Chapter 2
Later that day, I drive to Hayes’s house for dinner and our horror movie night.
Since classes haven’t started yet, he’s still crashing at his parents’ place. He has a brand-new posh apartment near the university—of course he does, he’s loaded—but nothing compares to the Vassilios family estate in Laguna Hills.
It’s a literal mansion, complete with its own orchard, vineyard, sprawling pool, hot tub, tennis courts, horse stables, a personal chef, and a full-time housekeeper. If I were him, I wouldn’t be in a rush to trade all that for paper-thin walls and flickering fluorescent lights either.
Wind cuts through the open windows of my car, whipping hair into my eyes as I race through the fancy, secluded hills where Hayes lives. I’ve always had a thing for speed. I figure adrenaline is probably cheaper than therapy, even if my last two speeding tickets say otherwise.
My tires shriek dramatically as I take the corner a little too fast and turn into his gated community. Jerome, the guard who’s manned the entrance at Laguna Hills Bluffs since I was a kid, waves me through with a smile, and I keep cruising until I reach Hayes’s private drive.
I punch in the code at the electric gate and head down the long, tree-lined path, watching as the full splendor of the Vassilios estate unfurls around me. No matter how many times I’ve been here, I still never get used to its beauty.
On either side of me, the manicured gardens blur past—blood-red roses, inky clusters of dark hellebores, and near-black calla lilies tossing in the breeze.
Rows of silver-green olive and pomegranate trees stretch toward the hills, their branches heavy with ripening fruit, before giving way to terraced vineyards that have quietly produced award-winning wine for decades.
Then come the meadows and—my favorite part of all—the stables. That’s where Hayes’s father keeps his prized racing horses.
Normally, I’d look for them grazing lazily in the late afternoon sun. Dozens of sleek, pedigreed racers with long, fancy names and plenty of attitude. I love all the horses, but two especially have my whole heart.
There’s Steopethe, my first love, the coppery old gelding I first learned to ride on. Patient, kind, always nosing around for sugar cubes tucked in my hoodie.
And my latest obsession, Phaethon, the striking dapple-gray stallion Hayes’s father brought home last spring. He’s all restless energy and untamed beauty with a past full of first-place trophies and photo finishes. I only recently started working with him in the ring but fell for him instantly.
But today, the paddock is empty. All the horses are gone. Hayes’s father flies them to Greece every summer when the family retreats to their ancestral estate in Athens.
The Vassilios family owns one of the largest shipping empires in Europe, and every year they return to manage business interests and reconnect with family and friends overseas.
This year, for the first time, Hayes came back a few weeks early ahead of his parents to start football training. I know he misses them, even if he doesn’t talk much about it. I do too—especially his mom. And I really miss the horses. It’s been a long, quiet summer without them.
After the stables, I drive by the archery fields, where Hayes and his father often spend afternoons sinking bullseyes, perfecting their aim one ten-ring at a time.
Both Vassilios men are top-ranked competitive archers.
Some of my favorite memories are of lounging in a lawn chair under the warm California sun, watching them land shot after shot with their custom-fitted bows while Hayes’s father spun Greek mythology stories like epic campfire tales.
Aidan Vassilios is not a warm man—busy, curt, rarely smiling—but when he talks about his Greek heritage, something shifts. His voice softens. His eyes glow with pride. From him, I’ve learned more about ancient Greece and its great legends than I ever did in AP World History.
He’s told us tales of champion archers, the gods Artemis and Apollo, yes, but also of ancient beings like the Fates, who wove destinies both glorious and cruel, and the Sirens, whose deadly songs lured sailors to their deaths.
The Siren stories always felt like they were especially for me. He knows how much I love to sing.
And then, of course, there was Heracles, also known as Hercules, the golden hero of Olympus. Hayes’s father could talk about Hercules for hours, detailing each of the Twelve Labors with the reverence of a priest retelling scripture.
I wince.
Shit.
Now I’m thinking about that damn play again and my disastrous morning.
My fingers tighten around the steering wheel as I blow past the tennis and basketball courts until I finally arrive at the Vassilios family’s mega-mansion.
From the outside, it looks like an old-world European castle that lost its way and somehow ended up in Southern California.
Hayes’s mother hired the most famous architect in all of Greece to design it.
Grand Doric columns line the facade, and gorgeous terracotta tiles—imported from the family’s favorite island, Santorini—crown the roof in warm, sunburnt hues.
It probably cost more than my mom makes all year just to ship those tiles halfway around the world.
I pull into the circular driveway and park directly across from the sweeping courtyard fountain, grabbing my purse and the snacks I brought for movie night.
Two king-size chocolate bars and an extra-large box of sugar cookies for me, plus a little container of boring dried mangoes for Hayes.
He claims everything I like is ‘too sweet for human consumption.’ He’s a weird eater, as far as I’m concerned, but I try to accommodate.
Just as I head for the front door, a low, guttural bark cuts through the warm afternoon air. I whirl around—and freeze.
Standing a few feet away, as if appearing out of thin air, is the most majestic creature I’ve ever seen. Enormous, almost otherworldly, like some mythical wolf-dog hybrid. The animal’s coat is obsidian-dark, shimmering with an unnatural sheen like moonlight rippling across still water.
And his eyes—God, his eyes.
They burn with an eerie, golden light, so piercing and radiant, they don’t just reflect the sun. They seem to contain it.
“Hey, pretty boy,” I whisper, inching forward with one hand outstretched. “Are you lost?”
Maybe a smarter person would be wary of a strange dog the size of a small pony just randomly showing up in the middle of a driveway, but not me.
I fucking love dogs. All animals, really, but dogs especially.
I’ve been begging my mom for one ever since I was old enough to say the word puppy.
She’s never caved, always blaming it on some imaginary allergy we both know is complete bullshit.
I can barely contain the impulse to throw myself at the dog and smother him in kisses, but I do my best to seem nonthreatening and friendly as I approach. My movements are slow and deliberate, careful not to go too fast and scare him off.
“Stop—don’t move!”
I jolt, stumbling, as Hayes’s hand clamps around my wrist, firm and protective, yanking me backward.
“Jesus, Hay!” I gasp, breathless, knees wobbling. “You scared the shit out of me!”
He’s changed out of his practice gear from earlier, now clad in black athletic sweats and a matching hoodie, a backwards LHU baseball cap pulled low over his forehead. He must’ve come from inside the house, though I never heard the door open. Or his footsteps.
His face is filled with worry.
No, not worry—fear. And not just like he’s scared we might get nipped by someone’s runaway husky mix, but like some monstrous demon is sitting there in front of us, waiting to tear us both into little pieces.
“Get back,” he orders. “Stay behind me.”
“Relax. It’s just a dog.”
Hayes’s eyes flick to the animal and then back to me, calculating, tight with tension. He shifts, like he’s ready to bolt or fight, and I feel a slight tremble in his hand.
The dog, however, doesn’t bark or growl. It doesn’t even move. It just stares at Hayes, like they’re locked in some silent exchange I’m not part of.
I try to sidestep Hayes to get to the dog, but he doesn’t budge.
“Careful,” he says, holding me back. “He could be dangerous.”
I blink, surprised, when Hayes plants himself between me and the dog like a human shield. The gesture is totally unnecessary but also kind of adorable, in a ridiculous, over-the-top way.
Classic Hayes. Always ready to play the hero.
“Oh, quit being such a baby.” I laugh, batting Hayes away and taking a few steps forward. I crouch low, my voice soft and soothing to the dog. “You’re just a big teddy bear, aren’t you, boy? Big, mean Hayes scared you with his big, mean voice, huh?”
The dog drops to all fours and lets out a soft, almost pitiful whine as he inches toward me, belly to the ground, his massive frame gliding along the pavement.
There’s something ancient in his gaze. Watchful.
Knowing. That sleek, regal muzzle quirks upward, and I swear it almost looks like he’s smiling at me.
“I don’t get it. How’d he get in here?” I ask Hayes.
“Probably followed you.”
“Hmm. You think so?” I shrug noncommittally. It seems unlikely. The gate was only open for a few seconds, but I suppose it’s possible…
I reach out to pet the dog.
“Al, don’t!” Hayes shouts, horrified, his voice sharp with warning.
Too late.
The dog presses forward—calm, silent—and curls into my lap. His massive body is warm and solid against my legs. He lets out a delighted, huffing yelp as I scratch behind one ear.
“Oh, he’s adorable!” I squeal, checking under his neck for some sort of identification. “Weird. No collar or tags. How’re we supposed to know who the owner is?”
“Probably a stray.”
He doesn’t look like a stray to me.