10. Wren
WREN
The second I step into the Kings’ facility, the receptionist looks up from her computer and offers a tight, almost pitying smile.
“Dean Carver wants to see you. He’s waiting in his office.”
My stomach drops. Great, what have I done now?
I mumble a thanks before heading down the hallway toward his office.
Each step feels heavier than the last, my pulse climbing the closer I get.
I run through everything I was asked to do on game night, ensuring I didn’t miss anything, but I don’t think I did.
Still, this is Dean Carver. He’s never needed a reason to be mad at me.
With a heavy sigh, I wonder if I’m about to be fired.
When I reach his office door, I pause, knuckles hovering just above the wood. My palms are clammy, throat tight. Dread curdles in my stomach the way it often does when I’m in Dean Carver’s presence.
Breathe.
I knock twice.
“Come in,” comes Carver’s voice, sharp, as always.
I push the door open…and freeze on the threshold.
Because Dean Carver isn’t alone in his office. Sitting in a chair opposite his desk is none other than Ronan Sterling, arms crossed and legs stretched out like he owns the space. His gaze flicks up at me as I enter, unreadable as always.
The tension in my chest tightens into a knot.
Why the hell are these guys in my face every time I turn around? It’s like I can’t get a moment to breathe without one of them making an appearance, and whatever I expected to walk into…this wasn’t it.
I force my legs to cross the threshold into Dean’s office. The door clicks shut behind me, but I can’t take my eyes off Ronan.
What is he doing here?
I hate that his presence immediately sets me on edge. As if facing Carver isn’t bad enough.
Carver doesn’t offer me a seat, so I remain rooted by the door as he lifts a folder he had open on his desk and begins talking like I’m an email he’s halfway through deleting.
“Every year, the team runs an outreach initiative—our Kings Youth Charity Weekend. It’s a three-part event: youth skills camp, charity gala, and community skate. Brings in press, raises money, the usual.”
Ronan nods in acknowledgment, clearly already aware of this event.
“This weekend is important,” he continues, tone clipped. “It matters to the team. It matters to the sponsors,” he emphasizes, before sparing me a loaded glance. “Which is why I was planning to have someone competent run it this year.”
AKA someone who isn’t me.
My hands curl into fists at my sides.
“However,”—he lifts his chin toward Ronan—“Sterling here says he’s willing to pick up the slack. He has agreed to go beyond his duties and oversee the execution if you can manage not to trip over yourself.”
Wait, what?
My gaze snaps to Ronan. He doesn’t look at me. Doesn’t say a word. Just stares out the window, like this entire conversation is beneath him.
Why would he do that?
Why push for this?
“What do you say, Winslow? Do you think you can manage not to screw this up?”
“I—Uh…Yes. Y-yes, Sir.”
I’m in shock. Confused. Stumbling over my words as I try to piece together what is going on. What Ronan’s intention is. What is his game?
With an expression like he will believe it when he sees it, Carver continues on.
“You’ll be responsible for scheduling players, confirming vendor contracts, and coordinating with PR and media.
You’ll report to me, but Sterling will be your point of contact for anything involving the team. Try not to screw it up.”
My jaw clenches, but I hold my head high. “I won’t.”
So far, I’ve been given gopher tasks. Nothing in which I can prove that I am not the entitled princess he believes me to be.
This event might involve coordinating with Ronan, but it’s my opportunity to prove myself.
To prove I am worthy of this internship.
That I am not deserving of Carver’s ridicule and demeaning.
Carver’s eyes flick to mine, full of disbelief. “We’ll see.”
I want to scream. To remind him that just because I didn’t ask to be here doesn’t mean I don’t know how to do my job. I’m no slacker. Instead, I bite the inside of my cheek and glance at Ronan again.
He’s no longer staring out the window, but at Carver, with a dark, calculated look in his eye that promises destruction. The look is so fleeting that, by the time I blink, it’s gone, replaced with his usual mask of antipathy and making me question if I saw anything at all.
What is he up to?
Is this a test? A trap?
Carver stands, already dismissing me with his body language. “You’ll get a full rundown this afternoon. A copy of last year’s timeline is in your inbox. There is a meeting with the PR team at noon; don’t be late.” He waves a hand toward the door. “Leave. Both of you.”
I don’t need to be told twice. I shove out of the office before I say something I’ll regret, my heels clipping angrily against the tile as I storm down the hallway.
The burn in my chest climbs fast, acidic and ugly.
I hate him—Carver.
The way he speaks to me like I’m a nuisance he’s forced to tolerate.
The way he strips me down in front of people—in front of Ronan—like I should be grateful for the scraps he throws my way.
Like I haven’t been bending over backward for the past two weeks to do every little thing he has asked of me.
I hate that I have to play nice.
That I have to keep my mouth shut and smile like he’s doing me a favor when every word from his mouth hits like a slap.
And Ronan—
Ronan is worse.
This Kings Youth Charity Weekend project?
He knew what he was doing. He made sure I’d be forced to work with him. And for what? What does he want from me? What do all three of them want from me?
The questions churn. The anger climbs. And when it reaches a boil, I spin around.
“Why?” I demand, facing Ronan head-on, arms clamped on my hips, and my heels giving me an extra three inches of height. It makes my tiny five-foot-two frame not feel just so insignificant against his six-four.
He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t even slow as he casually approaches.
“Why are you doing this? I told you to leave me alone!” I accuse.
Still, I get nothing back. No change in his expression. No tilt of his head. Just that cold, unreadable gaze.
“I’m serious!” I snap. “What is this? Some twisted game? Because I told you, I’m not interested in playing.”
I take a step toward him this time. My voice rises with each word, my composure slipping like sand through my fingers.
“You chased me my first week here. Lucian makes himself my project partner. Now you’re ensuring we’re working together? What’s next, huh? Silas going to show up at my apartment?”
His jaw ticks, but he doesn’t speak.
“Why won’t you just leave me alone?” I bite out. My chest is tight. I can feel the pressure climbing my throat, feel the burn of it rising behind my eyes.
But I’m not done.
“You’re doing this because of that night, aren’t you?” My voice wavers. “Because I know.”
That gets his attention. His steps slow. His eyes sharpen like knives. There’s something dangerous in the way he looks at me now—calculated, patient, like a predator studying a wounded animal. Like he’s waiting for me to come undone.
“Is that it?” I demand, putting fire behind my words. “You want to know if I told someone? What I remember?”
Now I’m unraveling, fast and messy and furious.
Because I do remember.
Not all of it. Not enough.
But enough to know they were there.
“You think you can scare me into remaining silent?” My laugh is sharp and humorless, just this side of unhinged sounding.
“Newsflash, asshole. If I haven’t told anyone by now, I’m not going to.
” I shake my head, disgust ripe in my voice as I spit out, “It’s not like anyone would believe me, anyway. ”
Suddenly he’s in front of me, our faces inches apart. The air thickens with a static charge, like a storm about to break. I can feel the heat coming off him, the sheer size of him, the way his shadow swallows mine.
He backs me against the wall, his stone-mask expression bearing down on me. My heart hammers in my chest. Ronan doesn’t touch me, but he doesn’t have to. He leans in just enough, pitching his voice low. “What is it you think you remember from that night?”
He’s too calm. Too quiet against the fire raging inside of me. It’s the kind of quiet that comes as a warning, except I’m too far gone to heed it.
“What do you remember?” he demands this time.
His voice scrapes across my nerves like flint. My breath stutters. Images flicker—
Flashes of movement.
The sound of gravel.
Laughter that didn’t sound right.
Hands.
The burn of fear in my throat.
A voice, low and dangerous, saying something incoherent.
I blink fast, the hallway spinning slightly. My chest aches with the effort it takes not to crumble.
Forcing myself to hold his stare, my voice is strong, stable, as I say, “I know you were there.”
It’s the first time I’ve said those words aloud.
“I…remember your voice.”
He doesn’t deny it. Doesn’t pretend, just watches me with those calculating eyes. The tension between us coils tight, taut like a wire pulled too far. And God, I can’t stand the pressure.
His hand lifts to my face, fingers twitching like he wants to touch me, but he doesn’t. He stops himself halfway, hand hovering in midair. The heat of his body rolls over me like a tide. I press further into the wall, the blend of his leather and oud scent too much to my frayed psyche.
He seems to be waiting for something, and after looking everywhere and anywhere to avoid meeting his stare, I finally summon the courage and do exactly that.
Deep pools of hazel threaten to pull me in.
While his eyes are usually unreadable, now I can see something flickering in their depths.
It’s too fleeting to name yet too raw for him to hide.
A crack in the armor. A sliver of something real.
Concern?
For me or for himself?
Or for what I know? For what I could say? For everything I could ruin for him?
Blood roars in my ears. I can feel my pulse in my throat, in my wrists. Everywhere.
And all he’s doing is looking at me.
Watching.
Waiting.
Like he’s daring me to look away first.
Except, I don’t. I can’t. It hits me harder than it should—this glimpse of humanity in someone I’ve only known as a ghost of that night. It tangles with the fear already coiling in my chest, making it harder to distinguish one emotion from another.
I don’t know if I hate him or if I’m terrified that he sees too much.
Or if I want to be close enough to look again.
To see if it’s still there—that flicker. That break. That proof he’s not made entirely of ice.
And worst of all, for the briefest second…I think he’s scared too.
After a long silence, he steps back. Just far enough for me to breathe again, but before he turns to leave, his voice breaks the quiet one last time.
“You should ask yourself if what you think happened that night…is the whole truth.”
Then he’s gone. He walks away without another look. No glance back over his shoulder. No hesitation in his steps.
He’s just…gone without giving me time to rebuild what he cracked open.
I’m left slumped against the wall, every cell in my body shaking. Not just from fear, but from the weight of his stare still lingering on my skin. The phantom heat of him too close.
From the sick twist of something else blooming beneath the terror.
Something that feels like want.
Something I don’t want to name.
Because if I name it…I can’t take it back.
And if I admit it…it becomes real.
And the last thing I need is Ronan Sterling becoming real.