Chapter 3
Chapter Three
The Tsar
The sound of steel cutting into ice was the only language that made sense to me.
Schhhk. Schhhk. Schhhk.
It was 5:00 AM. The Blackthorne Arena was a cavern of silence and freezing air, illuminated only by the harsh hum of the floodlights reflecting off the white sheet. I was alone. No teammates, no coaches, no scouts. Just me, the puck, and the violent, rhythmic burn in my quadriceps.
I drove my edges into the ice, carving a sharp turn that sent a spray of snow against the boards. My lungs burned, the cold air scraping down my throat like swallowed glass.
It wasn't enough.
I skated harder, pushing my body past the point of fatigue, trying to outrun the ghost that had taken up residence in my head.
Vanilla.
The scent was haunting me. It was in my house. It was in my truck. It was currently clinging to the fibers of my favorite hoodie, which I had found draped over a chair in the kitchen this morning, smelling like a French bakery and female chaos.
Mila Kensington.
It had been twenty-four hours since I moved her into the Fortress. Twenty-four hours of psychological warfare.
She was loud. She sang off-key to pop music in the shower at 6 AM. She left half-empty coffee cups on every flat surface like she was marking her territory. She walked around in silk robes that cost more than my tuition, looking like a tragic, beautiful accident waiting to happen.
I slapped a puck with my stick, sending it rocketing into the top shelf of the net. The ping of rubber hitting the crossbar echoed through the empty stadium like a gunshot.
"Nice shot, Volkov. But you’re aiming for the wrong head."
I skid to a halt, spraying ice, and looked up at the glass. Coach Miller stood there, a steaming coffee in hand, his breath misting in the cold air. He looked tired. We all were. The pressure of the season was a physical weight pressing down on the roster.
"Coach," I acknowledged, my breathing heavy but controlled.
"Get off the ice, son," Miller said, jerking his head toward the locker room. "Save the aggression for the game on Friday. Tonight, I need you civilized."
I groaned internally. I knew what tonight was.
The Blackthorne Alumni Gala.
It was an annual torture session where the team put on suits, drank sparkling water, and smiled at rich donors who had never skated a day in their lives but liked to feel like they owned us. It was a parade of entitlement.
"I’ll be there," I said, skating toward the bench.
"And Volkov?" Miller called out as I unlatched the gate. "Bring the girl."
I froze, one skate on the rubber matting, one still on the ice. I looked back at him. "Excuse me?"
"Kensington," Miller said, taking a sip of his coffee. "Her father called. He wants her there. Says it’s good for appearances if she’s seen supporting the program. Shows stability. Shows she’s… rehabilitated."
"She’s not rehabilitated," I muttered, stepping off the ice. "She’s a feral cat in designer heels."
"That’s your problem, isn't it?" Miller grinned, a shark-like expression that told me he knew exactly how much I hated this. "Clean her up. Put her in a dress that covers the important parts. And make sure she smiles at the donors. Her last name is on the library, Theo. Her presence opens wallets."
I walked down the tunnel, the rage simmering low in my gut.
I wasn't just a babysitter anymore. I was a handler. I was supposed to parade her around like a show pony so the university could cash checks.
I ripped my helmet off, throwing it into my locker with enough force to dent the metal mesh.
Control, I reminded myself. It’s just a night. Four hours. Get in, shake hands, keep her from burning the building down, get out.
But as I stripped off my gear, the smell of sweat and deep heat filling the small room, I couldn't shake the feeling that tonight wasn't going to be about business.
Tonight was going to be a test. And Mila Kensington was studying for it.
The house was quiet when I got back. Deceptively so.
I showered, scrubbing the smell of the rink off my skin, and walked into my bedroom to dress.
I hated suits. I felt restricted in them.
My shoulders were too broad for off-the-rack, and even the tailored ones felt like a straightjacket.
I pulled on the charcoal grey trousers and the crisp white shirt, struggling with the buttons.
My fingers were taped, clumsy with the delicate plastic.
I tied my tie—a Windsor knot, precise, symmetrical—and shrugged on the jacket. I looked in the mirror.
I didn't look like a student. I looked like a hitman attending a funeral. The scar on my eyebrow stood out starkly against the clean shave. The tattoos were hidden, but I could feel them itching under the wool.
I checked my watch. 6:45 PM. We had to leave in fifteen minutes.
I walked out into the hallway. "Mila! We’re leaving in ten."
No answer.
I walked to her door. It was closed. I raised my fist to knock, but before I could make contact, the door swung open.
The air left my lungs in a rush.
I had expected chaos. I had expected a mess. I had expected her to look like the brat I dragged out of the frat house—disheveled and desperate.
I wasn't expecting this.
Mila stood in the doorway. She was wearing emerald green.
The dress was silk, floor-length, and fit her like a second skin.
It had a high neck—deceptively modest—but the back…
I could see in the reflection of her vanity mirror that the back plunged dangerously low, exposing the delicate ridge of her spine.
Her hair was pulled up in a sleek, intricate knot, exposing the long, elegant line of her neck. She wore diamond studs in her ears. Her makeup was sharp—winged liner that made her blue eyes look like weaponized sapphires, and a blood-red lip that looked like a warning sign.
She didn't look like a child. She looked like a queen on a chessboard.
She looked at me, her eyes racking over my suit, lingering on the knot of my tie, then dropping to my hands. A slow, smirk curled the corner of her red mouth.
"Well," she purred, her voice dripping with false sweetness. "You clean up nicely, Volkov. You almost look human."
"Green," I stated flatly. My brain was rebooting.
"It brings out the money in my eyes," she quipped, stepping past me into the hall. The scent of vanilla and peaches hit me like a physical blow. It was stronger tonight, layered with something muskier. "Shall we? I’d hate to make the donors wait. I hear the shrimp cocktail is to die for."
I grabbed her arm as she tried to breeze past me.
My fingers wrapped around her bicep. Her skin was incredibly soft, warm against the calluses of my palm. The contact sent a jolt of static electricity through me, grounding me and terrifying me at the same time.
She stopped, looking down at my hand, then up at my face. She didn't pull away.
"We are going to be clear on the parameters of this evening," I said, my voice low.
"Parameters," she mocked softly. "You love that word. Is there a spreadsheet involved?"
"You stick to me," I commanded, ignoring her sass. "You don't wander off. You don't drink. You smile, you say hello to the people who pay for the roof over your head, and you do not cause a scene."
Mila tilted her head. Her eyes danced with a dangerous light.
"Or what, Theo?" she whispered. "Are you going to put me over your knee in the middle of the ballroom? Because I checked the guest list. That kind of entertainment usually costs extra."
My jaw tightened until my teeth audibly clicked.
"Don't test me, Mila. Not tonight."
She stepped closer. She was so short compared to me, she had to crane her neck back. She was in my personal space—the zone I defended with violence on the ice. But here, in the hallway, I didn't want to check her. I wanted to...
I shut the thought down.
"I’m not testing you," she said, her voice dropping the mockery for a split second. "I’m a Kensington, Theo. I know how to play the game better than you do. You play with pucks. I play with perception. Just try to keep up."
She pulled her arm free from my grip and walked toward the front door, her heels clicking a rhythm of war on the concrete floor.
The Gala was a sensory nightmare.
The Grand Ballroom of the Blackthorne Student Center had been transformed. Crystal chandeliers dripped light onto tables covered in white linen. A string quartet was butchering Mozart in the corner. The room smelled of roast beef, expensive perfume, and desperation.
It was hot. The kind of stifling, body-heat humidity that makes a suit feel like a torture device.
I stood near the periphery, holding a glass of sparkling water I had no intention of drinking, scanning the room like I was looking for a sniper.
Mila was working the room.
And I hated to admit it, but she was right. She was better at this than I was.
She was currently holding court with Mr. Henderson, the biggest donor to the athletic program. Henderson was a bore, a man who loved to hear himself talk about "grit" and "hustle" while sipping fifty-dollar whiskey. Usually, players avoided him like the plague.
Mila had him eating out of her hand.
I watched from ten feet away. She threw her head back and laughed at something he said—a melodic, perfect laugh that sounded genuine, even though I knew it was manufactured. She touched his arm lightly, a gesture of familiarity that made the old man puff out his chest.
She was a chameleon. The brat was gone. In her place was the heiress.
"She’s good," a voice said beside me.
I glanced down. It was Jax. My winger was wearing a suit that was technically dress code compliant, but he had paired it with cheetah-print socks and his tie was loose.
"She’s acting," I grunted, taking a sip of the water. It was warm.
"Maybe," Jax shrugged. "But look at them. She’s charming the pants off the boosters. You should be thanking her. She’s probably securing your stick budget for next year right now."
I narrowed my eyes. "She’s doing it to annoy me."