Chapter 3
Graham
The apartment was quiet. Too quiet.
It was the kind of silence that usually preceded a structural failure in a building or a breakdown in a defensive line. It wasn't the peaceful silence of solitude; it was the pressurized silence of a bomb waiting for the timer to hit zero.
I sat in my office, the heavy oak door shut, the soundproofing doing its job a little too well.
On the desk in front of me, game tape from the Michigan series played on a loop on my monitors.
I was watching the opposing center’s face-off tendencies, noting the way his left shoulder dipped three milliseconds before the drop.
It was a tell. A weakness. I should have been dissecting it, memorizing it, preparing to exploit it until he was benched in tears.
Instead, I was listening to the floorboards.
Faye was out there.
It had been three days. Three days of the "Arrangement."
To her credit, and my immense irritation, she had followed the letter of the law. The apartment was spotless. The kitchen island gleamed. My laundry had been done, folded with amateurish corners but folded nonetheless, and placed at the foot of the bed.
She was following the rules, but she was doing it with a level of passive-aggressive compliance that bordered on art.
She wore my shirts, as commanded. But she wore them off one shoulder, exposing the smooth curve of her collarbone, or she rolled the sleeves up to show her delicate wrists, making the oversized fabric look less like a uniform and more like…
after. Like she had just climbed out of my bed after a night of ruining me.
She cooked. But she made things that required me to watch her eat them. Pasta that she twirled slowly around her fork, her lips wrapping around the tines. Peaches that dripped juice down her thumb, which she would then lick off while maintaining unbroken eye contact with me.
She was testing the fence. She was throwing herself against the electric perimeter to see if I would shock her.
She didn't know that I was the one holding the remote, and my finger was hovering over the button.
I paused the video. The silence in the hallway shifted. The soft click-clack of heels on marble.
Heels.
Clause 4 violation. No outside shoes.
I stood up, the leather of my chair creaking. I felt the familiar tightening in my chest, the surge of adrenaline that usually only hit me before a puck drop.
I walked to the door and pulled it open.
Faye was standing in the foyer, looking at her reflection in the mirror.
I stopped. My breath hitched, a traitorous reaction I immediately crushed.
She was wearing a dress. A slip of black silk that looked more like lingerie than clothing.
It clung to her curves like a second skin, stopping dangerously high on her thighs.
The back was nonexistent, exposing the sharp, elegant valley of her spine.
She had painted her lips a dark, bruised berry color.
And on her feet—black stilettos that dug into my imported Italian marble.
She saw me in the reflection. She didn't flinch. She applied another coat of lipstick, her eyes meeting mine in the glass.
"Going somewhere?" I asked. My voice was low, scraping against the bottom of my register.
She capped the lipstick and turned around. "Out."
"Out," I repeated. "Be more specific."
"To a party. The Delta house."
"No."
She raised an eyebrow. "Excuse me?"
"Clause 3," I said, walking toward her. I moved deliberately, taking up space, forcing her to tilt her head back as I encroached on her personal bubble. "Curfew is 10:00 PM. It is currently 9:45 PM. Unless the Delta house is in the elevator, you won’t make it back in time."
"It’s Friday," she said, crossing her arms. The movement pushed her breasts up in the silk. I didn't look. I looked at her eyes. "Curfew implies I have to be home to sleep. I don't plan on sleeping."
A dark, irrational spike of jealousy drove through my gut.
"You don't plan on sleeping," I repeated slowly. "So you plan on doing what, exactly? finding a donor to fund your lifestyle now that Daddy’s bank is closed?"
It was a low blow. I saw the flinch in her eyes, the way her pupils dilated with hurt before the anger flooded in to mask it.
"I plan on being Faye Allister," she hissed. "I plan on drinking cheap vodka and dancing until my feet bleed so I can forget for five hours that I live in a mausoleum with a hockey robot who thinks emotions are a software error."
She turned to grab the door handle.
I slammed my hand against the doorframe, inches above her head.
She froze. She didn't turn around, but I could see the rapid rise and fall of her chest. I could smell her—that maddening vanilla and peach scent, now layered with something darker. Fear? Excitement?
"You aren't going," I said.
She spun around, her back pressing against the door. We were close. Too close. I could feel the heat radiating off her bare skin.
"You don't own me, Graham. You own my debt. There is a difference."
"I own your safety," I growled. "You go to that party looking like… this… and people will talk. They know you’re cut off. They know you’re vulnerable. You’re walking into a shark tank covered in chum."
"I can handle myself."
"You couldn't even handle a keypad in the snow."
"I am going," she said, her chin lifting. "Stop me. Physically stop me, Graham. Drag me back to my room and lock the door. Show me exactly what kind of monster you are."
It was a dare. A blatant, terrifying dare.
My hand twitched. The urge to do exactly that—to throw her over my shoulder, carry her to the bedroom, and strip that dress off her body—was so strong it made my vision blur. I wanted to lock her away. I wanted to keep her here, safe, in my sterile glass box where nothing could touch her but me.
But that was chaos. That was losing control.
I pulled my hand back. I stepped away, putting a safe distance between us. I adjusted my cuffs, forcing my heartbeat to slow down.
"Fine," I said cold. "Go."
She blinked, surprised by the sudden retreat. "Really?"
"Go," I said, turning my back on her and walking toward the kitchen. "But take a coat. It’s freezing."
I heard the door open. I heard her hesitate. Then, the soft click of the latch.
She was gone.
I stood in the kitchen, staring at the reflection of the city lights in the black window.
I gave it five minutes.
Then I grabbed my keys.
I wasn't going to stop her. But I’ll be damned if I was going to let her walk into the wolves' den without the Alpha watching.
The Delta House was a monument to bad decisions and structural instability. Even from the street, I could feel the bass thumping in the pavement. The air smelled of spilled beer, marijuana, and desperation.
I hated parties. I hated the noise. I hated the lack of personal space. I hated the way people looked at me—like I was a celebrity, a ticket to the NHL, a piece of meat.
I parked the Range Rover around the corner, pulling my black hoodie up. I didn't want to be The Governor tonight. I just wanted to be invisible.
I walked past the line of shivering freshmen at the door. The bouncer, a linebacker from the football team named Davis, saw me coming. His eyes widened.
"Vane?" he shouted over the noise. "Didn't think you did these anymore."
"I don't," I said, moving past him without breaking stride. "Just looking for someone."
Inside, the heat was a physical wall. The air was thick with humidity and sweat. Strobe lights sliced through the darkness, illuminating snapshots of debauchery: a couple making out against a speaker, a guy doing a keg stand, a girl crying on the stairs.
Chaos. Pure, unfiltered chaos.
I scanned the room. My height gave me an advantage; I could see over the sea of bobbing heads.
I didn't have to look for long.
Faye was in the center of the living room. Of course she was. She was standing on a coffee table, a red solo cup in her hand, laughing at something Rys—my own traitorous winger—was shouting up at her.
She looked radiant. And completely out of place.
She was a diamond in a dumpster.
The light caught the silk of her dress, shimmering like oil. She threw her head back, exposing that long, elegant throat, and downed the rest of her drink. The crowd cheered.
My hand clenched into a fist at my side.
She wasn't drinking to have fun. I could see it in the tightness of her eyes, the manic edge to her smile. She was performing. She was showing everyone that Faye Allister was still the queen, even if her crown had been repossessed.
I started to move toward her, cutting through the crowd like an icebreaker ship. People moved out of my way. I didn't have to touch them; the look on my face was enough to part the Red Sea.
Then I saw him.
Miller. A rookie defenseman. Good hands, zero brain cells.
He was standing at the edge of the coffee table, looking up at Faye with a hunger that made my blood boil. He wasn't looking at her face. He was looking up her skirt.
He reached out, his hand wrapping around her ankle.
"Come down here, Faye," I heard him shout. "Let me buy you a real drink."
Faye looked down. She tried to pull her leg back, but Miller held on. He was smiling, but it wasn't friendly. It was predatory.
"Let go, Miller," she said. Her voice was light, trying to keep it playful, but I saw the flash of panic.
"Don't be a tease," Miller laughed, tugging harder. Faye stumbled, her other heel slipping on the table surface.
The world narrowed down to a tunnel. The noise faded. The heat vanished. All I saw was his hand on her skin.
I didn't think. I didn't plan. I just reacted.
I crossed the last ten feet in two strides.
I grabbed Miller by the back of his collar and yanked him backward. He flew, stumbling over his own feet, crashing into a group of sorority girls who shrieked and scattered.
Miller spun around, fists coming up, ready to fight.
"What the f—"
He saw me.
The color drained from his face instantly. His fists dropped.
"Cap," he stammered. "I didn't… I was just helping her down."