Chapter 3
Vanessa
Living in Roman Volkov’s basement was a lot like living inside a subwoofer.
Above my head, the floorboards of the "Wolf’s Den" were vibrating. It wasn’t a gentle tremble; it was a rhythmic, thumping seizure that shook the dust off the exposed pipes running along my ceiling. The bass of some generic EDM track thumped in time with my own escalating migraine.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
It sounded like a giant heart beating. Or a giant fist pounding.
I sat on the edge of the black leather pull-out couch—which, to Roman’s credit, was actually memory foam and shockingly comfortable—and glared at my reflection in the dark screen of the TV.
I looked like a refugee from a Barbie Dream House fire.
I was wearing an oversized vintage concert tee that I’d distressed myself with a cheese grater and a pair of pink boy-shorts. My hair was piled on top of my head in a chaotic bun held together by hope and three chopsticks. I had a charcoal face mask on.
I was hiding.
Me. Vanessa Sterling. The girl who treated campus mixers like her own personal Met Gala. I was hiding in a basement like a troll, terrified to go upstairs to use the bathroom because I might run into him.
Roman.
It had been forty-eight hours since I moved in. Forty-eight hours of psychological warfare.
We hadn't spoken since the "make your bed" incident. But we had communicated. Oh, had we communicated.
Communication happened when he left the bathroom door open exactly three inches, just enough for the steam from his shower to drift into my living area, carrying the scent of cedarwood and wet male skin. It was a taunt. I am here. I am naked. Deal with it.
Communication happened when I left my pink silk robe on the hook next to his grey towel. When I came back, the towel had been moved to the far end of the rack, separated from my silk by a demilitarized zone of three empty hooks. Don’t touch me.
He was a ghost. A large, silent, brooding ghost who woke up at 4:00 AM and drank his coffee black and stared at walls.
He terrified me.
Not because I thought he would hurt me. But because when he looked at me with those dead, ice-blue eyes, I felt like he could see every insecurity I’d spent twenty-one years plastering over with designer labels and witty comebacks. He saw the "Brat," sure. But he also saw the fraud.
Thump. CRASH.
Something glass shattered upstairs, followed by a roar of collective male laughter.
"Okay," I muttered, peeling the dry charcoal mask off my face. It came away in flakey grey chunks. "That’s it."
I couldn't sleep. I couldn't sketch. My "succulent with anxiety" had already dropped two leaves from the vibrations.
I needed water. My stash of Fiji bottles was empty, and the tap in the bathroom tasted like copper pipes and despair. I had to brave the surface.
I stood up and marched to my suitcases. If I was going upstairs into the belly of the beast, I wasn't going as the Troll. I was going as the Princess.
I needed Armor.
I pulled out a skirt I’d designed last semester for my Textiles final.
It was made of a metallic, silver material that looked like liquid mercury.
It was short. aggressive. It said, I am expensive and you can’t afford the tax.
I paired it with a black corset top that pushed my cleavage up to my chin and my favorite combat boots.
If I was going to war, I was wearing boots.
I spent twenty minutes on my makeup. Sharp winged liner. Highlighter that could blind a pilot. And finally, the lipstick. Not the Rouge Noir I’d used to vandalize his locker—I’d thrown that away in a fit of guilt—but a bright, unapologetic fuchsia.
I looked in the mirror.
"You are Vanessa Sterling," I told my reflection. My voice shook a little. "You do not hide in basements. You own the building."
I grabbed my empty water bottle and unlocked the door that led to the main house.
The noise hit me instantly. It was a physical wall of sound. The stairway smelled of stale beer, Axe body spray, and pizza grease.
I climbed the stairs, my hand gripping the rail. My heart was doing a traitorous little flutter in my chest. I told myself it was social anxiety. I told myself it was annoyance.
I did not tell myself that I was wondering if he was wearing a shirt.
The kitchen of the Hockey House was a war zone.
There were red solo cups covering every available surface. A keg sat in a tub of ice on the granite island. At least thirty people were crammed into the space, a mix of hockey players—massive, loud, taking up too much space—and the girls who worshipped them.
The air was hot and sticky. It smelled like hops and desperation.
I pushed my way through the crowd. A few heads turned. I saw the whispers start.
Is that Vanessa Sterling?
What is she doing here?
I heard she got kicked out of Alpha Chi.
I heard her dad bought the hockey team.
I kept my chin high, my eyes fixed on the refrigerator. Don't engage. Just hydration.
"Well, well, well. Look what the cat dragged in. Or should I say, what the flood washed up?"
I stiffened. I knew that voice.
I turned to see Carter "Banksy" Banks leaning against the counter, holding a slice of pizza in one hand and a beer in the other. He was wearing a t-shirt that said PUCK OFF and a backwards cap.
"Hello, Carter," I said sweetly. "Charming as ever. Is that pizza fresh, or did you find it under the couch?"
"Vintage pepperoni," Banksy grinned, winked at me. "So, how’s life in the dungeon? Has the Tsar eaten you yet? We have a betting pool going. I have 'eaten alive' at 3-to-1 odds."
"He's a delightful roommate," I lied smoothly. "Very quiet. Respects boundaries. We braid each other's hair."
Banksy barked a laugh, spraying a crumb of crust. "Right. Roman doesn't have hair. He has follicles of steel wire. Anyway, welcome to the jungle, Princess. try not to step on the rookies, they bite."
He gestured vaguely to the living room, where a group of freshmen were attempting to do keg stands.
"I'm just getting water," I said, turning back to the fridge.
And then I saw him.
He was standing in the archway that connected the kitchen to the living room.
He wasn't partying. He wasn't drinking. He wasn't laughing.
He was leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed over his massive chest, watching the room with the detached boredom of a bouncer at a club he owned.
He was wearing a black Henley that was stretched tight across his shoulders, the buttons strained against his chest. The sleeves were pushed up, revealing those thick, veiny forearms I’d stared at in the locker room. His hair was messy, falling into his eyes.
And he was looking right at me.
The air went out of my lungs.
It was like being plugged into a socket. The connection was instantaneous and violent. The noise of the party faded into a dull roar. All I could see was the blue of his eyes, tracking me across the room.
He didn't smile. He didn't wave. He just... acknowledged. I see you.
And then, she appeared.
A girl. A stunning, brunette girl wearing a Sentinel's jersey that was cut into a crop top. She slid up next to him, placing a hand on his bicep. She was close. Too close. She whispered something in his ear, laughing, her chest brushing against his arm.
I felt a surge of something hot and ugly in my stomach. It tasted like acid.
Jealousy.
It was irrational. I didn't want him. He was a grumpy, controlling robot who made me clean with a toothbrush.
But seeing her hand on his arm—on that arm, the one I had watched tense and flex while he did pull-ups yesterday—made me want to set something on fire.
Roman didn't push her away. But he didn't lean in, either. He didn't even look at her. His eyes were still locked on mine.
He watched me watching her.
And then, one corner of his mouth ticked up. A microscopic smirk.
Oh, you think this is funny?
My grip on the water bottle tightened until the plastic crinkled.
I turned away, breaking the contact. I yanked the fridge door open, needing the blast of cold air to cool the flush rising on my neck.
"Hey beautiful."
A hand slammed onto the fridge door above my head, boxing me in.
I looked up. Attached to the hand was a guy I vaguely recognized. One of the defensemen. Big. Blonde. sloppy. His eyes were glazed, and he smelled like tequila and bad decisions.
"I'm Miller," he slurped. "Not the coach. The player. You're Vanessa, right? The President's girl."
"I am nobody's 'girl'," I said, my voice sharp. "And you are blocking my water."
"Water's for quitters," Miller slurred, leaning closer. He was too close. His breath was hot and sour. "Have a drink with me. I got the good stuff in my room. Vodka. From Russia. You like Russians, right? I heard you're shacking up with the Captain."
"I am temporarily residing in a separate dwelling," I corrected, trying to duck under his arm.
He moved, blocking me again. His heavy body pressed me against the open fridge. The cold containers dug into my back.
"Come on," he insisted, his gaze dropping to my chest. "Don't be a stuck-up bitch. One drink. I can show you my..."
"Miller."
The name was spoken at a normal volume, but it cut through the noise of the party like a whip crack.
The blonde defenseman froze. His eyes widened slightly.
I looked over his shoulder.
Roman was there.
He hadn't run. I hadn't even seen him move. He had just materialized, a towering shadow behind the drunk jock.
He wasn't touching Miller. He didn't have to. He just stood there, his hands in his pockets, his posture relaxed but radiating a terrifying, coiled violence.
"C-Cap," Miller stammered, straightening up. He took a stumbling step back, removing his arm from the fridge. "I was just... welcoming the guest."
"You are drunk," Roman said. His voice was flat. Bored. "And you have practice at 6:00 AM."
"Tomorrow's Saturday," Miller argued weakly.
"Correct," Roman said. "And because you are harassing a civilian in my kitchen, you have skating drills at 6:00 AM. Be there. Or be cut."
Miller paled. The color drained from his face faster than a keg draining at a frat party.