Chapter 3
Aurelia
My life was being packed into three Louis Vuitton duffels, and I wasn't even allowed to choose the destination.
"You're taking too much silk and not enough wool," Sloane said from her perch on my bed.
She was watching me rampage through my closet like a tornado in a Gucci outlet.
"You're going to a cabin in the Northeast Kingdom, Aurelia. It’s not a fashion week pop-up. It’s basically Narnia, but with less magic and more frostbite. "
I ignored her, shoving a handful of lace thongs into the side pocket of the bag. "I’m not wearing flannel, Sloane. I refuse to look like a lumberjack just because my father decided to sell me off to a bounty hunter."
Sloane sighed, picking at a thread on my duvet. "He's not a bounty hunter. He's the hockey captain. And honestly? After the balcony stunt? You're lucky you aren't in a facility with padded walls."
I froze, a silk robe clutched in my hand.
The memory of the balcony flashed behind my eyes. The wind. The cold. The sudden, terrifying weightlessness. And then... him.
Atlas.
I could still feel the phantom pressure of his arm around my waist. The way he’d hauled me over his shoulder like I was nothing more than a sack of grain. The way his hand had connected with my ass in the parking lot.
A shiver ripped through me, hot and shameful.
I squeezed my eyes shut, forcing the sensation down. I wasn't attracted to him. I couldn't be. He was a brute. A hired thug. He was everything I was raised to look down on—rough edges, no pedigree, hands that looked like they’d been used to break rocks.
"He's a neanderthal," I muttered, tossing the robe into the bag. "And he hates me."
"He saved your life," Sloane pointed out. "And now he's spending his winter break babysitting you instead of, I don't know, sharpening his axe or whatever giant stoic men do."
"He's doing it for money," I snapped. The bitterness coated my tongue.
That was the part that stung the most. It wasn't chivalry.
It was a transaction. My father had bought him, just like he bought the silence of the press, the grades on my transcript, and the loyalty of the Dean. "I'm just a paycheck to him."
"Maybe," Sloane said, standing up. "But look at the bright side. Three weeks alone with the hottest guy on campus? There are worse punishments."
"He's not hot. He's terrifying."
"Those two things aren't mutually exclusive, Ri."
My phone buzzed on the vanity. A single text message.
Unknown Number: I’m outside. You have five minutes.
I stared at the screen. No greeting. No politeness. Just a command.
"He's here," I whispered.
My heart did a traitorous double-tap against my ribs. I grabbed my phone and typed back.
Me: I’m not ready. Wait.
The ellipsis bubbled for three seconds.
Unknown Number: Five minutes. Or I come inside and carry you out again.
I threw the phone onto the bed. "I hate him."
"You're blushing," Sloane noted dryly.
"It's rage, Sloane. It's pure, unadulterated rage."
I zipped the bag with more force than necessary.
Downstairs, the bass of a sound system started to thump.
It was Tuesday afternoon, which meant the Kappa Delta pre-game mixer was starting.
The house was filling up with girls in pastel sweaters and guys in boat shoes, drinking spiked cider and pretending to care about charity initiatives.
I had to walk through that to get to my executioner.
"Help me with these," I commanded, grabbing the heaviest bag.
Sloane rolled her eyes but grabbed the other two. "You know, if you survive this, you might actually come back with some character development."
"If I survive this," I said, checking my reflection in the mirror—perfecting the bored, icy stare that was my only defense mechanism—"I’m going to burn that cabin to the ground."
The Kappa Delta living room was a assault on the senses. It smelled of cinnamon candles, expensive perfume, and the distinct, yeasty scent of keg beer being tapped in the kitchen.
The room was crowded. Fifty or so students were milling around, laughing, flirting. It was the kind of scene I usually ruled. I was the Queen of Kappa Delta. I set the trends. I decided who was allowed to stand by the fireplace and who had to hover by the door.
Today, I felt like a ghost haunting my own funeral.
I dragged my suitcase down the grand staircase, my heels clicking sharply on the wood. Sloane followed, struggling with the duffels.
Heads turned. The whispers started immediately.
"Is that her?"
"I heard she got expelled."
"I heard she tried to kill herself."
"I heard she slept with the whole hockey team."
I kept my chin high, my face a mask of porcelain indifference. Let them talk, I told myself. Sheep always bleat when the wolf walks by.
I reached the bottom of the stairs just as the front door swung open.
The room went silent.
It wasn't a gradual hush. It was instantaneous. The music seemed to fade. The chatter cut off like a wire had been severed.
Atlas stood in the doorway.
He didn't belong here. He was too big, too dark, too... real for this curated, pastel world. He was wearing black combat boots, dark jeans that hugged his massive thighs, and a black thermal shirt under a shearling-lined denim jacket. He looked like a storm cloud that had drifted into a candy shop.
He didn't look at the crowd. He didn't look at the expensive furniture or the chandelier.
His eyes—black, bottomless, terrifying—locked onto me instantly.
He didn't smile. He didn't wave. He just stood there, taking up all the oxygen in the room, radiating a silent, brooding authority that made the frat boys in the room look like children playing dress-up.
"You're late," he rumbled. His voice carried across the room without him raising it.
I felt the heat rise in my cheeks. I hated that he could do that to me. I hated that my body reacted to his presence like he was a magnet and I was iron filings.
"I have a lot of things," I said, gesturing to the bags. "Unlike you, I don't live out of a gym locker."
"Clearly," he drawled. He stepped into the room. The crowd parted for him instinctively. No one wanted to be in his path.
He walked toward me, his boots heavy on the hardwood. Every step felt like a countdown.
"Aurelia! Wait up!"
A hand grabbed my forearm.
I flinched, turning to see Topher heavy-breathing next to me. Topher was a finance major, the son of a senator, and my "sort-of" ex from last semester. He was handsome in a generic, catalog way, and he had the grip strength of a wet noodle.
"Where are you going?" Topher asked, his eyes darting nervously toward Atlas and then back to me. "We have the mixer. You’re supposed to be hostessing."
"I'm leaving, Topher," I said, trying to pull my arm away. "Let go."
"Leaving? For how long? You can't just bail. The Winter Gala is next week. We’re supposed to go together." He tightened his grip slightly. It wasn't painful, but it was annoying. Possessive in a whiny, entitlement-filled way. "Come on, stop being dramatic. Just put the bags away and have a drink."
I opened my mouth to tell him to rot in hell, but the temperature in the room dropped again.
Atlas was there.
He didn't touch Topher. He didn't have to. He just stopped, two feet away, and loomed. He seemed to expand, his shoulders blocking out the light from the chandelier.
"She said let go," Atlas said.
It wasn't a shout. It was a statement of fact. Calm. Cold. Violent.
Topher looked up. He had to crane his neck. He swallowed audibly. "Chill, man. I'm just talking to my girlfriend."
"I'm not your girlfriend," I corrected, though neither of them was looking at me.
Atlas tilted his head. His eyes dropped to Topher’s hand on my arm. He stared at the contact point like it was a stain on a pristine white sheet. A muscle in his jaw feathered.
Tick. Tick. Boom.
"You have three seconds to remove your hand," Atlas said softly. "Or I remove it for you."
The threat hung in the air, heavy and explicit. There was no doubt in anyone’s mind—least of all Topher’s—that Atlas would snap his wrist like a dry twig and not lose a wink of sleep over it.
Topher snatched his hand back as if I were on fire. He took a step back, holding his hands up in surrender. "Okay. Jesus. Keep her. She's crazy anyway."
Atlas’s eyes narrowed. He took a half-step forward, his hands curling into fists at his sides.
I felt a sudden, irrational spike of panic. Not for me. For Topher. Atlas looked ready to tear him apart. And for a split second, I saw it—the flash of something possessive. Something primal. It wasn't just him doing a job. He looked offended that Topher had touched me.
"Atlas," I said, stepping between them.
He looked down at me. The rage in his eyes was swirling, a dark vortex.
"My bags," I said, keeping my voice steady, though my knees were shaking. "Take them."
He stared at me for a heartbeat longer, his chest rising and falling with a slow, controlled breath. Then, the mask slammed back into place. The Enforcer returned.
He bent down and grabbed all three bags. Sloane’s eyes widened. Those bags were heavy—filled with shoes, books, and spite—and he lifted them all with one hand, hoisting the straps over his shoulder effortlessly.
"Walk," he ordered.
He turned and marched toward the door. He didn't look back at Topher. He didn't look back at the gaping sorority sisters.
I looked at Sloane. She gave me a small, terrified wave.
"Good luck," she mouthed.
I squared my shoulders, adjusted my scarf, and followed the monster out into the snow.
Atlas
The air inside that house had been suffocating. Too sweet. Too warm. Too fake.
And seeing that prep-school waste of space touching her...
I gripped the steering wheel of the SUV until the leather creaked. We were ten miles out of town, the campus fading into the rearview mirror, but my heart rate hadn't come down yet.
It wasn't jealousy. I told myself that as I stared at the dark, winding road ahead. The headlights cut through the falling snow, illuminating the tunnel of pine trees. Jealousy implied I cared. Jealousy implied I wanted her.