Chapter 3 A Bad Distraction

DRAKE MORVANE

I didn't sleep. Not a single wink.

Every time I closed my eyes, my brain replayed the exact moment Rose Murphy burst into my apartment. I kept seeing her wide hazel eyes dart down my chest before scrambling back up to my face, her cheeks flushing a furious, beautiful shade of pink.

Beautiful? Not really. She just got on my nerves. I couldn't let myself get distracted, not with scouts from Boston and Chicago in the arena, watching everything I did. I needed to stay focused.

At 5:00 AM, my alarm went off. I got out of bed, pulled on my training gear: a gray sleeveless compression shirt and shorts. I stretched my neck. It was time for my morning skate. The ice didn't care about housing problems, and neither did I.

I opened my bedroom door and found the apartment dark, with only pale blue moonlight shining through the big windows. I went into the living room, planning to grab my keys and leave quietly.

But then my foot hit something soft.

"Oof," a muffled voice groaned from the floor.

I froze, looking down. Rose wasn't on the couch. Apparently, sometime during the night, she had rolled completely off the expensive leather sofa and was now tangled in a chaotic ball of her oversized gray hoodie and a flimsy blanket she must have dug out of her duffel bag. Her messy brown hair was splayed across the hardwood floor, a few strands stuck to her lip.

She looked small. Vulnerable. Completely unlike the fiery girl who had called me the 'King of Canada' last night.

And she was shivering. The Toronto winter was brutal, and the draft from the old brick walls always hit the living room hardest.

I stood there for a full minute, my keys clutched in my hand, telling myself to walk out the door. Not my problem, I thought. She wanted to stay here. Let her freeze.

Instead, my feet moved on their own. I walked back to my room, grabbed the heavy, oversized navy-blue duvet from my bed, the one with the official Toronto Varsity Blues crest, and walked back out. I knelt, trying to ignore the way my chest tightened when I got close to her, and carefully draped the heavy blanket over her shoulders.

Rose stirred, murmuring something incoherent under her breath, deeply.

My scent, mint and cedarwood, clung to that blanket. Realizing she was wrapped in my smell made something strange and dangerously hot flare in my gut.

"Get a grip, Drake," I muttered, standing up abruptly and heading out the door.

Three hours later, the ice hadn't cured my mood. If anything, I had skated harder, hit the plexiglass rougher, and pushed my body until my lungs burned—all to exhaust the thought of her out of my system.

I unlocked the door to Apartment 4B again, ready to handle the mess at the housing office. Earlier, I’d left a note on the counter: Housing office at 8:30 AM. Don't be late. And don't touch my coffee maker.

I kicked the door open, my hockey bag slung over my shoulder, and the first thing I saw was Rose.

My breath caught in my throat.

She was standing by the kitchen island, nursing a mug of tea. She wore high-waisted jeans and a tight, cropped black turtleneck that clung to every curve, her hair pulled up in a messy claw clip.

The cold air from outside suddenly felt scorching. My eyes, betraying my willpower, tracked from her boots up the tight denim of her jeans, lingered on the exposed sliver of golden skin at her waist, and finally met her eyes.

I clenched my jaw so hard my teeth ground together. Control yourself, Thorne.

"You're dressed," I said, my voice rougher and deeper than usual from the freezing rink air.

"Good observation. I see those captain instincts are sharp," she replied, leaning against the counter and taking a slow, agonizingly deliberate sip of her tea. "Did you enjoy your little ice dance?"

"It's called a morning skate, Rose," I said. My legs moved before I could stop them. I walked into the kitchen and stopped on the other side of the island, way too close. I wanted to scare her off. I wanted her to back down. But really, I just wanted to be near her. "And you're wearing my blanket."

"You left it on me," she countered, looking me straight in the eye without a hint of fear. "Which, by the way, was surprisingly human of you. I didn't think robots felt empathy."

I leaned forward, tilting my head to look down at her. "Don't get used to it, sweetheart. I didn't want your ghost haunting my living room."

I noticed a small smudge of charcoal on her cheek, likely from the art supplies in her bag. I reached out and brushed my thumb against her cheekbone. Her skin felt soft and warm, and the touch sent a shock through me.

Rose gasped softly, her breath catching.

I froze, my thumb lingering on her skin for a second too long. My gaze dropped to her mouth as her lips parted. The tension between us was suffocating. I wanted to pull her across the counter. I wanted to tell her she wasn't going anywhere.

Fearing how close I was to losing my grip, I abruptly yanked my hand back as if I'd been burned.

"You have... dirt on your face," I muttered, turning around quickly to open the fridge to hide the fact that my fingers were trembling. "Let's go. The housing office opens in ten minutes."

"I'm ready," she said, her voice carrying a quiet, knowing confidence that told me she knew exactly how much she affected me.

I grabbed my keys from the counter and reached for the doorknob. But before I could turn it, my phone vibrated violently against my hip.

I pulled it out, intending to ignore it, but the lock screen lit up with a text message from a restricted number.

My blood turned to pure ice.

It was a photo. A photo of Rose, taken through the kitchen window just a few seconds ago, holding her mug of tea. Underneath it was a single line of text:

"She looks good in your apartment, Capt. Let's see how she looks when we're done with her. Sixty seconds to get her out, or we do it for you."

"Morvane? What's wrong?"

I didn't answer. Slowly, I looked up from the screen and stared at the front door. On the other side of the wood, I heard the faint, distinct sound of the doorknob beginning to turn.