3
Vincent
THE NIGHT AIR CLINGS to my skin, cool and damp against the sweat drying on my body. I stand rigid outside the frat house, every muscle locked in place while the bass from inside thumps against my back like an accusation. Alex appeared like a ghost made flesh, watching me from the crowd as if I’d come back from the dead. My hands won’t stop trembling. I shove them into my pockets before Rina or Kayla notice, but it’s too late to hide from Mark’s knowing gaze.
“Vincent?” Mark steps closer. “You okay, man?”
“I’m fine,” I lie. “Just want to get out of here.”
I get a sudden urge to scrub the glitter from my skin, to scrape myself clean of everything that happened in that house. Of Alex’s eyes on me, burning through the performance, through the years between us, through every wall I’ve built.
Rina flips her red hair over her shoulder, scrolling throughher phone. “Taxi’s still seven minutes out. College town on a Friday night—we’re lucky if it shows at all.”
“At least the tips were good.” Kayla fans a stack of bills, counting through them with her manicured fingers. “That frat boy with the nose ring must’ve dropped at least fifty. Did you see the way he was eyeing Rina?”
They laugh, easy and loose in a way I can never manage. My chest tightens with each second we stay in this place. Every shadow near the frat house entrance might be him. Every shout of drunken laughter might be his voice getting closer. I try to focus on my breathing, but my lungs feel starved, like the air itself has thinned.
Mark’s hand lands on my shoulder. “Seriously, Vince. What’s going on? You’ve been off since we finished the set.”
I open my mouth to deflect again when the front door of the frat house bangs open. Light spills across the lawn, and with it comes the figure I’ve been dreading. My heart slams against my ribs like a trapped animal throwing itself against its cage.
Alex steps out onto the porch, movements unsteady from alcohol, but his eyes—those piercing blue glaciers—are fixed on me with absolute clarity. He’s bigger than I remember, his frame filled out with muscle beneath the dark clothes he still favors. The undercut hairstyle is new, as is the angry intensity in his face.
My mouth goes desert-dry as he starts walking toward us, purpose in every step.
“Friend of yours?” Kayla asks, following my gaze.
I can’t answer. Can’t find words as Alex approaches. His presence expands to fill the space between us until I can barely breathe. He stops a few feet away, close enough that I can smell the vodka on him.
“Vincent,” he says, my name a statement, not a greeting.
“Alex.” I hate how my voice wavers, betraying me.
His eyes flick to my colleagues, then back to me. “We need to talk.”
“We’re waiting for our ride,” I say, trying to keep my voice calm. Like he’s just another drunk college boy, not the person who haunts the edges of my nightmares. Not the boy I once cherished more than anyone.
“Five minutes.” Alex steps closer, invading my space in that unconscious way he’s always had, like my personal boundaries don’t apply to him. “Five fucking minutes. You owe me that.”
Mark shifts beside me, a subtle movement that places him halfway between us. “Everything okay here, Vince?”
I calculate my options. Refuse, and Alex might make a scene. Agree, and I risk everything I’ve spent years building—the new life where no one knows about the Bell boy who ran from the Orlov family.
“Five minutes,” I agree, hating myself for it. “That’s it.”
Rina grabs my wrist, her eyes wide with concern. “Vincent, the taxi—”
“I’ll be quick,” I tell her, pulling away. “Wait for me.”
I follow Alex across the lawn toward a darkened corner of the property where overgrown bushes create a pocket of privacy. The music from the party dulls to a persistent thump as we move away from the house. My skin prickles with awareness of him walking just ahead of me—the width of his shoulders, the coiled tension in his stride. There was a time when I could read Alex’s every mood from just the set of his jaw. Right now, everything about him screams danger.
He stops under the shadow of a massive oak tree and turns to face me. For a moment, we just stare at each other. The alcoholseems to evaporate from his system as I watch; his posture straightens, shoulders squaring like a soldier coming to attention.
“You,” Alex growls, his voice lethal. “What the fuck are you doing here?”
I try to keep my breathing calm, my face blank—the same mask I wear when a client gets too grabby. Professional detachment. Emotional distance. Survival tactics.
“Working,” I say, the word clipped and neutral despite the hammering in my chest.
