Chapter 3
Belinda
The hypothesis was simple.
Variable A: I was a sexually repressed twenty-one-year-old virgin whose only exposure to male anatomy came from books with titles like The Duke’s Ravishing Revenge.
Variable B: Peter Volkov was a walking, breathing, pheromone-emitting example of genetic perfection who had unfortunately witnessed my most humiliating moment.
Result: A chemical reaction in my brain that was causing me to behave like a lunatic.
Therefore, the solution was obvious. I needed to remove Variable A.
I needed to get laid.
"Stop wiggling," Sloane commanded, her mouth full of bobby pins. "You’re vibrating like a Nokia brick phone from 2004. Hold still."
I stood in the center of our dorm room, staring at my reflection in the full-length mirror propped up against the closet door. I barely recognized the girl staring back.
Gone was the oversized grey cardigan that Peter had looked at with such disdain.
Gone were the scuffed combat boots. In their place, Sloane had encased me in a black slip dress that she claimed was "minimalist chic" but felt more like "lingerie with delusions of grandeur.
" It skimmed my hips, dipped dangerously low in the back, and ended mid-thigh.
"Sloane," I said, my voice rising an octave. "I can’t wear this. It’s... drafty. My internal organs are vulnerable to the elements."
"It’s a party at The Hive, Bee," Sloane said, spitting the pins onto the dresser and attacking my unruly curls with a bottle of texturizing spray.
"The only elements you need to worry about are flying ping-pong balls and spilled White Claw.
You look hot. You look like a girl who knows what a penis looks like in real life. "
"I know what it looks like!" I protested. "I took Anatomy 101. It looks like a sad mushroom."
Sloane snorted. "Okay, keep telling yourself that. Tonight isn’t about anatomy. It’s about vibes. You need to project 'I am available and chill,' not 'I analyze spreadsheets and hyperventilate near goaltenders.'"
She was right. Of course she was right.
Since the incident in the media booth on Tuesday—the one where Peter Volkov had crowded me against a desk and nearly short-circuited my nervous system with nothing but his body heat—I had been a wreck.
I couldn’t focus on the shot suppression data.
I couldn’t eat without wondering if my chewing was too loud.
Every time I saw a guy with black hair, my stomach did a somersault.
I was obsessed. And obsession was inefficient. It was a distraction from my career goals. It was a liability.
So, I had formulated a plan. I was going to go to the Friday night kegger at the hockey house.
I was going to find a nice, non-threatening, moderately attractive guy—someone who wasn’t a terrifying Russian demigod—and I was going to flirt with him.
I was going to kiss him. And if the data looked promising, I was going to go home with him and finally punch my V-card.
It was a system flush. A reboot. Once I realized that sex was just friction and biology, Peter Volkov would stop looking like a dark fantasy and start looking like just another goalie with a God complex.
"There," Sloane said, spinning me around. "Done. You look dangerous."
I adjusted my glasses, which I refused to leave behind. "I look like a librarian who got lost on her way to a strip club."
"Exactly," Sloane grinned, grabbing her purse. "That is a very specific fetish for a lot of guys. Let’s go hunting."
The Hive didn’t loom; it vibrated.
Even from the sidewalk, I could feel the bass thumping in the soles of my heels.
The house was massive, a sprawling modern cabin funded by booster money that probably should have gone to the library budget.
It had floor-to-ceiling windows that glowed with amber light, revealing the crushing mass of bodies inside.
The air outside was crisp, smelling of fallen leaves and Vermont autumn. But as soon as Sloane pushed open the massive front door, the atmosphere changed instantly.
It hit me like a physical wall—heat, humidity, and noise.
The sensory overload was immediate. The smell was a chaotic mix of cheap beer, expensive cologne, vanilla vape smoke, and three hundred sweating bodies. The music was deafening, a trap remix of a pop song that rattled my sternum.
"Stick close!" Sloane yelled over the noise, grabbing my hand and diving into the crowd like a soldier storming a beach.
We navigated through the living room, dodging elbows and red solo cups. The Blackwood social hierarchy was on full display. In the center, near the massive fireplace, were the players. They were easy to spot—taller, broader, and radiating the easy arrogance of men who owned the campus.
I scanned the room, my heart rate spiking.
Don’t look for him. Don’t look for him.
I looked for him.
It was involuntary. My eyes were magnets, and he was the North Pole.
He wasn’t in the center of the chaos. Of course he wasn’t.
I found him in the kitchen, leaning against the far granite island.
While everyone else was shouting, drinking, and draping themselves over each other, Peter Volkov was... still.
He was wearing a black t-shirt that fit him like a second skin, highlighting the ridiculous width of his shoulders and the thick cords of muscle in his arms. He held a bottle of water—not beer—in one large hand.
He wasn’t talking. He was watching the room with those slate-grey eyes, his expression bored, almost clinical. Like a zookeeper observing the monkeys.
A blonde girl in a tiny tube top was leaning into his space, laughing maniacally at something, her hand resting on his bicep.
I felt a sharp, ugly twist in my stomach. Acid. Hot and bitter.
Jealousy, my brain supplied helpfully. Irrational, stupid jealousy.
Peter didn’t smile at the girl. He just looked down at her hand on his arm, then back up to her face, then took a sip of water. He was tolerating her.
Then, as if he felt the weight of my gaze, his head snapped up.
His eyes locked onto mine across the sea of heads.
The connection was instant. Electric. It felt like he had reached across the room and grabbed me by the throat.
He didn’t smile. He didn’t wave. His gaze dropped from my eyes to my mouth, then lower. He traced the neckline of the slip dress, lingered on the exposed skin of my legs, and then came back up to my face.
His jaw tightened. I saw the muscle feather near his ear. His eyes narrowed slightly, darkening a shade.
He looked... displeased.
Good, I thought, a sudden surge of adrenaline masking my fear. Be displeased. I’m not your analyst tonight, Volkov. I’m a variable.
I tore my eyes away from him, grabbed Sloane’s arm, and dragged her toward the makeshift bar set up on the dining table.
"I need a drink," I yelled. "And then I need a target."
"Target acquired at three o’clock!" Sloane shouted back, pointing not-so-subtly at a group of guys near the patio door. "Blue shirt. Looks like he pays his taxes on time."
I squinted. Blue Shirt. Average height. nice smile. Holding a beer but not chugging it. He looked... safe. He looked like the kind of guy who would ask for consent and then apologize if he finished too quickly.
Perfect.
"Cover me," I told Sloane.
"Go get him, Tiger," she said, saluting me with a vodka cranberry.
I took a deep breath, smoothed my dress, and marched toward Blue Shirt.
Operation V-Card is a go.
His name was Kevin. Or maybe Devin. I hadn’t quite caught it over the bass drop.
He was a Business major. He liked ultimate frisbee. He thought the weather was "crazy lately."
He was perfectly, beautifully boring.
"So," Kevin-Devin yelled, leaning in closer to be heard. "You work for the team? That’s wild. Isn’t it weird being around all those meatheads?"
We were standing in the hallway between the kitchen and the living room, trapped in a bottleneck of people. It was hot. My back was pressed against the wall, and Kevin-Devin was leaning one hand on the wall next to my head. It was a classic romance novel pose. The "caged in" trope.
Except when Peter had done it in the booth, the air had crackled with lightning. With Kevin-Devin, it just felt like someone was breathing warm, beer-scented air onto my forehead.
"It’s fascinating, actually," I shouted back, trying to inject some sultriness into my voice. I tilted my head, exposing my neck—a move I had read about in The Viscount’s Vixen (Chapter 4: The Art of Seduction). "They’re very... physical."
Kevin-Devin blinked. "Uh. Yeah. Physical. Totally."
He looked at my neck. Then he looked at his beer. He seemed confused.
Am I doing it wrong? I wondered. Maybe I’m tilting too much. Do I look like I have a cramp?
"I really like your dress," he said, trying to recover. "It’s very... smooth."
"Thanks," I said. I reached out and touched his arm. His bicep was soft. Not like granite. Just... arm. "You have nice arms. Do you lift? Or is that just frisbee muscle?"
Frisbee muscle? Oh my god, Bee. Shut up.
Kevin-Devin laughed, looking pleased. "Yeah, I hit the gym sometimes. You know, gotta stay active."
He leaned in closer. This was it. The moment. He was going to ask if I wanted to go upstairs, or leave, or go to his place to look at his frisbee collection.
I braced myself. Just say yes. Do the deed. Collect the data.
"So," he started, his eyes dropping to my lips. "Do you want to—"
A shadow fell over us.
It wasn't a metaphorical shadow. It was a literal eclipse of the hallway lighting. The temperature dropped ten degrees. The air suddenly smelled of sandalwood and ice.
Kevin-Devin stopped talking. His eyes widened as he looked over my shoulder. He actually took a step back, removing his hand from the wall as if it had burned him.
I didn't have to turn around to know who was there. My body knew. The tiny hairs on the back of my neck stood up in a primal salute.
"Excuse me," a deep, rumbled voice said.
It wasn't a request. It was a glaciated command.
I turned slowly.