Chapter 2

Dead silence on the other end of the line.

In my dream, the one who finally came for me was Alexander.

The St. Clair hockey captain—the man even the board of trustees walked on eggshells around—had knelt in the mud to collect my remains without a single word. And for the rest of his long life, his ring finger had remained bare. No one else ever stood beside him.

A bitter ache swelled in my throat. I couldn't hold it back, letting a single sob slip out.

"Stay exactly where you are." His voice finally cut through the line. Low. Grating. Absolute in its command.

The line went dead before I could reply.

Less than ten minutes later, the heavy fire door to the roof crashed open.

Alexander stepped out into the pouring rain, his chest heaving violently. He had sprinted the whole way.

The second I slid into the passenger seat of his car, a thick towel smelling intensely of dry cedar was tossed over my head.

Alexander got behind the wheel, his gaze fixed straight ahead. He gripped the steering wheel, the faint blue veins on the back of his hands bulging from the sheer force of his restraint.

"Dry off," he ordered.

I clutched the towel, rubbing at my wet hair while stealing glances at him from the corner of my eye.

At St. Clair, he was the apex of the old-money pyramid. The hockey captain known for shattering bones on the ice. The cousin Julian wouldn't dare cross.

For the past two years, whenever he walked past me, he looked through me like I was made of glass.

I pressed my lips together, my heart skipping a random beat. Today, I hadn't made a scene at the party. I hadn't jumped off the roof. The script had completely flipped. Would this impossibly cold man still care about me the way he had in the dream?

"Where to?"

I swallowed hard and said, "Your place."

Alexander finally shot me a sideways glance.

His mouth hooked into a cold, mocking smirk. "If you're looking for someone, you've got the wrong door. Julian isn't at my place, and he won't be coming over tonight either."

"I know." I kept my eyes locked on the frantic sweeping of the windshield wipers. "I'm not looking for him."

I paused before adding, "If it's too much of an inconvenience, just drop me at whatever cheap motel we pass on the way."

The tires skidded violently against the wet asphalt. I jerked forward, only to be slammed back by the seatbelt.

The car came to a dead halt by the curb.

Alexander turned his head, those icy blue eyes locking onto me.

"Do you honestly think I have nothing better to do than play chauffeur for you in the middle of the night?" he demanded, biting out every word as he suppressed the sudden rage in his chest.

I met his furious gaze and stayed completely silent.

He stared me down for seconds before slamming his foot back onto the gas.

"We're going to my place."

It left absolutely no room for refusal.

I turned my head toward the passenger window, letting a small smile slip. "Alright."

The moment we stepped into his apartment, Alexander shoved a glass of warm water into my hand and tossed a thick bath towel at me.

"Go shower."

It wasn't until the shower water stopped and I stared at the empty bathroom shelf that a fatal realization hit me: my rain-ruined dress was completely unwearable.

While I stood there hesitating, two restrained knocks sounded against the frosted glass door.

I cracked it open, and a masculine hand slid a clean button-down shirt through the gap.

Alexander stood in the hall, his gaze pinned strictly to the opposite wall. As I reached for the fabric, my fingertips accidentally brushed the back of his hand.

He flinched like he'd been burned. His knuckles tightened instantly as he snatched his hand back.

The tips of his ears were burning a raw, angry red.

I slipped the shirt on and walked out. The hem fell just barely to my mid-thigh. Even beneath the scent of the body wash, the heavy cotton still carried his signature cedar scent and a faint trace of his body heat.

I sat down on the edge of his mattress. Water dripped from my wet hair onto the rug, my bare legs fully exposed beneath the oversized shirt.

Alexander was pouring a drink. At the sound of my movement, his spine went entirely rigid.

He turned around, glass in hand, and his gaze inevitably swept over my bare legs. His Adam's apple bobbed sharply.

"I'm taking a shower."

Dropping those words hastily, he spun toward the bathroom. His footsteps were jarringly abrupt, almost disorganized.

The exact second the water turned on, my phone lit up on the couch.

Caller ID: Julian. There was already a stack of over a dozen missed text messages.

My expression didn't change as I hit mute.

A few minutes later, Alexander stepped out. He was shirtless. Stray drops of water slid down the hard, defined ridges of his abs, disappearing into the waistband of his sweatpants. The damp heat rolling off his body instantly made the spacious bedroom feel suffocatingly small.

The second our eyes met, I casually tilted my wrist.

More than half the glass of water spilled directly onto his mattress.

A massive, undeniable wet patch bloomed across the sheets.

Alexander stopped in his tracks. His eyes darkened instantly, radiating an edge of barely leashed, dangerous tension.

I set the empty glass on the nightstand and slowly lifted my gaze to meet his.

"I just got your sheets wet."

"Where are we supposed to sleep tonight?"