Chapter 2 #2
I felt stripped. I felt like he was peeling back the layers of my armor and cataloging every flaw underneath.
"Stop staring at me," I said, lifting my chin. It was a weak command, but it was all I had.
"You’re in my kitchen," Theo said. His voice was rough, like gravel tumbling in a dryer. "Wearing yesterday’s mistake."
"I don't have any clothes," I shot back, gripping my coffee mug like a weapon. "Because someone kidnapped me before I could pack."
"Your father had your bags sent over this morning," Theo said, nodding toward the hallway. "They’re in the foyer."
"Great. I’m leaving then." I made a move to step around the island.
Theo didn't move his body, but he shifted his weight. It was a subtle, athletic adjustment, blocking my path without actually touching me.
"Sit," he commanded.
He pointed to one of the high-backed bar stools at the island.
"Excuse me?" I laughed, a shrill, nervous sound. "I’m not a dog, Theo. You don't tell me to sit."
"Mila." He said my name like a warning shot. "Sit. Down."
My knees felt watery. It was the tone. It was the absolute, unwavering authority. My brain screamed Run, but my body… my body betrayed me. My legs folded, and I sank onto the stool.
I hated myself for it. I hated the way my heart fluttered in my chest—not just from fear, but from the sudden, sharp thrill of being handled.
Theo watched me sit. A flicker of satisfaction crossed his face, there and gone in a microsecond.
"We need to establish the protocol," he said. "If you are going to live here, you are going to exist within the structure."
"Structure," I scoffed, taking a sip of coffee to hide my trembling lip. "You mean your dictatorship?"
"Call it what you want. It keeps us winning." He walked around the island, coming to stand next to me. He was too close. I could smell him—soap, fresh coffee, and that underlying scent of cold air and spice. The heat radiating off his body was a physical weight against my bare shoulder.
"Rule One," he said, holding up a finger. His hand was large, scarred, and calloused. "Curfew is 10 PM. On game nights, you are in the stands or you are here. Nowhere else."
"I’m twenty-one years old," I argued, though my voice lacked heat. "I don't have a bedtime."
"You do now," he said simply. "Rule Two: No guests. Especially not the parasites you call friends. This house is a sanctuary. It’s where we recover. I don't want your drama leaking onto my floors."
"They aren't parasites," I defended weakly, thinking of Chloe’s phone call. The lie tasted like ash.
"Rule Three," Theo continued, ignoring me. He leaned in closer. His grey eyes bored into mine, stripping me bare. "You contribute. You don't just exist here as an ornament. You keep your space clean. You don't leave your mess for me to fix."
"I don't know how to clean," I blurted out. It was true. I’d had maids my entire life.
"Then you’ll learn," he said without sympathy.
He leaned back, crossing his arms again. "And the most important rule. The absolute rule."
He paused. His gaze dropped to my lips, then back up to my eyes. The air between us pulled tight, like a rubber band about to snap.
"You stay out of my way," he said low. "I have five months to secure my future. I cannot have you spiraling in my peripheral vision. You stay quiet. You stay covered up. And you do not provoke me."
I felt a spark of anger ignite in my chest. It burned through the fear. Who did he think he was? He was a hockey player from nowhere. I was a Kensington. I was art. I was chaos. And he wanted to put me in a box and tell me to be quiet?
"And if I don't?" I challenged, echoing his words from the truck last night. I swiveled the stool so I was facing him fully, my knees brushing his thigh. "If I decide to be loud? If I decide to wear whatever I want?"
I let the broken strap of my dress slip a fraction of an inch further down my arm.
Theo’s eyes tracked the movement. His jaw clenched so hard I heard his teeth grind. His pupils dilated, swallowing the iris until his eyes were almost black.
For a second, I thought he was going to kiss me. Or kill me. The line between the two felt terrifyingly thin.
He reached out.
I held my breath, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs.
His hand hovered over my shoulder. I could feel the heat of his palm. My skin prickled, every nerve ending screaming for contact. Touch me, I thought, the realization hitting me like a physical blow. God, please, just touch me.
He gripped the strap of my dress.
But instead of pulling it down, he yanked it up, roughly adjusting it so it covered my shoulder.
"Then you will learn," Theo whispered, his voice a dark caress against my ear, "that I have a very low tolerance for brats. And my methods of correction are not something you are prepared for."
He pulled back, his face a mask of stone.
"Your bags are in the hall. Get dressed. You look like a tragedy."
He turned and walked out of the kitchen, taking all the air in the room with him.
I sat there on the stool, clutching my coffee, my shoulder burning where his knuckles had brushed my skin. I was trembling. I was furious.
And for the first time in my life, I was completely, terrifyingly awake.
I looked at the empty doorway.
Stay out of his way?
Not a chance in hell. If he wanted a war, I would give him one. I would be the most beautiful, distracting, chaotic tragedy he had ever seen.
I would make him break every single one of his rules. Starting with the one about not touching me.