His Dangerous Little Ghost

It was my first day at the elite Spencer Academy.

The parking lot reeked of expensive sports car exhaust and the obnoxious, unbridled laughter of entitled rich pricks.

I stopped in my tracks.

A few yards ahead, Luke—the arrogant co-captain of the hockey team—was leaning against a brand-new black Porsche.

A cup of coffee in hand, he kicked a scholarship student hard in the back of the knee.

"Scrub harder, trash," Luke sneered, dumping the iced coffee right over the kid's head. "The air at Spencer is polluted by poor freaks like you. If you don't polish my hood ornament until it shines today, don't even think about showing your face at this school tomorrow."

Trembling from head to toe, the scholarship kid knelt on the ground, frantically wiping the hood with the sleeve of his uniform. A circle of guys and girls in custom-tailored uniforms surrounded them, snapping photos and jeering.

This was Spencer. A rotting cesspool ruled by old-money families and the elite hockey team.

I lowered my eyes. I didn't rush forward to play the hero. Only an idiot would do that.

The oversized Spencer uniform swallowed my figure completely. To anyone looking, I was just another shivering, harmless, "good girl" scholarship student.

But I took a deep breath, my thumb gently brushing against the razor-thin utility blade hidden inside my cuff.

Keeping my head down like a frightened rabbit, I clutched my books to my chest and hurried past the Porsche.

In the exact second I brushed past the sports car's front-right tire, my wrist flicked at a perfectly concealed angle.

The blade sliced cleanly into the thinnest part of the tire's rubber sidewall.

I tightened my grip on my books and kept walking briskly.

"Get in! I'm going to show these broke losers what a zero-to-sixty looks like!" Luke's arrogant roar echoed behind me.

The doors slammed shut. The engine roared to life.

I didn't even glance back. I just counted silently in my head: Three. Two. One.

BANG!

A deafening blast ripped through the air, sounding like a bomb detonating right in the middle of the parking lot.

The violent blowout caused the rapidly accelerating Porsche to instantly lose control. The pungent smell of burning, shredded rubber filled the air, immediately followed by the sickening crunch of the expensive front end smashing into a concrete pillar.

Car alarms blared in every direction. The crowd erupted into terrified screams, overlapping with Luke's furious, panic-stricken curses.

A cold smirk tugged at the corner of my mouth. I picked up my pace and slipped into the blind spot behind the academic building.

Nicely done.

Now, all I had to do was flush the rubber-dusted blade down a drain.

I stepped behind the wall and had just opened my palm.

When an incredibly oppressive draft of cold air suddenly hit me from behind.

I didn't even have a chance to turn around.

A massive, knuckle-heavy hand clamped around my wrist from behind like a steel vise!

SLAM.

An irresistible force shoved me hard against the brickwork.

A dull ache shot up my spine from the impact, and my books tumbled to the ground.

My instincts screamed at me to fight back. I prepared to drive my knee straight into my attacker's groin, but a split second before I could strike, his movements proved faster and infinitely more ruthless.

A solid, powerful leg clad in black motorcycle denim forced its way roughly between my thighs.

Forced to jerk my head up, my breath caught in my throat.

Rowan King.

Spencer Academy's "Tyrant of the Ice," captain of the hockey team, and billionaire heir.

And more importantly, the rumored boyfriend who might have been the reason my sister, Sylvia, was still lying in a coma.

His hard chest pressed heavily against mine as he stared down at me.

I was entirely enveloped in his scent—an intoxicating mix of sharp, icy cologne and the harsh tang of motor oil.

My heart hammered wildly out of control.

I couldn't tear my eyes away from his intensely masculine face, my gaze slipping traitorously down to his sharp, tense jawline.

Insanity.

I bit my lower lip hard and glared up at him, my chest heaving erratically.

"Let me go."

Rowan didn't say a word.

He just stared at my face, a mocking, cold smirk suddenly tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Ruthlessly, he pried my clenched fingers open, one by one.

I tried to fight him off, but it was useless. The difference in our strength was overwhelming.

The razor-thin utility blade sat completely exposed on my palm.

Rowan casually plucked the blade from my hand. He rolled it between his fingers, his gaze darkening with an intense, suffocating pressure.

"There are four hidden cameras in this sector," he murmured. His voice was deep and raspy, dripping with a lazy, teasing drawl. "Nice technique, bunny."

My pupils constricted.

He saw the whole thing.

I didn't try to lie my way out of it. I just glared at him, refusing to back down.

Rowan seemed highly satisfied with my reaction.

He finally leaned back an inch, withdrawing the leg he had wedged between my thighs.

"Three o'clock. The hockey arena's equipment room," he commanded, staring down at me with aristocratic arrogance. "If you're a no-show, that security footage lands directly on campus security's desk."