Chapter 1 #2
I felt my jaw tighten, a muscle feathering in my cheek. Of course. Of fucking course.
Faye Allister was a blight on this campus. A chaotic, glittery, loud-mouthed princess who treated the University like her personal playground. I’d seen her at parties, usually dancing on a table, usually surrounded by a phalanx of simping frat boys who wanted access to her father’s yacht.
We had never spoken. I made it a point to avoid chaos, and she was a hurricane in high heels.
But why was the hurricane sleeping on a bench in the men’s locker room at four in the morning?
I looked closer. Her skin was pale. Not porcelain pale—deathly pale. Her lips were tinged blue. She was shivering in her sleep, small tremors that shook her entire frame.
She wasn't drunk. She looked… broken.
I should call security. That was the protocol. Call Miller, have him escort her out, let her father deal with the fallout.
But looking at her—small, frozen, and completely out of place—something twisted in my gut. A dark, primal urge to inspect the damage.
I dropped my heavy gear bag on the floor. The loud thud echoed like a gunshot.
Faye flinched. She gasped, her body jerking awake, eyes flying open.
Hazel-green eyes. Wide. Terrified.
She scrambled backward, pressing herself against the lockers, pulling the coat tighter. She looked like a cornered animal. A very expensive, very frightened rabbit.
"Who’s there?" Her voice was raspy, trembling.
I stood over her, crossing my arms over my chest. I was still in my practice gear—compression shirt, athletic shorts. I knew I looked imposing. I liked it.
"The person who belongs here," I said, my voice low, bouncing off the wooden lockers. "Which is more than I can say for you."
She blinked, her eyes adjusting to the dim light. She squinted up at me, and I saw the moment recognition hit. The fear didn't leave, but the "Brat" armor slammed into place instantly. She lifted her chin, trying to summon some of that Allister arrogance.
"Graham," she said. It wasn't a greeting. It was an accusation. "You’re loud."
"And you’re trespassing." I took a step closer. "Get up."
"I’m resting," she snapped, though her teeth chattered, ruining the effect. "Go away. Go hit a puck or… whatever it is you meatheads do."
"Practice finished twenty minutes ago," I said calmly. "Now it's time to clean the house. That means taking out the trash."
Her eyes flashed. Good. There was fire under the ice.
"I am not trash," she hissed. "I am Silas Allister’s daughter. I own this building. Technically, I own you."
I laughed. It was a dark, dry sound that felt foreign in my throat.
"Princess," I said, leaning down until our faces were inches apart. I could see the fine tremor in her lower lip. I could smell the cold radiating off her skin. "Your daddy owns the contract. He owns the jersey. But in this room? I am the law. And the law says you don't belong here."
She stared at me, defiant, but then a violent shiver raked through her body. She wrapped her arms around her stomach, curling in on herself despite her best efforts to posture.
"I can't go," she whispered, the fight draining out of her as quickly as it had come.
"Why?"
She looked away, staring at the floor. "I lost my key."
"Call an Uber."
"My phone is dead."
"Call your father."
Her head snapped up, panic flaring in her eyes. Real, visceral panic. "No."
The single word hung in the air. Heavy. Final.
I studied her. The designer clothes. The terror of her father. The blue lips.
"He cut you off," I stated. It wasn't a question.
She didn't answer, but her silence was a confession.
"So," I continued, my voice devoid of sympathy. "The princess has been dethroned. No money. No dorm. No daddy to come save her."
"I don't need saving," she spat, struggling to stand up. Her legs wobbled. She was hypothermic. She swayed, her hand grasping the locker for support. "I just need… I need to sit down for a minute."
She started to sink back down, her eyes rolling back slightly.
I moved before I thought about it.
I caught her arm, my hand gripping her bicep. She was freezing. It felt like holding a block of ice.
"You're not staying here," I said. "Miller does his rounds in ten minutes. If he finds you, he has to report it. If he reports it, it goes to the board. If it goes to the board, your father finds out."
Her breath hitched. She looked at me, her eyes glossy with tears she refused to shed. "Please," she whispered. "Just let me stay. I won’t make a sound."
It was the "please" that did it.
Faye Allister never said please. She demanded. She expected.
To hear her beg, stripped of her armor, shivering in the dark… it triggered something in the darkest part of my brain. A need to take this chaotic mess and force it into order. My order.
I looked at her. Really looked at her. She was beautiful, even like this. Maybe especially like this. Vulnerable. Exposed.
And completely at my mercy.
"No," I said.
She flinched as if I’d slapped her. A single tear escaped, freezing on her cheek.
"Fine," she choked out, trying to pull her arm from my grip. "I’ll leave. I’ll go find a bridge to sleep under. Hope that improves your stats."
I didn't let go. I tightened my grip, pulling her slightly toward me.
"I didn't say you were leaving," I said softly.
She frowned, confusion warring with the exhaustion. "What?"
"You're freezing. You have nowhere to go. And you clearly have too much pride to do the smart thing." I looked her up and down, making her squirm. "You're coming with me."
Her eyes widened. "With you? To… the dorms?"
"I don't live in the dorms," I said, scoffing at the idea. "I have a place in town."
"I’m not sleeping with you," she blurted out, her defensive walls slamming back up. "I don't do… hockey players."
"Don't flatter yourself, Princess. You're in no condition to be fucked. You'd break."
She gasped, her face flushing a blotchy red.
"Grab your bag," I commanded, releasing her arm.
She hesitated, swaying on her heels. She looked at the door, then back at me. She weighed the options: Freezing death outside, or the unknown danger of going home with the coldest, most arrogant asshole on the team.
Survival instinct won.
She reached down and grabbed her Birkin. Her fingers were stiff, clumsy.
"Graham?" she asked, her voice small.
"What?"
"Why are you doing this?"
I looked at her. I could have told her it was common decency. I could have told her I didn't want the team's owner to find his daughter dead on my watch.
But that would have been a lie.
I was doing it because she looked like chaos, and I suddenly had a burning desire to see if I could tame her.
"Because," I said, turning my back to her and walking toward the exit, expecting her to follow. "I hate a mess. And you, Faye, are a fucking mess."
Faye
His car was exactly like him. Black. pristine. Expensive. And terrifyingly silent.
The interior of the Range Rover smelled like leather and that crisp, cold scent that seemed to cling to his skin. He had the heat blasting before we even left the parking lot.
I sat in the passenger seat, my hands tucked between my thighs, trying to stop the shivering. It wasn't working. The heat hit my frozen skin like needles. It hurt. Everything hurt.
Graham drove with one hand on the wheel, his profile sharp and stony in the passing streetlights. He hadn't said a word since we left the arena. He just commanded me to get in, and I, like a pathetic stray dog, had obeyed.
We didn't drive toward the student slums. We drove up. Toward Red Mountain. Toward the estates that looked down on the rest of the world.
Of course. The Governor. I’d heard the rumors that his family money made the Allisters look like lottery winners, but I’d never seen the proof until now.
He pulled up to a sleek, modern building that was mostly glass and steel jutting out of the mountainside. He punched a code into the gate—fluid, practiced movements—and drove into the heated underground garage.
"Out," he said, killing the engine.
I fumbled with the door handle. My fingers wouldn't work.
Before I could panic, his door opened. He walked around the front of the car, ripped my door open, and unbuckled my seatbelt.
"I can do it," I muttered, batting his hands away.
"Clearly not."
He reached in, scooped me up as if I weighed nothing more than a hockey stick, and pulled me out of the car.