Chapter 1
ARYA
The new year is cold, dangerous, and brutal. Now, out of the corner of my eye, I see him. The Viking. A man who epitomizes those things.
Staring fixedly at the silver doors of the Columbus Tower elevator, I purse my lips as he approaches. Erik Sorensen and I run in the same circles, but we never talk. Or even acknowledge each other.
I despise him. And the feeling is mutual.
At six-foot-nine, he towers over me, despite the fact that I’m five-nine today since I’m wearing boots with three-inch heels.
I resent his height. And his massive size in general.
The temptation to stalk away hits me hard, but I force myself to remain still. I’m determined to keep my appointment with a pair of Granthorpe reporters.
Last week, a dead girl washed ashore, and I have something I want to get off my chest about Casanova, the campus serial killer. The police don’t seem to be doing anything useful, so this is a last-ditch effort to get more eyes looking at a spot north of campus where I think I may have seen him.
I glance at the Viking, giving him the side-eye as I take stock. I had hoped that after football season ended, I wouldn’t need to look at him anymore. Not that it’s a complete hardship. Sorensen could be Thor… if Thor worked out more.
My teeth grind together at the thought of him being godlike, and I force my gaze back to the button panel. He looms above. Standing next to him, I feel an inch tall.
Lack of shaving or haircuts during football season means he looks less handsome than usual. But the rugged, maniac berserker-look has a pull, too. I wish it didn’t.
Right now, he stands near me with his ruddy beard, long unruly golden hair, and bruising under his eyes courtesy of the broken nose he sustained in the Palmetto Bowl. The image of blood pouring down his football jersey as he snarled up at the screaming fans is one I will never forget. Even standing still, he looks wild and lawless.
I shudder. I hate his fucking marauder vibe. Partly because it’s sexy. And partly because it is exactly that brutality that caused the perpetual frostiness between us.
His glacial blue-eyed gaze does a slow once over, pausing on my Cleopatra cuff necklace, gold knit shirt, and silver rings. His eyes return to my chest. I feel like saying, yes, they’re “C” cups, but you can stop staring because they’re not for you.
I wear sports bras a lot, so guys frequently get hung up on the difference when I wear anything that shows off my breasts.
My hand drops to the drawstring of my silk pants and plays with the knot. It does the trick of pulling his eyes down. Though now, instead of looking at my chest, he’s looking at the junction of my thighs.
Sexual awareness courses through me. Two and a half years ago, we almost had a night together when I would’ve found out whether his whole body is as big and hard as advertised.
My nipples tighten.
For fuck’s sake.
Today his thick blond hair hangs in a curtain past his massively broad shoulders, and because I’m tired and pissed, I can’t resist a jab. Staring straight ahead, I murmur, “Your hair looks like my Barbie’s. Gonna take care of that soon? Or is Rapunzel the look you’re cultivating these days?”
He licks his lips, giving me the side-eye without comment.
“What are you doing here, anyway?” My tone is half question, half accusation.
More silence. Usually, I give as good as I get with the silent treatment, but it’s unnerving to stand this close to him.
Finally turning in his direction, I say, “Did that last concussion do some damage to your brain’s speech center? I asked why you’re here.”
His cocky gaze moves slowly up and down me, settling on my face. And his expression feigns boredom.
“Charming,” I say when it’s clear he won’t speak. The painted black fingernail of my right index finger clicks against the elevator call button. It’s already lit, but I press it all the same.
The door opens and I push past him to enter, my black coat sleeve brushing against his elbow. “I have an appointment. Take the next one.”
I try to block his entry, but Sorensen uses his gigantic size to force me to the back of the car as he steps in.
“Asshole,” I mutter under my breath.
“Tease.” The set-down is made in a gruff baritone I haven’t heard directed at me in a long time.
My response is instantaneous and clipped. “Not true.”
Our bitter anger at each other is over a sordid interlude that never happened. I stiffen, always unsettled when I think of that time.
His long finger hits the button for the top floor.
Just fantastic. He’s headed for the Granthorpe Daily Dispatch offices, too. Why is this happening? We avoided getting this close to each other for the entire football season while riding buses, performing in stadiums, and celebrating at parties. We were so good for so long.
“Move,” I say, my skin prickling at the charge in the air. Being near him is like standing under dark storm clouds before the first lightning strike. “I’ll get out.”
He doesn’t move.
Yeah, as stated, asshole.
I circle the edge of the elevator, but the door closes too quickly. Huffing out an impatient breath, I back into the corner, folding my arms across my chest.
The car rises a couple of floors and then jerks to a halt, causing me to bang against the wall. The lights go out. Oh, God. My breath catches at our sudden plunge into darkness, and my voice comes out agitated. “Shit. What the hell?"
Sorensen, the Viking action figure, must be as still as a goddamned statue because I hear nothing from him, not even breathing.
“There’s a phone in here, right?” I demand. “Make use of it please.”
As far as I can tell, he doesn’t move. There’s no rustling of clothes or shuffling of feet to suggest he’s gotten closer to the panel.
“If you’ve used up your allotted ten words for the day, move aside. I’ll find the phone.”
Silence.
I want to screech and attack like a vicious wendigo. I wish I was one. Then, if I were trapped here for a prolonged period, at least I wouldn’t starve. There’s enough muscle on his body to get me through at least March.
The thought of eating him makes me recall the source of our feud, and I chuckle softly at the irony of that twisted thought.
As I move forward, his monolithic stone impression thwarts my attempt to reach the control panel.
“Hey, Thing, can you move?”
“Thing?” The low disembodied voice strikes me as sinister and slightly sexy.
Do not go there, Arya. He is off-limits. Forever.
“Marvel? Fantastic Four? Former football star whose flesh turns to stone.” I push against his hard body with my hands, not even sure where they land.
His hand grabs my right forearm and closes around it. All the way, despite my puffy coat. He’s monstrous, and for some sick reason, I wonder how those fingers would feel inside me.
“Look,” I say, trying to pull my arm free of his grasp. “I just—”
“Behave yourself.”
When I speak, my tone drips acid. “Excuse me?”
I slap my palm against his chest, giving him a shove with enough force to throw anyone off balance. The Viking should have to catch himself, but his bulk doesn’t shift. It’s as though his goddamned tree trunk legs have grown roots into the elevator’s steel frame.
He crowds me, forcing my back against the wall. Heat radiates from him, warming my skin, and he smells like winter… spearmint and fresh ice.
Licking my lips, I tilt my face up. Even straining my eyes doesn’t show me a glimpse of his features. “What are you doing?”
“The agreement was you stay away from me unless you want trouble. You just broke the terms.”
“What terms? When did we agree to anything?”
“Heyworth House. October 24th. Freshman year.”
My brows rise in shock. October twenty… what?
“I don’t remember discussing—wait, was that Declan’s Halloween party? I was super drunk that night.”
“I know. Risky move while wearing a black leather jumpsuit unzipped to your belt buckle. Things could’ve taken a turn.”
“It was a costume,” I hiss, furious at the implication that a sexy outfit makes a girl fair prey. “I was also wearing a red wig and fake guns strapped to my thighs. I was Black Widow. Marvel Universe. Pretend you live in America.”
“You offered me a blow job. Again.”
I did what?
No way. I wouldn’t have. He’s lying.
“And you said no, of course.” My retort is quick, trying to distract from other things. “Do you hate pizza and tacos, too?”
“A blow job wasn’t the original agreement.”
“So you’ve said! But if you really said oral was out, I never heard you. Did you whisper it like a shy little girl on her first trip to an ice cream stand?”
“What’s an ice cream stand?”
His dry tone nearly makes my head explode. Slapping my hands against his chest hard enough to make a thwacking sound, I try to shove him back.
“Don’t crowd me, Viking.”
His arms jerk me toward him and then whirl me a hundred-and-eighty degrees. Setting me forward, he presses my body to the wall, so my chest and cheek are against cold steel.
“I don’t fight with little girls,” he says. “But I do punish them if they try to get violent.”
“Let go of me.”
“You done trying to throw your weight around? All hundred pounds of you?”
“A hundred pounds! As if. And I’m strong. I could put the point of my heel through your foot if I decided to,” I say, biting out the words.
“My quads weigh more than you.”
“Bullshit. I’m one-thirty. Get off.” I bang my body backward into his and step down on his foot with my sharp heel. I connect with a clinking sound. What is he wearing? Steel-toed boots? Like a construction worker?
My booted foot skids off, and it throws me off balance. His hands are all that keep me from falling.
Then he smacks my ass.
And smacks it again.
The air stalls in my lungs, and my muscles stiffen, but deep in my core there’s a pulse of something that’s not angry.
The cracking sound of a third slap echoes off the elevator walls. And heat spreads through my right ass cheek.
He hit me. Or more accurately, he spanked me.
More than once.
“What are you doing?” My voice is breathier than I want.
Gripping my flesh through the flimsy silk, he says, “Misbehave with me, and I’ll punish this ass.”
Heat licks up my spine, causing a flush I’m glad he can’t see.
“Let go,” I say, my voice firm, though inside I’m shaky. There is something about his voice and the way he uses it. My nipples bead and tingle.
“Gonna behave?”
The rage that consumes me is inexplicable. I’m pissed at him and at myself. I reach back and grab his forearm, digging my nails into his flesh. “Let go.”
He taps my ass, and then his fingers push into the crevice between my cheeks as he squeezes me. A riot of sensations courses through my pelvis, and I nearly push back toward him.
“Apologize.”
“No way.” I push his arms in a useless attempt to escape. He’s Stonehenge and I’m a toddler trying to topple a ten-ton stone.
Thwack. This one is harder and creates a cascade of heat, which causes my nipples to ache with sensations that are so fucking wrong.
A slow breath escapes. “Do not do that.”
He pushes his hand in front of me and tugs at the drawstring. I barely manage to grab the top of my pants to keep the silk from fluttering down to my ankles.
Jesus Christ!
I gasp as he slaps my ass again and his finger hooks the lace of my thong where it rests on my hip. I jerk forward, rising on my toes to prevent the fabric from riding up any higher.
“If I take these down, I won’t just slap your ass.”
The threat spirals through me, a mixture of menace and seduction.
“You can’t. Here and now? No way.”
“Apologize.”
“All right,” I huff. “I’m sorry. Let me go.”
He releases me slowly, and I scramble away and refasten my pants. Once the tie is cinched tight, I move into a far corner.
Sorensen doesn’t grab me again as I expect. Usually once a guy gets violent, he can’t stop on a dime. Men spiral out of control.
A metal hinge creaks, and emergency lights glow to reveal the elevator phone. He lifts it to his ear as the light fades.
“This is Erik Sorensen. I’m trapped in a Columbus Tower elevator.” He pauses. “Yeah.”
There’s a click as he replaces the phone.
“Fire department and Central Power are both already in the building. An hour or less, they think.”
Pressing my lips together, I glare in his direction.
“Which means…” His voice is deep and gruff. It’s exactly the voice a woman wants her man to have. Which is another thing about him that I resent. “If you start now, you should have enough time to give me the blow job you’re always pushing.”
I flip him off silently.
Always pushing? I haven’t spoken to him in two years.
Our silence stretches on as I check my phone every thirty seconds. I send a text message to Camrynn Reynolds, one of the reporters I’m meeting to discuss Casanova.
That name, Casanova, sends a chill coursing through me. He should’ve been caught. If someone other than twenty-something reporters were doing their jobs, he would’ve been.
After about five minutes, the lights flicker on.
“They were faster than advertised.” Sorensen straightens, looking me over. “Not always a good thing for a man to be.”
Heat floods my face at the double entendre. And I resent the flush, even though I doubt he can tell I’m blushing. My skin tone’s a light tan year round.
As the elevator shudders to life and rises, my hand clutches the rail to steady myself.
When we reach the top floor and the door opens, Cami Reynolds, star quarterback Declan Heyworth's latest pretty blond snack, is standing in the hall. I catch a glimpse of Declan as he disappears into the stairwell.
In addition to Cami, I’m here to meet the main journalist on the Casanova stories, the elusive S Riksen. He’s talented, but eccentric, apparently.
“Reynolds,” Sorensen says with a nod of acknowledgement.
My head tilts. He calls Declan’s latest plus one by her last name? What’s that about?
Cami nods at Sorensen and then smiles at me. “Hey, Arya. Thanks for meeting us here.” Her eyes dart over to the Viking. “Did you tell her?”
Uneasiness washes over me. Tell me what? What the hell is she talking about?
Sorensen’s gaze flicks to me. “I’m Riksen.”
My feet freeze to the floor, suddenly as heavy as lead blocks.
No. He cannot be Riksen. There are things I need to discuss with the reporter… things that make me feel scared and vulnerable. I am not confiding them to Erik fucking Sorensen.
Sorensen pulls a glass door to the newsroom open and holds it for us. Looking at Cami, he says, “Yeah, I told her.”
Cami smirks. “Better late than never, I guess.”
Fuck.
The prick who just smacked my ass and threatened to strip me in the elevator is Riksen? My last hope.
The realization makes my head want to explode.
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