip of my own finger. It’s a tiny, fleeting point of contact, but it feels like a lightning strike. I pull his hand slightly, a silent plea. Come with me.
His blue eyes widen almost imperceptibly. His entire body goes rigid. Then, with a suddenness that makes me gasp, he leans forward.
He moves so fast, a predator closing the distance, his head dropping down to mine until our faces are inches apart.
His eyes bore into mine, pupils blown wide, and for one heart-stopping second, I think he’s going to kiss me. Right here, in the middle of the hallway, in front of everyone. He’s going to demolish my world right here and now.
Panic lances through me.
I jerk my head back. “Are you crazy?” I whisper, my voice frantic. “Not here. Let’s go.” The last two words are mouthed, and I give a tiny, almost invisible nod down the corridor to a short, less-trafficked hallway that ends in a series of janitorial rooms.
Without waiting for a reply, I turn and walk away, my heart threatening to beat its way out of my chest. I don’t look back. I just pray he’s following me.
The side hall is blessedly empty. Halfway down, there’s a door labeled ‘HVAC ACCESS’. I glance over my shoulder. He’s there, a dark shadow detaching from the crowd, his long strides eating up the distance between us.
I don’t hesitate. I grab the handle, twist, and slip inside, pulling the door closed until there’s just a crack.
The room is small, and smells of dust and ozone. It’s filled with humming machinery and metal ducts. When I see Raiden’s broad shoulders fill the doorway, I fully turn, my back pressing against a cold metal unit.
The door clicks shut behind him, plunging the room into near-total darkness, broken only by a few blinking red and green LEDs on the equipment.
He doesn’t give me time to speak, to breathe.
One second he’s closing the door, the next he’s on me, his hands bracketing my head as he slams me back against the door.
His mouth crashes down on mine in a desperate, frantic kiss that’s all punishing need, his frustration, jealousy, and obsession pouring out of him and into me.
His hands tangle in my hair, gripping tight as he devours my mouth, one of his powerful thighs pushing between my legs, pinning me, claiming me in the humming darkness.