Chapter 2 #3
It was a vast, open space. Floor-to-ceiling windows looked out over the snow-covered campus and the frozen river beyond.
The floors were polished white concrete.
The furniture was black leather, low-profile, Italian.
The kitchen island was a slab of white marble that looked more like an altar than a place to eat.
It was sterile. It was perfect.
I heard the soft thump of boots dropping in the foyer, then the padding of socked feet.
Camila walked into the room. She stopped dead.
"Wow," she murmured. "It looks like... a serial killer lives here. A very rich, very neat serial killer."
"It's called minimalism," I said, walking to the kitchen to pour a glass of water. "Something you clearly know nothing about."
I gestured to her reflection in the window. The wild hair, the denim jacket, the pink luggage I had just dragged in.
"Where do I put my stuff?" she asked, looking around for a surface that wasn't pristine. She clearly didn't want to touch anything.
"The second door on the right down the hall," I said. "Put the bag in there. Do not unpack it in the living room. Do not leave shoes in the hallway. Do not..." I paused, looking at her. "Just don't touch anything."
She bristled. The spark was coming back. Good. I preferred the brat to the broken doll.
"I'm not going to infect your precious apartment, Cameron," she snapped. "I just need a place to sleep."
"Hungry?" I asked.
Her stomach answered for her. A loud, undeniable growl that echoed in the quiet room.
She blushed, a deep crimson that spread down her neck.
"I haven't eaten since... yesterday lunch," she admitted, looking at the floor.
I walked to the fridge. It was organized by food group, labels facing out. I pulled out a container of grilled chicken, pre-portioned quinoa, and roasted broccoli.
"Sit," I pointed to the bar stools at the island.
She sat. She looked tiny on the massive stool.
I put the food in the microwave. While it hummed, the tension in the room grew. We were alone. Properly alone. No music, no bar crowds, no snowstorms. Just us in a glass box in the sky.
I leaned against the counter, crossing my arms over my chest. "We need to get some things straight, Sterling. If you are staying here tonight."
"Okay," she said warily.
"This isn't a slumber party. I have a game on Friday. I have scouts watching me. I have a routine. You do not disrupt the routine."
"I won't," she promised. "I'll be invisible."
"Unlikely," I muttered. The microwave beeped. I took the food out and slid the bowl across the marble to her. I handed her a fork.
She looked at the healthy, bland food like it was a feast. She took a bite, moaned softly, and closed her eyes.
"Oh my god," she whispered. "Food."
The sound—that soft, guttural moan—hit me straight in the solar plexus. It was a sound of pleasure. Pure, unadulterated need being met.
My eyes dropped to her lips. They were wrapped around the fork.
I felt a sudden, violent urge to walk around the counter, lift her onto the marble, and replace that fork with my mouth. I wanted to make her make that sound again, but for a different reason.
I griped the edge of the counter, my knuckles turning white.
No. Absolutely not.
"Eat," I said, my voice rougher than I intended. "Then shower. You smell like a dive bar."
She stopped chewing and glared at me. "And you smell like bleach and repression."
"Better than failure," I shot back.
She flinched, but she didn't stop eating. She was a survivor. I had to give her that.
"So," she said, pointing the fork at me. "What's the catch? You don't do charity. Why are you helping me?"
I looked at her. I looked at the way her curls were starting to dry in a halo around her head. I looked at the curve of her throat.
"Because," I said, leaning forward so our faces were inches apart over the island. "I like my environment controlled. And you running wild on my campus is a variable I can't predict. If you're here, I can watch you."
Her breath hitched. Her pupils dilated, swallowing the green.
"You want to watch me?" she whispered. The double entendre hung in the air, heavy and electric.
"I want to make sure you don't burn the city down," I lied.
"Maybe I like fire," she challenged, leaning in closer.
"Then you're in the wrong house," I said softly. "Because I'm ice, Mila. I don't burn. I freeze things until they stop moving."
We stared at each other. The air between us crackled. It was hate. It was annoyance. And it was the most intense physical attraction I had ever felt in my life.
"Finish your food," I said abruptly, pushing off the counter and turning my back on her. "I have to study."
I walked away, heading for my bedroom.
But I could feel her eyes on my back. I could feel her presence in my space like a physical weight.
The fortress had been breached. And as I closed my bedroom door and leaned against it, listening to the sound of her fork scraping against the bowl, I realized the terrifying truth.
I didn't want her to leave.
I wanted to keep her. I wanted to break her. I wanted to make her mine.
And that was a desire that could destroy us both.