Chapter 1: Cold Steel and Hot Breath
The industrial fridge hummed like a sleeping beast in the corner of the cavernous kitchen. Nikki swiped a damp rag across the stainless steel counter, grimacing at the smear of glitter and something that smelled suspiciously of cheap whiskey and regret. From the main hall, a wall of sound punched through the closed door—thumping bass, male voices roaring in unison, the shriek of laughter that meant someone had definitely just done something stupid.
“I owe you, I owe you so much,” Rachel had pleaded, her eyes wide with panic an hour ago. “Just help with the food setup. They’ll never even know you’re here.”
Famous last words. Rachel, her best friend since diapers, was a pledge mother for Sigma Tau, and Nikki, Greek-adjacent and proud of it, was now up to her elbows in disposable platters and the ghost of burnt bacon.
She tossed the rag into a sink full of murky water. The flickering overhead fluorescent tube cast jagged shadows, making the stacks of plastic cups look like skeletal remains. This whole ritual thing was absurd. Grown men chanting about brotherhood while wearing goat masks or whatever. She’d take a quiet library any night.
The door swung inward.
A wedge of light and sound carved into the kitchen before it hushed shut again, muffling the chaos. Harry stood there, leaning against the frame. His white dress shirt was pristine, sleeves rolled to his elbows, a stark contrast to the messy, sweating brothers in the hall. His dark curls were artfully tousled, and his blue eyes found her instantly, like he’d known exactly where she’d be.
“Lost lamb,” he said, his voice a smooth baritone that cut through the fridge’s drone.
“Shepherd’s in the other room,” Nikki replied, not missing a beat. She grabbed a tray of abandoned celery sticks. “I’m just the cleaning crew.”
“Looks like a lonely post.” He pushed off the door and took a few steps in. The space felt smaller suddenly. He moved with an athlete’s ease, the kind of confidence that came from never being told no. “Rachel’s little non-Greek helper. Nikki, right?”
“Congratulations. You can read a name tag.” She didn’t have a name tag.
He smiled, a flash of white in the shadowy room. He stopped on the other side of the island, fingertips resting on the steel. “I’ve seen you around. At the library. You’re always frowning at textbooks like they personally insulted you.”
“They usually have.” She kept wiping, refusing to look up. The scent of him reached her—clean cotton, expensive cologne, and underneath, something warmer. Dangerous. “Shouldn’t you be in there presiding over the goat-blood ceremonies or something?”
“It’s a blindfolded trust walk, actually. Far less dramatic.” He circled the island, slow, deliberate. “I needed a break. It’s… a lot.”
“I can imagine.”
He was beside her now. Not touching. Just a presence, solid and warm. The roar of the party felt galaxies away. The only things real were the hum of the fridge, the slick linoleum under her sneakers, and the intensity of his focus, which was suddenly, entirely, on her.
“You don’t belong back here,” he said, his voice dropping.
“Tell me about it.”
“No. I mean you don’t belong back here,” he repeated, nodding toward the service area. “Hiding.”
Before she could muster a sarcastic retort, his hand closed lightly on her wrist. Not harsh, but absolute. A current shot up her arm. He used the motion to guide her, turning her, stepping her backward until her shoulder blades met the cold, vibrating metal of the industrial fridge.
“What are you doing?” Her voice was steadier than she felt.
“Taking my break.” He moved into her space, one hand planting on the fridge beside her head, caging her. His body didn’t touch hers, but she felt the heat of him, the suggestion of pressure. His eyes scanned her face, her neck, the strip of skin above her tank top. “You’ve got a really smart mouth. I’ve been watching it all semester.”
“Creepy.”
“Honest.” He finally closed the last inch, his hips pressing hers against the steel. A jolt, cold and hot at once, shot through her. He dipped his head, his lips brushing the shell of her ear. His whisper was low, deliberate, every word a promise. “When this is over… when they’re all passed out or gone… I’m going to take you upstairs. To my room. I’m going to get that smart mouth to do other things. And I’m going to see if the rest of you is as defiant as you pretend to be.”
His free hand slid from her wrist, over her hip, and under the hem of her black tank top. His palm was hot against the bare skin of her stomach. She gasped, the sound swallowed by the hum and the distant party. Her brain screamed to shove him off, to knee him, to yell. But her body was a traitor, locked in a strange, electric paralysis.
“You’re presumptuous,” she managed, breathing hard.
“I’m inevitable.” His thumb stroked a slow arc just below her rib cage. “You think I don’t see you? You think I haven’t wanted to cut you out of the crowd since September? Tonight’s the night. The noise, the chaos… no one will notice when you disappear. Or when I do.”
“HARRY! Yo, man, they need you!” A fist pounded on the kitchen door, followed by a muffled shout.
He didn’t flinch. His eyes stayed on hers, a blue flame in the sickly light. He leaned in, brushing his lips against her temple—not a kiss, a claim. Then he slowly withdrew his hand from under her shirt, letting the fabric fall back into place.
He stepped back, adjusting his cuff. The charismatic vice-president slid back into place like a mask, but his eyes were still dark, still knowing.
“Don’t leave,” he said, casual, as if discussing the weather. Then he turned and pushed through the door. The roar of the party surged and then vanished, leaving her alone again with the humming beast of a fridge.
Nikki let out a shaky breath she didn’t know she’d been holding. Her skin buzzed where he’d touched her. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic drum solo of panic and something else, something infuriatingly close to thrill.
She pushed away from the fridge, her legs unsteady. The crumpled rag in the sink stared back at her. The chants from the main hall resumed, a primitive, pounding rhythm.
She looked at the kitchen door. Then at the back service entrance, a glowing red EXIT sign promising the cool, sane night air.
He’d told her not to leave.
Slowly, deliberately, she walked to the sink, turned on the cold water, and splashed her face. The water dripped from her chin onto the stained front of her tank top. She looked at her reflection in the dark window of the microwave, her hazel eyes wide in the shadows.
A sharp, cynical smile touched her lips.
He had no idea who he was dealing with.