Chapter 3
Maya
The dress was a mistake.
It was a slip of emerald green silk that Harper had fished out of the back of her closet—a "legacy piece," she called it, leftover from her older sister’s sorority days.
It had a cowl neck that draped precariously low and a slit up the thigh that felt less like a design choice and more like a structural failure.
I stood in front of the full-length mirror on the back of our dorm room door, smoothing the fabric over my hips. My hands were shaking.
"I look ridiculous," I said, my voice tight. "I look like I'm trying to be someone I'm not."
"You look like a weapon of mass destruction," Harper corrected, applying a layer of dark berry lipstick in her own vanity mirror.
She popped her lips, the sound sharp and satisfied.
"Which is exactly the point. We are going into the belly of the beast, Maya.
You can't wear your 'I study in the library on Saturday nights' cardigan to The Hive. The wolves will eat you alive."
Harper didn’t know how literal she was being.
She didn't know about the arena. She didn't know about the hallway in the conservatory yesterday morning, or the way the air had crackled with a terrifying, addictive electricity when Leo Vance’s fingers had brushed mine.
Leo.
The name was a drumbeat in my head.
I had spent the last twenty-four hours trying to exorcise him from my brain.
I had practiced scales until my fingers bled again.
I had reorganized my sheet music binder by composer, then by era, then by key signature.
I had called my mother and listened to a fifteen-minute monologue about the importance of "presentation" for the Dean’s visit.
But every time I closed my eyes, I saw him.
I saw the jagged scar on his chest. I saw the gold flaring in his eyes—a color that shouldn't exist in human biology. I felt the heat of his body, a furnace that radiated danger.
"I don't want to go, Harper," I said, turning away from the mirror. I hugged my arms around my waist, trying to cover the exposed skin. "I have the recital on Friday. Professor Halloway is already looking for a reason to cut me. I should stay here. I should be practicing."
Harper spun around on her stool, her eyes wide and pleading. She was a tiny, frenetic ball of energy with a blond pixie cut and a nose ring she hid from her parents. She was the chaos to my order.
"Maya, please," she begged, clasping her hands together.
"I can't go alone. You know the rumors about that house.
They say the hockey team runs a cult. Or a fight club.
I need a witness. I need a wingman. I need you to stand there and look pretty and innocent so no one suspects I'm mentally drafting an exposé for the Blackwood Gazette. "
"They aren't running a cult," I said, though I wasn't entirely sure.
"They live in a gothic mansion in the woods," Harper countered. "They never date outside the team circle. They win every game by a landslide, and half the opposing teams end up in the ER. That’s not normal, Maya. It’s suspicious."
It was suspicious. It was terrifying. And that was exactly why I needed to stay away.
Leo had warned me. I’m the guy you need to stay away from.
He had looked at me with a mix of hunger and hatred that had made my knees weak. If I walked into his house—into his territory—wearing this dress, I wasn't just ignoring his warning. I was crumpling it up and throwing it in his face.
"Five minutes," Harper bargained, sensing my hesitation. "We go, we get a drink, I scout the perimeter, we leave. You’ll be back in your pajamas by midnight."
I looked at the black folder on my desk. The one Leo had returned to me. The leather still smelled faintly of him—pine, cold air, and something dark and musky.
My mother’s voice whispered in my ear: Good girls don't chase trouble. Good girls don't have desires. Good girls perform.
But the girl who had played the cello in the dark arena... she wasn't a good girl. She was lonely. And she was curious.
"Fine," I breathed, grabbing my coat. "One drink. But if anyone tries to talk to me about sports, I'm leaving."
The Hive was not a frat house. It was a fortress.
It sat at the edge of the dense pine forest that bordered the campus, isolated from the rest of the Greek Row. It was a sprawling Victorian estate made of dark stone and timber, with turrets that stabbed into the night sky and windows that glowed with a flickering, orange light.
As we walked up the long, gravel driveway, the bass from the music inside started to vibrate in the soles of my boots. It wasn't the chaotic, tinny pop music of a normal college party. It was a heavy, rhythmic thumping, like a massive heartbeat.
"Creepy," Harper whispered, gripping my arm. "I love it."
There was no line at the door. No bouncer checking IDs. The massive oak double doors were wide open, and the heat pouring out was tangible.
We stepped across the threshold, and my senses were immediately assaulted.
The smell hit me first. It was overwhelming.
It smelled of woodsmoke from the massive fireplaces, expensive bourbon, and sweat.
But underneath that, there was that same scent I had smelled on Leo—the musk.
It was everywhere here, woven into the tapestries, thick in the air.
It triggered a primal instinct in my brain that said Run, but my body betrayed me. My nipples hardened. My pulse spiked.
The main hall was crowded, but not packed. The people here moved differently. The members of the hockey team—the "Pack," as they called themselves—moved with a fluid, lethal grace. They were all huge, broad-shouldered and lean, taking up space with an arrogance that felt earned.
"Target acquired," Harper murmured, her eyes locking onto a group of guys near the staircase. "That’s Jax, the goalie. He’s the chatty one. I’m going in."
"Harper, wait—"
But she was gone, disappearing into the crowd like a heat-seeking missile, leaving me standing alone in the entryway in my green silk dress.
I felt exposed. I felt like a beacon.
I tried to make myself invisible. I hugged the wall, inching my way toward what looked like a kitchen, hoping for a glass of water.
"Well, well," a voice drawled from my left. "I didn't think good girls came to the woods after dark."
I froze. It wasn't Leo.
I turned to see a guy leaning against a pillar. He was handsome in a rough, chaotic way—messy brown hair, a crooked nose, and a smile that was all teeth. I recognized him from the roster photos Harper had forced me to memorize. Silas. The Defenseman.
He was looking at me, but not the way guys usually looked at me. He wasn't looking at my cleavage or my legs. He was looking at me with a strange, tilted curiosity, sniffing the air subtly.
"I'm just looking for my friend," I said, keeping my voice steady.
"The blonde reporter?" Silas smirked. "Jax has her. She’ll be busy for a while. Jax likes to hear himself talk almost as much as he likes to catch pucks."
He pushed off the pillar and took a step toward me. He was big—not as big as Leo, but close. "You're Maya. The Cello Girl."
"How do you know that?"
"Word travels fast in the pack," Silas said enigmaticallly. His blue eyes crinkled. "You made quite an impression on the Captain. He’s been... moody. Moodier than usual, which is saying something, considering his baseline emotion is 'homicidal rage'."
"I didn't mean to upset him," I lied.
"Oh, I think you did," Silas laughed softly. "I think you upset his entire world view." He leaned in closer, dropping his voice. "Advice? Run. Now. Before he sees you in that dress. Because Leo has rules, Maya. And you look like you were designed specifically to break every single one of them."
"I don't follow Leo's rules," I said, lifting my chin. It was a bluff, but it felt good to say.
Silas’s smile faded slightly. He looked past my shoulder, his expression tightening. "Well. You can tell him that yourself."
The air in the room changed.
It happened in an instant. The laughter seemed to die down. The music felt distant. The hair on my arms stood straight up, electrified.
I felt him before I saw him.
A wave of heat washed over my back, followed by the scent of a winter storm.
"Silas," a voice rumbled directly behind my ear. It was low, vibrating through my spine. "Stop playing with my food."
I spun around.
Leo was there.
He looked devastating. He was wearing black jeans and a black henley that clung to his chest, the buttons strained. His sleeves were pushed up, revealing the forest tattoo on his forearm. His hair was loose, falling over his forehead.
But it was his face that stopped my heart. He looked furious. His jaw was clenched so tight a muscle feathered in his cheek. His eyes were burning, locked onto mine with a possessive intensity that made the rest of the room disappear.
"Cap," Silas said, holding up his hands in mock surrender. "Just making conversation. She looked lost."
"She’s not lost," Leo ground out, never looking away from me. "She’s leaving."
"I just got here," I argued, my voice sounding breathless even to my own ears.
Leo finally looked at Silas. "Go find Jax. Make sure he doesn't tell the journalist where the bodies are buried."
Silas gave me a wink—a silent good luck—and vanished into the crowd.
Now it was just us.
Leo stepped into my space. He didn't touch me, but he loomed over me, creating a private wall of muscle and heat that shielded me from the party.
"What are you doing here, Maya?" he asked. It wasn't a question. It was an accusation.
"It's a party," I said, trying to summon the courage I had felt in the hallway. "I was invited."
"By who?" he snapped. "Not by me."
"My roommate wanted to come."
"And you let her drag you here?" His eyes dropped, raking over my body. His gaze started at my face, trailed down the exposed column of my throat, lingered heavily on the cowl neck of the green dress, and followed the slit up my thigh.
When his eyes came back up to mine, they were darker. The gold flecks were swirling.