Rose Murphy

Moving day was supposed to be a milestone. A clean slate. A perfectly orchestrated transition into my junior year at the University of Toronto, complete with cheap takeout, a reasonably quiet environment, and a roommate who understood the basic, unspoken laws of human boundaries.

Instead, it was a waking nightmare.

My back felt like it had been run over by a Zamboni after hauling three oversized moving boxes up four flights of stairs because the elevator was "out of service until further notice." My fingers were raw, my oversized gray hoodie was damp with sweat, and all I wanted—all my soul craved—was to drop my heavy duffel bag, collapse onto a bed, and sleep for the next business week.

I unlocked the door to Apartment 4B, expecting emptiness. Or maybe a quiet girl unpacking books.

I got neither.

The second the door swung open, the scent hit me first. It wasn’t the smell of old paint or cardboard boxes. It was the crisp, overwhelming scent of mint body wash, expensive cologne, and a faint hint of cold, winter air.

Then came the visual. And oh boy, it was a visual.

Standing in the middle of the kitchen was a towering wall of pure, unadulterated muscle. He was six-foot-three of broad shoulders, a sculpted back that looked like it had been chiseled out of marble, and nothing, absolutely nothing, but a dangerously low-slung white towel gripping his hips. Water droplets were still sliding down the deep groove of his spine, tracing the sharp lines of his obliques before disappearing beneath the terry cloth.

I froze. My muscles locked. My brain completely short-circuited. My heavy duffel bag slipped from my numb fingers, hitting the hardwood floor with a loud, echoey thud.

The guy spun around. Fast. His dark, messy hair whipped with the movement, sending a few stray droplets of water flying onto the granite countertop. He had sharp, striking features, a jawline that could probably cut glass and a pair of piercing, icy-blue eyes that immediately narrowed the second they landed on me.

If looks could freeze water, I would have been a human ice sculpture right then and there.

"Who the hell are you?" his voice rasped. It was deep, rough, and completely devoid of anything resembling hospitality. "And how did you get into my apartment?"

I blinked, forcing my gaze to snap violently upward, tearing my eyes away from his absurdly defined eight-pack. Focus, Rose. Do not look at the abs. He is trespassing.

"I’m Rose," I stammered, pulling my shoulders back to look as imposing as a five-foot-four girl in baggy sweatpants could look. "The new tenant. I signed the lease last week. Who are you? The plumber?"

The guy let out a harsh, dry laugh. It wasn't a happy sound. He crossed his massive arms over his chest, which, honestly, was a tactical error on his part because it only made his biceps bulge to a ridiculous degree and leaned back against the counter.

"The plumber?" he repeated, his tone dripping with pure, concentrated mockery. "Try again, sweetheart. I live here. This is my apartment."

"Excuse me?" Rage, hot and sudden, flared up in my chest, effectively burning away my exhaustion. I yanked my phone out of my pocket, my fingers shaking slightly as I tapped open my emails. "Look, buddy, I don’t know what kind of twisted frat-boy prank this is, but I have the official university housing confirmation right here. Apartment 4B. Room 17."

The exact moment the words Room 17 left my mouth, his entire demeanor shifted. The annoyance vanished, replaced by a cold, deadly seriousness. He took a slow, deliberate step toward me.

Suddenly, the open-concept apartment felt suffocatingly small. He invaded my space without even trying, towering over me like a storm cloud.

"Listen to me very carefully," he said, dropping his voice an octave, his tone dangerously quiet. "I don’t know if you’re one of those puck bunnies from the arena who tracked down my address, or if this is some sick joke my defensemen are playing on me, but you picked the wrong day. Pack your bag and get out before I call campus security."

Puck bunny? Arena? Defensemen?

My brain scrambled for a second before my eyes darted past his broad shoulder, taking in the living room for the first time.

Propped against the arm of the gray sofa was a sleek, matte-black Bauer hockey stick. Hanging on the wall directly above it was a framed jersey, navy blue and white, with the word TORONTO stitched across the front in bold block letters. And right beneath it, a massive, unmissable number 17.

Number 17, Drake Morvane.

The varsity team's most brutal enforcer. The guy who had been suspended twice last season for fracturing an opponent's jaw on the ice. Rumor had it he hated everyone, the media, the fans, and especially anyone who dared to breathe his air.

He noticed the exact moment I recognized him. A dark, dangerous smirk played at the corner of his lips, but his icy-blue eyes remained dead and freezing.

He took one more slow, deliberate step forward, effectively trapping me between his massive, towel-clad frame and the heavy apartment door. The scent of mint and pure trouble washed over me, suffocatingly close.

He leaned down, his shadow completely swallowing me up, until his breath brushed hot against the shell of my ear.

"Recognize me now, sweetheart?" he murmured, his voice a low, gravelly warning that sent a shiver straight down my spine. "Good. Then you know exactly what happens to people who cross my line. You have sixty seconds to disappear before I make you."

"I don't care if you're the king of Canada," I snapped, the filter between my brain and my mouth completely disintegrating. "I have spent the last three hours hauling my entire life up four flights of stairs. I paid a two-month deposit for this place, and I am not sleeping on a park bench in thirty-degree weather just because you think you own the city. I am not leaving."

Drake stared at me. For a long, agonizingly tense moment, neither of us breathed. He looked at me like I was a strange, irritating insect that had just crawled through his window and demanded a seat at his table.

"You think you're staying here?" he asked, a dark, dangerous smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. "With me?"

"If I have to," I shot back, lifting my chin defiantly. "So you better go put some actual pants on, Captain, because we need to figure out who is calling the landlord first."

Drake didn't break eye contact. He leaned in just a fraction closer, enough for me to feel the heat radiating off his skin. "You're making a huge mistake, Rose."

"I guess we'll find out," I whispered back, my heart hammering against my ribs, partly from anger, and partly from the terrifying realizations of what my junior year was about to look like.

Welcome to Toronto, Rose. Population: You and a very pissed-off hockey captain.

Five minutes. That was exactly how long Drake Morvane took to change, and every single second of it felt like a countdown to an explosion.

I stood in the exact same spot in the kitchen, refusing to budge, as if leaving my square meter of hardwood floor meant surrendering the war. To keep my eyes from wandering back to the hallway where the towel had disappeared, I forced myself to look around the apartment.

Aside from the hockey stick and the framed jersey, the place was annoyingly pristine. It was an open-concept loft with exposed brick walls, industrial light fixtures, and a massive leather sofa that looked like it cost more than my entire tuition. There was a sleek kitchen island separating us, currently holding a half-empty gallon of protein milk and a violently green smoothie.

The heavy thud of footsteps echoed from the corridor.

I braced myself, pulling my shoulders back as Drake walked back into the room. He had swapped the towel for a pair of gray sweatpants—which hung low on his hips, teasing the dark v-line of his pelvis—and a fitted black t-shirt that stretched tightly across his chest. His damp hair was swept back, making his sharp cheekbones and icy blue eyes look even more lethal.

He didn’t say a word. He walked straight past me, ignoring my existence entirely, pulled out his phone, and put it to his ear.

"Yeah, Marcus," Drake said, his voice flat and dangerous. "Get the landlord on the phone. Right now."

He leaned his hip against the counter, his eyes finally locking onto mine. He didn't blink. He just stared at me with this intense, unreadable gaze while the line rang.

"Mr. Vance isn’t picking up?" Drake muttered into the receiver, his jaw tightening. "Then find his assistant. I don't care if it's Sunday. There’s a girl in my apartment. She has a key... No, Marcus, I’m not joking. She thinks she lives here... Just call him."

He slammed the phone face down on the granite counter. The sharp clack made me flinch, but I refused to let him see it.

"Well?" I asked, crossing my arms. "Did your little hockey minion find a solution, or are you going to have to accept that you're stuck with me for the night?"

Drake took a slow, deliberate step toward the island. He placed both hands flat on the surface, leaning forward until we were barely a foot apart. Up close, I could smell the sharp, clean scent of his cologne. It was intoxicatingly masculine, a mix of cedarwood and fresh ice, and it was doing terrible things to my ability to stay angry.

"Let's get one thing straight, Rose," he said, his voice dropping into a low, gravelly vibration that sent an accidental shiver straight down my spine. "I don’t do roommates. I especially don't do roommates who think they can bark orders at me in my own space. This 'housing glitch' is going to get fixed first thing tomorrow morning. Until then, you don't touch anything. You don't look at anything. And you stay on that side of the room."

"Oh, I'm sorry," I scoffed, leaning in just as close, matching his intensity. "Am I breathing your precious, elite air? Should I pay a tax for standing on your rug? Listen to me, Morvane. I don't care if you're the campus god or the next NHL draft pick. To me, you’re just a guy who desperately needs a lesson in basic manners. I paid my rent. My name is on the system. If anyone is leaving tomorrow, it’s the guy who thinks a towel counts as an outfit."

Drake’s eyes darkened. A dangerous, slow smirk spread across his lips, but it wasn't friendly. It was a predator looking at a prey that didn't know it was cornered.

"You've got a smart mouth, sweetheart," he murmured, his gaze dropping to my lips for a split second before snapping back to my eyes. "But smart mouths don't pay the bills when I have the athletic board backing my lease. I’ve lived here for two years. You're a glitch in the computer."

"Then until the computer reboots, get used to the glitch."

Before he could respond, my stomach let out a loud, traitorous, and incredibly aggressive growl. The sound echoed in the tense silence of the kitchen like a firecracker.

I instantly closed my eyes, wanting the floor to open up and swallow me whole. Of all the times to betray me...

When I opened my eyes, Drake was staring at my stomach, one of his dark eyebrows raised. The tension in his jaw had loosened just a fraction, replaced by pure amusement.

"Fierce," he mocked, leaning back and crossing his arms over his chest. "Are you going to bite me next, or is your stomach just doing the talking for you?"

"I haven't eaten since six AM because I was driving a U-Haul through a snowstorm," I muttered, my cheeks burning with a furious blush.

Drake let out a breathy sigh, rolling his eyes as he walked over to the fridge. He yanked it open, revealing rows of meal-prep containers, sports drinks, and eggs. He grabbed a pre-made chicken salad wrap, slammed it onto the counter between us, and slid it toward me.

"Eat," he commanded shortly. "The last thing I need is a dead girl on my floor. It messes with my training schedule."

I looked at the wrap, then at him. "Is this poisoned?"

"I wish," Drake snapped, turning his back to me to pour himself a glass of water. "But unfortunately, murder charges ruin my chances of making the playoffs."

I hated that I was hungry enough to accept food from the enemy, but my survival instinct won. I snatched the wrap, tore off the plastic wrapper, and took a massive bite. It was annoying how good it tasted.

"Thank you," I mumbled around the food, trying to maintain some dignity.

Drake watched me eat, his expression slipping back into that unreadable, stoic mask. He leaned against the sink, slowly sipping his water, his intense blue eyes tracking every movement of my hands, the way I chewed, the way I wiped a crumb from my lower lip. It was unnerving. He wasn't just looking at me; he was analyzing me, trying to figure out if I was a threat to his perfectly structured world.

"Tomorrow morning, 8:00 AM," Drake said, his tone leaving no room for argument as he set his empty glass down. "We go to the housing office together. We get this sorted. You get a new room, and I get my sanity back."

"Fine," I replied, swallowing the last bite of the wrap. "But tonight, since there’s only one bed in that second room and my mattress hasn't arrived... where am I supposed to sleep?"

Drake pointed a long, blunt finger toward the massive gray leather sofa in the living room. "Right there. And don't even think about asking for a pillow from my room."

"Chivalry is truly dead," I muttered, walking over to my duffel bag and dragging it toward the couch.

"It died the moment you walked through my door," Drake shot back, his voice fading as he walked toward his bedroom.

He paused at the threshold of his room, his hand on the doorknob. He turned his head slightly, his profile sharp against the dim hallway light.

"Lock the front door, Rose," he said, his voice unexpectedly quiet, losing some of its harsh edge. "And don't touch my hockey sticks."

With a soft click, his bedroom door closed, leaving me alone in the quiet, sprawling apartment. I collapsed onto the leather sofa, burying my face in my hands.

He was arrogant. He was rude. He was completely insufferable.

But as I lay down, pulling my oversized hoodie tight around myself to ward off the chill of the Toronto night, all I could think about was the way his eyes had looked when he was leaning over the counter.

This was going to be a very, very long night. And an even longer semester.

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 the way her wide, hazel eyes had darted down my chest before scrambling back up to my face, her cheeks flushing a furious, beautiful shade of pink.

Beautiful? No. Annoying. She was a distraction, and distractions were a luxury I couldn't afford. Especially not with the scouts from Boston and Chicago hovering around our arena lately, watching my every move. I needed absolute focus.

At 5:00 AM, my alarm buzzed. I rolled out of bed, threw on my training gear, a gray sleeveless compression shirt and shorts, and cracked my neck. Time for my morning skate. The ice didn't care about housing glitches, and neither did I.

When I opened my bedroom door, the apartment was pitch-black except for the pale blue moonlight filtering through the floor-to-ceiling windows. I walked into the living room, intending to grab my keys and leave without a sound.

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, at some point during the night, she had rolled completely off the expensive leather sofa and was now tangled in a chaotic ball of her own oversized gray hoodie and a flimsy, thin 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 down, 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, and immediately buried her face into the fabric, inhaling deeply. My scent, mint and cedarwood, was all over that blanket. The realization that she was wrapped in my smell made something strange and dangerously hot flare up in my gut.

"Get a grip, Morvane," I muttered to myself, 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.

When I finally unlocked the door to Apartment 4B again, I was fully prepared to deal with the administrative nightmare. I had even left a note on the counter earlier: 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 was wearing high-waisted jeans and a tight, cropped black turtleneck that clung to every single curve, her hair pulled up into a messy claw clip. The cold air from outside suddenly felt scorching. My eyes, entirely betraying my willpower, tracked her from her boots, up the tight denim of her jeans, and lingered on the exposed sliver of golden skin at her waist before finally meeting 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 murmured, my legs moving before I could stop them. I walked toward the kitchen, crossing the space between us until I was standing right on the other side of the island, terrifyingly close. I wanted to intimidate her. I wanted her to back down. But mostly, I just wanted to be near her. "And you're wearing my blanket."

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

I leaned forward, placing my hands on the edge of the counter, tilting my head to look down at her. "Don't get used to it, sweetheart. I just didn't want your ghost haunting my living room."

My eyes scanned her face, settling on a small smudge of charcoal on her cheek—probably from the art supplies I’d seen poking out of her bag. Without thinking, my hand reached across the small distance. My thumb brushed against her cheekbone. Her skin was incredibly soft, warm, and the contact felt like a sudden jolt of electricity straight to my chest.

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, watching her lips part. 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 just 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, not my personal one, but the sleek, black burner phone I kept hidden in my hockey bag, 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, Thorne. Let’s see how she looks when we’re done with her. Sixty seconds to get her out, or we do it for you.”

"Drake?" Rose’s voice came from behind me, laced with sudden confusion as she noticed my rigid posture. "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.