Chapter 1
Kai
The bass of the music didn't just vibrate the floorboards of the penthouse; it felt like a physical assault on my ribcage. A relentless, thumping heartbeat that wasn’t my own, syncing with the chaotic pulse of two hundred bodies crammed into a space designed for silence.
I hated parties.
I loathed the smell of them—a cloying cocktail of cheap beer, expensive perfume, sweat, and desperate hormones.
I despised the way the air grew thick and humid, fogging up the floor-to-ceiling glass windows that usually offered a pristine view of the frozen Blackstone campus below.
Tonight, the view was obscured by condensation and the press of bodies against the glass.
“You look like you’re plotting a murder, Kapitan,” a voice shouted over the drop of a remix that made the crystal chandelier tremble.
I didn’t turn. I didn’t have to. I knew exactly who it was by the chaotic energy that suddenly flanked my right side.
Silas St. John. My goalie. My best friend.
The only person at Blackstone University with a net worth that rivaled my own, and the only person who seemed intent on burning his inheritance to the ground one keg stand at a time.
“I am plotting,” I muttered, my voice low, barely audible over the noise. But Silas heard it. He always heard the things I didn’t want to say. “I’m plotting the structural collapse of this building just to get them to leave.”
Silas laughed, clapping a heavy hand on my shoulder.
He was shirtless, sweat gleaming on his chest, a backward Bruins cap covering his blond hair.
He looked like a golden retriever who had just discovered cocaine.
“Relax, King. It’s the Block Party. Tradition.
The peasants demand bread and circuses. Or in this case, vodka and dry-humping in your foyer. ”
My jaw tightened. “They are scratching the hardwood.”
“It’s a rental, Kai.”
“It’s a Volkov rental,” I corrected, shrugging his hand off. “And if the Dean finds out we have three times the legal capacity in here, my academic probation won’t be the only thing keeping me from the draft.”
Silas rolled his eyes, taking a swig from a red solo cup. “The Dean loves you. You’re the star center. You’re the reason donors are writing checks with too many zeros. You’re untouchable.”
Untouchable.
The word tasted like ash in my mouth. That was the lie everyone at Blackstone bought. They saw the 'C' on my jersey, the Russian surname that was synonymous with oil and blood, the way I walked through the halls like I owned the stone beneath my boots. They thought I was a god.
They didn’t know I was a racehorse. A prize pony bred by a father who viewed affection as a weakness and performance as the only currency.
If I didn’t go first round in the draft this summer, if I didn’t lead the Bruins to the Frozen Four, I wouldn’t just be a disappointment.
I would be erased. My father didn’t tolerate failures. He liquidated them.
Control. That was the only thing that mattered. Control over the puck. Control over the team. Control over my own breathing when the panic threatened to claw its way up my throat.
And right now, looking at the writhing mass of humanity disrespecting my sanctuary, I felt my control slipping.
“I’m going to check the perimeter,” I said, turning away from the railing of the mezzanine.
“You mean you’re going to go sulk in your room and count your abs in the mirror?” Silas shouted after me.
I ignored him. I moved through the crowd like a shark cutting through schooling fish.
People parted for me. They always did. It was a mix of awe and fear that I had cultivated carefully over the last three years.
I wasn’t the friendly captain. I wasn't the guy you had a beer with.
I was the guy who benched you if you missed a pass in practice. I was the guy who didn't smile.
"Kai! Take a shot with us!" a girl in a skirt the size of a belt screamed, reaching for my arm.
I sidestepped her touch with the precision of a skater dodging a check. I didn’t make eye contact. To acknowledge them was to invite them in, and I had no room in my life for distractions. Especially not the kind that smelled like vanilla body spray and daddy issues.
I needed quiet. I needed ice. Since I couldn’t get to the rink without driving through a blizzard, my bedroom was the next best thing.
My suite was at the end of the long hallway on the second floor. It was the only room in the penthouse with a keypad lock. The code was complex. The door was solid oak. It was the one place in this godforsaken "Hive" that was entirely mine. No roommates. No puck bunnies. No noise.
I reached the door, my fingers itching to punch in the code, to hear the mechanical whir of the lock engaging behind me, sealing out the world.
But the light on the keypad wasn’t red.
It was green.
And the door was slightly ajar.
The rage that spiked in my blood was instant and freezing. It wasn’t a hot flash of anger; it was the sub-zero chill of absolute violence. I had one rule. One fucking rule. Stay out of my quarters.
I pushed the door open.
The room was dark, lit only by the ambient glow of the city lights reflecting off the snow outside the floor-to-ceiling windows. The air here was cooler, filtered, smelling of the sandalwood reeds I kept on the dresser and the crisp, clean scent of expensive detergent.
But there was something else. A foreign scent. Sweet. Floral. Like a garden blooming in the middle of a nuclear winter.
My eyes adjusted to the shadows.
Someone was in my bed.
Or rather, on it.
A figure was sprawled across the center of my California King, dead center on the pristine, white Egyptian cotton duvet I had imported specifically because I liked the sterility of it.
I didn't move. I stood in the doorway, letting my eyes trace the intruder.
It was a girl. She was lying on her stomach, her legs kicked up in the air, humming to herself.
She had a bottle of wine—my wine, a vintage Cabernet I had been saving for graduation—clutched in one hand.
She was wearing a dress that cost more than my first car, a shimmering silver thing that clung to curves soft enough to break a man’s resolve.
Platinum blonde hair spilled over my pillows like a halo.
I recognized her instantly. It was impossible not to.
Maeve Sterling.
The Dean’s daughter. The Princess of Blackstone University. The girl who walked around campus with a permanent scowl painted on her perfect lips, flanked by an entourage of fashion majors, looking at everyone else like they were dirt on her Prada loafers.
She was the definition of everything I hated. Spoiled. Entitled. Loud.
And she was currently drinking red wine over my white sheets.
I stepped into the room. I didn’t slam the door. I closed it with a soft, ominous click.
The sound made her freeze.
The humming stopped. Her legs lowered slowly to the mattress. She pushed herself up on her elbows, turning to look over her shoulder.
When her violet-blue eyes met mine, she didn’t look scared. She looked annoyed.
“You’re out of conditioner in the guest bath,” she slurred slightly, blinking at me. “And your towels feel like sandpaper. For a guy with a trust fund, you really need to invest in some thread count.”
I stared at her. The audacity was almost impressive.
“Get off the bed,” I said. My voice was a low rumble, vibrating in the quiet room.
Maeve rolled her eyes, sitting up fully. She swayed a little. Definitely tipsy. “Relax, Volkov. I just needed a break from the unwashed masses. Do you know Harper tried to set me up with a linebacker? A freshman linebacker? I have standards.”
She gestured wildly with the hand holding the bottle.
I watched it happen in slow motion.
The open mouth of the bottle dipped. The dark, blood-red liquid sloshed over the rim.
Gravity did the rest.
A thick, violent splash of Cabernet hit the center of the duvet. It soaked in instantly, a crimson wound spreading rapidly across the snowy white fabric. It splashed onto the grey throw pillows. It dripped onto the mattress protector underneath.
Silence.
Absolute, suffocating silence.
Maeve froze. She looked down at the stain, then back up at me. Her eyes widened, the violet shifting into something resembling panic for the first time.
“Oops,” she whispered.
Something inside me snapped. It wasn’t the linen. I could buy a thousand duvets. It was the disrespect. It was the invasion. It was the chaos she had brought into the one square footage of earth where I felt safe.
I walked toward the bed.
I didn't rush. I moved with the predatory grace that made scouts drool—smooth, heavy, inevitable.
Maeve scrambled backward, crab-walking across the mattress until her back hit the headboard. She pulled her knees to her chest, the empty bottle still clutched in her hand like a weapon.
“Stay back,” she warned, her voice trembling now. “My father is the Dean.”
I stopped at the edge of the bed. I loomed over her, blocking out the light from the window. I could smell the wine on the sheets. I could smell the fear coming off her skin—acrid and sweet.
“I know who your father is, Maeve,” I said softly.
I placed one knee on the mattress. Her breath hitched, a sharp intake of air that sounded loud in the room.
“And right now,” I leaned in, bringing my face inches from hers, until I could see the dilated pupils swallowing the blue of her irises, “he isn’t here to save you.”
Maeve
I was going to die.
That was the only logical conclusion. I was going to die in a penthouse apartment that smelled like aggressive masculinity and pine trees, murdered by a Russian hockey robot who looked like he wanted to eat my soul for breakfast.
Kai Volkov was terrifying from a distance. Up close, he was overwhelming.
He was just so… big.