Chapter 3 #2
His tuxedo was midnight blue, almost black. It was cut to perfection, emphasizing the width of his shoulders and the taper of his waist. He wasn't smiling. He was listening to a short, balding man talk, his face a mask of polite boredom.
Then, as if he felt my gaze, he looked up.
His eyes locked onto mine across the crowded room.
The air between us snapped tight.
He looked me up and down. It wasn't a casual glance. It was a slow, deliberate inventory. His gaze started at my heels, traveled up the slit in the gold silk, lingered on the curve of my hip, and finally rested on the deep cowl neckline.
His pupils dilated. I saw it from thirty feet away. He looked... hungry.
For a second, the mask slipped. The "Wall" cracked, and I saw the man beneath—possessive, dark, and dangerous.
Then the mask slammed back into place. He excused himself from the donors and started walking toward me. He moved through the crowd like Moses parting the Red Sea. People just got out of his way.
"You made it," he said when he reached me. His voice was low, intimate in the noise.
"I told you I would," I said, trying to keep my breath steady. He smelled incredible—sandalwood and something uniquely him. "Do I pass inspection?"
"The dress is..." He paused, his eyes darkening as they tracked the gold silk. "...a safety hazard. One strong breeze and you're indecent."
"Good thing we're indoors," I quipped. "And you clean up nice, Vance. You almost look approachable. Almost."
"Don't get used to it," he muttered. "I hate this. I feel like a prize poodle at a dog show."
"That's because you are," a voice slurred from behind me.
We both turned.
It was Trip Halloway. His father owned half the car dealerships in New England. Trip was twenty-two, had been a sophomore for four years, and had hands that tended to wander. He was swaying slightly, a drink in his hand.
"Camila Sterling," Trip grinned, stepping too close. "Word on the street is you're a free agent now. Daddy cut the cord, huh?"
My spine stiffened. "Hello, Trip. Go away."
"Aw, come on," Trip leered, reaching out to touch my arm. His fingers were clammy. "No need to be bitchy. If you're looking for a new sponsor, I've got a heavy wallet. We could have some fun. I've always wanted to see if the carpet matches the drapes."
The insult was gross, cliché, and loud enough that several people turned to look.
Shame burned hot in my cheeks. This was it. This was what it meant to be vulnerable. Without my father's name as a shield, I was just a girl in a skimpy dress that men like Trip thought they could buy.
I opened my mouth to tell him to rot in hell, but I never got the chance.
Cameron moved.
One second he was standing beside me, the next he was between me and Trip. He didn't shove him. He just stepped into Trip's space, looming over him by a good six inches.
Cameron placed a hand on Trip's shoulder. It looked friendly, but I saw the way his knuckles went white. He was squeezing. Hard.
Trip winced, his knees buckling slightly.
"Trip," Cameron said. His voice was terrifyingly calm. It was the voice of a man who stopped pucks with his body for a living. "I think you've had enough. And I think you owe the lady an apology."
"I was just... joking," Trip stammered, trying to pull away. Cameron didn't let go.
"It wasn't funny," Cameron said. "Apologize."
"Sorry," Trip squeaked. "Sorry, Camila."
Cameron released him. Trip stumbled back, rubbing his shoulder, and practically ran toward the bar.
I stood there, stunned. My heart was racing.
Cameron turned back to me. The anger in his eyes was visceral. But it wasn't directed at me.
"Are you okay?" he asked.
"I can handle Trip Halloway," I said, though my voice shook.
"You shouldn't have to," Cameron growled.
Then, he did something that made my brain short-circuit.
He reached out and placed his hand on the small of my back. His palm was hot, searing through the thin silk. He pulled me a step closer to him, closing the distance.
"Stay with me," he murmured. "If you're next to me, the vultures won't bite."
"Is that part of the contract?" I whispered, looking up at him. "Protecting the tenant?"
"That's just part of the game," he said. But his thumb brushed against my spine, a slow, possessive stroke that made my knees weak. "Let's get out of here. I need air."
The Balcony
The terrace was empty. It was freezing, but the cold air felt like salvation after the stifling heat of the ballroom.
Cameron leaned against the stone railing, looking out at the city lights. I stood next to him, hugging my bare arms.
"Here," he said. He took off his tuxedo jacket and draped it over my shoulders.
It was heavy and warm, and it smelled like him. I pulled the lapels tight.
"Thanks," I said. "You're ruining your tough guy image, you know. First you rescue me from a park bench, now you give me your coat. People might start thinking you have a heart."
"Don't spread rumors," he said, looking at me. "It's bad for my brand."
"Your brand," I scoffed. " The Ice King. The Wall. It's exhausting, isn't it? Being perfect all the time."
"It's necessary," he said. "Chaos is a weakness. If you let things slide, you lose."
"I'm chaos," I said quietly. "Aren't I?"
He turned to face me fully. The moonlight caught the sharp angles of his face. He looked devastating.
"Yes," he said. "You are. You're a walking disaster, Mila. You're loud, you're messy, and you drive me insane."
"Then why did you help me?" I asked. "Why did you almost break Trip's arm in there?"
He stepped closer. I backed up until my hips hit the stone railing. There was nowhere to go.
He placed his hands on the railing on either side of me, trapping me in a cage of his arms. He didn't touch me, but he was everywhere. His chest was inches from mine. I could feel the heat radiating off him.
"Because," he whispered, his voice rough. "I don't like other people playing with my things."
My breath hitched. "Your things? I'm not a thing, Cameron. And I'm definitely not yours."
"Aren't you?" He leaned down, his face so close I could see the flecks of silver in his blue eyes. "You live in my house. You wear my clothes. You sleep in my bed."
"Guest bed," I corrected breathlessly.
"Semantics," he dismissed.
His gaze dropped to my lips. My heart was hammering so hard I thought he must be able to hear it.
"You hate me," I reminded him. "We have a contract."
"The contract says no male guests," he murmured. "It doesn't say anything about the landlord."
The air between us crackled. It was a physical force, pulling us together. I wanted him to kiss me. God, I wanted him to kiss me. I wanted him to ruin my lipstick and my life.
I tilted my head back, my lips parting.
He leaned in. I closed my eyes. I felt his breath against my cheek.
Bzzzt. Bzzzt.
The phone in his pocket vibrated against my hip.
We both froze.
The moment shattered like glass.
Cameron pulled back, squeezing his eyes shut for a second as if in pain. He cursed under his breath.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out the phone. He looked at the screen.
"Coach," he said, his voice flat.
He answered the phone, turning away from me. "Yes, Coach. I'm at the gala. No, I haven't seen the scout yet. I'm on it."
He hung up and looked back at me. The mask was back in place. The Wall was up.
"We have to go back inside," he said. "I have to shake some hands."
I felt cold. The jacket wasn't enough anymore.
"Right," I said, hugging myself. "Business."
"Mila," he said, stopping me before I could walk past him.
He reached out and tucked a loose curl behind my ear. His fingers lingered on my jaw for a second. His skin was fire.
"We're not done," he said. "This conversation... we're not done."
"I know," I whispered.
He dropped his hand. "Let's go."
I followed him back toward the warmth and the noise, my heart pounding a frantic rhythm.
I was in trouble. Big trouble.
I wasn't just faking it anymore. And I wasn't just a tenant.
I was falling for the enemy. And if the way he looked at me on that balcony was any indication... he was going to catch me. And then he was going to devour me.