Chapter 1 #2
His eyebrows rose slightly. A flicker of something dangerous sparked in those dead blue eyes. "You break into my locker room. You paint slurs on my wood. And you give me orders?"
He stepped closer. I backed up until my shoulder blades hit the metal of the locker. I was trapped. Trapped between the cold steel and the radiating heat of his body.
He placed one hand on the locker above my head, leaning down. A drop of water from his hair landed on my cheek. It felt like a brand.
"You are a spoiled little thing, aren't you?" he murmured. The sound was soft, intimate, and utterly terrifying. "Think the world is your canvas? Think you can paint your tantrums wherever you please?"
"It was a mistake," I insisted, my heart hammering so hard I thought he could see it beating through my coat. "I'll clean it."
"Yes," he said. "You will."
He pulled back, the sudden absence of his heat leaving me shivering. He pointed a thick finger at the mess on the wood.
"Clean it. Now."
I blinked. "I... I don't have any supplies. I need to go get—"
"Figure it out," he cut me off. He crossed his arms over that massive chest. The muscles flexed, hard and unforgiving.
"You are not leaving this room until my name is clean.
If you walk out that door, I call your father.
And I tell Coach Miller. And by tomorrow morning, everyone on campus knows the President's daughter is a criminal. "
Panic clawed at my throat. If my dad found out... if the press found out...
"Fine," I hissed. I dropped my bag to the floor. "Fine."
I looked around frantically. I had tissues in my bag. And hand sanitizer.
I pulled them out, my hands shaking uncontrollably. I squirted the alcohol gel onto a wad of Kleenex and turned to the locker.
I started scrubbing. The lipstick smeared. It turned from a word into a bloody, pink mess. It was stubborn. Waxy.
"Harder," Roman said from behind me.
I gritted my teeth and scrubbed harder. My fingernail scraped against the wood.
"I'm trying," I snapped over my shoulder.
He didn't answer. He just watched. I could feel his gaze on me. It felt physical. Heavy. He was watching the way my coat pulled across my shoulders, the way my hips moved as I put my weight into the scrubbing.
It was humiliating. I was on my knees now, attacking the bottom of the letter E. I was Vanessa Sterling. I was supposed to be untouchable. And here I was, scrubbing wood for a half-naked giant who looked like he wanted to eat me alive.
But beneath the humiliation... there was something else. A buzz. A friction.
My skin felt tight. The air in the room felt thick enough to chew.
"You missed a spot," he said.
I froze. He was right behind me again. I could feel the heat radiating off his legs.
I turned my head slowly. His shins were inches from my face. Thick thighs, dusted with dark hair, disappearing into that precarious towel.
I swallowed dryly.
"It's grease paint," I said, my voice trembling. "It smears."
"Then use your nails," he said. Cold. Unforgiving. "Pick it out of the grain."
I looked up at him. His face was a mask of stone, but his eyes... his eyes were dilated. The pupils had swallowed the blue. He wasn't just angry. He was enjoying this. He was enjoying the control.
And God help me, the darkest, most broken part of my brain—the part that was tired of making decisions, tired of being perfect—gave a little shiver of delight.
"Say please," I whispered. It was a death wish. I knew it. But I couldn't stop the brat from coming out. It was my armor. If I annoyed him, maybe he wouldn't see how scared I was.
Roman’s jaw tightened. A muscle feathered in his cheek.
He leaned down, bracing his hands on his knees so his face was level with mine. The scent of him—clove and man—filled my lungs.
"I don't say please, Myshka," he murmured. "And you are in no position to negotiate. You are in the Wolf’s Den now."
He reached out. For a second, I thought he was going to hit me. I flinched.
But he didn't. He reached past me, his arm brushing against my shoulder—a jolt of electricity that made my toes curl—and grabbed a bottle of equipment cleaner from the bench.
He slammed it down next to me.
"Finish it," he ordered. "And then get out of my sight."
Roman
I waited until the heavy metal door clicked shut behind her before I allowed myself to breathe.
The air in the locker room still smelled like her. It was a cloying, sweet scent. Vanilla and something floral. Expensive. It cut through the stench of sweat and mildew like a knife.
I looked at the locker.
She had gotten most of it off. The wood was raw and scrubbed pale where she had attacked it with the solvent, but the red stain was gone.
Vanessa Sterling.
I ran a hand through my damp hair, gripping the back of my neck. My pulse was thumping a heavy, irregular rhythm in my ears.
I should have reported her. Coach Miller would have had a stroke, but he would have handled it. Security would have escorted her off the premises. It would have been the correct, orderly thing to do.
I didn't do "messy." My life was a grid. Hockey. Grades. Sleep. Nutrition. Anything that deviated from the grid was cut away.
But when I saw her standing there—a splash of ridiculous neon pink in my grey world, clutching a lipstick like a weapon—I hadn’t wanted to call security.
I had wanted to see what she would do if I cornered her.
I walked over to the spot where she had been kneeling. I could still see the indentations of her heels on the rubber mat.
She was terrified. I could smell the fear on her, sharp and sour. But she had snapped back. Say please.
The audacity of it made my blood run hot.
My father would have loved her. She had that same arrogant tilt to her chin that all rich people had. The belief that consequences were things that happened to other people.
I hated it. I hated her. She was everything I avoided. Loud. Bright. Chaotic. A distraction waiting to happen.
I looked down at the floor. Something glittered under the bench.
I bent down and picked it up.
It was a ring. Gold, thin, with a tiny diamond chip. It must have slipped off her finger when she was scrubbing.
I held it up to the light. It was small. Delicate. It wouldn't even fit on my pinky finger.
I should turn it in to Lost and Found.
Instead, I closed my fist around it. The metal was still warm from her skin.
I walked back to my locker—my locker, the one she had marked—and opened it. I shoved the ring into the pocket of my jeans hanging on the hook.
I wasn’t going to turn it in.
Because she would come back for it.
I leaned my forehead against the cool metal of the door and closed my eyes, visualizing the ice, trying to slow my heart rate. But all I could see was platinum blonde hair, terrified hazel eyes, and a mouth that looked like it was made for trouble.
Vanessa Sterling was a problem.
And for the first time in years, I wanted to solve it.
I pushed off the locker, the towel loosening at my hip. The silence of the room usually brought me peace. Tonight, it felt empty.
"Trouble," I muttered to the empty room.
I had a feeling she was going to be the kind of trouble that didn't wash off.