Page 16

She leans forward, completely ignoring my horror. “I’m telling you, Rhea, it’s life changing.” She starts crawling across the bed, towards me, her eyes gleaming with playful intensity. “Someone told me that puck boys are pretty intense when they fuck but I had no idea how much.”

“Cassidy, seriously!” I blurt, my face heating up.

“Oh, come on! Don’t be a prude!” she laughs, flopping down on her stomach, chin propped up in her hands. “Want me to tell you the details? He was pretty big and the way he…”

I slap my hands over my ears, desperately trying to block out whatever filthy sentence she’s about to finish. “La! La! La! I don’t want to hear it!”

Cassidy rolls her eyes, her laughter bubbling up. “You’re so innocent, Rhea.” Rolling onto her back, she crosses her arms behind her head, staring at the ceiling with a teasing smile. “But seriously, when was the last time you had sex?”

I feel my cheeks flush as I reach for my abandoned scrunchie while shooting her a glare. “That is nobody’s business.”

“Oh my God! Don’t tell me your last time was with Wesley! Babe, that was over a month ago.”

I groan, the memories flooding back, igniting a mix of frustration and embarrassment.

Wesley was cute, nerdy and sweet in a way that made him seem too good to be true.

Our relationship had been filled with study sessions, movie dates and pizza nights, but it ended abruptly when he showed up to my dorm one night, bruised, bloody and demanding a breakup.

He wouldn’t explain why he was that way, just kept shaking his head and repeating we need to break up.

Then there was Bryan just few weeks ago, who ghosted me after our second date because he somehow broke his arm in three places right before we were supposed to meet up. He didn’t even try to explain—just vanished like a bad Tinder match.

It’s like I have my own personal dark cloud following me around, and no guy can stand it for too long.

Guys would enter my life, stick around just long enough to show potential, and then—bam!

—something terrible would happen, and they’d be gone.

No closure, no explanations, just a string of weird accidents and even weirder breakups.

“Come on, babe. You need to get over Wesley. It’s been too long,” Cassidy says, stretching her legs above her head.

I sigh, knowing she’s right but hating how easy she makes it sound. So, I stay silent and finish my ponytail, hoping she’ll drop the subject.

She twists around to glance at me in the mirror, legs still stretched above her head as if she’s preparing for some impromptu yoga session.

“I’m serious, Rhea. You’re too hot to be moping around like this.

Wesley was a nerdy phase. You need someone who can handle all of this.

” She gestures wildly at me. “Honestly, you’ve probably got a line of guys now.

That masked freak from the party? Some people think he was part of Reaper hazing.

Like, what even is that? Rich boy cult shit. ”

She laughs, but it’s sharp and careless, and I freeze.

Reaper.

The word lands heavy. Too heavy. My skin prickles, and I stare at her like maybe she just said something else. But she’s already scrolling again, oblivious to the cold bloom of anxiety spreading through my chest.

I have to say something… anything to be normal. I mutter as my heart races, “Yeah? And where am I supposed to find this mythical guy who won’t mysteriously break a bone or ghost me the second things get serious?”

Cassidy lowers her legs, finally sitting up, her eyes twinkling with mischief. “He may be closer than you think.”

I narrow my eyes at her, skeptical. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Cassidy grins, that mischievous glint in her eyes growing brighter. “Oh, you know, maybe someone who’s been…paying attention to you. And maybe, just maybe, he’s more than capable of handling whatever crazy comes your way.”

I roll my eyes. “Please tell me you’re not talking about one of your hockey boys. The last thing I need is a sport obsessed jock fucker that has an ego bigger than his cock.”

As the words leave my mouth, Thatcher’s smirking face flashes in my mind, uninvited and completely unwelcome. I shake my head, trying to banish the image, but it’s stuck like a splinter.

His words…his offer echoes in my head, making my stomach churn.

‘‘Then you’re mine. You’ll be my...property. You’ll do what I say, when I say it.’’

His voice, calm but with a razor-sharp edge, keeps replaying in my head, and I can feel the bile rise in my throat. The word property lingers, suffocating me. Like I’m nothing more than a possession to him, something he can control, bend to his will.

I bite my lip, the weight of it all crashing down on me again. Cassidy keeps rambling about hockey boys, but I’m barely listening. Thatcher’s offer wasn’t just about hooking up or some casual flirtation. It was more—a deal. A way out of one mess, but straight into another.

He made it sound like a choice, but was it really? My freedom, my reputation, everything hangs by a thread, and Thatcher holds the scissors. If I refuse him, there’s no knowing what he will do. And if I accept, what happens to me then? Either way, I lose.

“So, what do you think?” I hear Cassidy ask, her question breaking me out of my thoughts.

“Huh?” I blink, forcing myself to refocus.

She tosses me a look, half-amused, half-exasperated. “Seriously? I’ve been talking about you needing another rebound and me already having the perfect candidate and you’ve been zoning out this whole time,” she scoffs. “You really need to get out of your head, girl.”

I force out a small laugh. “Sorry, I’ve just got a lot on my mind. What were you saying?”

She rolls her eyes but shifts closer, a conspiratory look on her face as she unlocks her phone and starts aggressively scrolling.

“His name is Connor, and he’s also a psychology major and…” she pushes her phone towards me and I lean forward to glance at her screen “He’s totally hot and plus, he has a massive crush on you.”

I glance at the phone screen, my eyes catching on the photo Cassidy is showing me.

It’s not just Connor in the photo–it’s a group photo of him and several other guys, all dressed in preppy frat boy fashion, standing in front of a familiar mansion.

They’re all grinning like they’ve just won some sort of victory, arms slung over each other’s shoulders.

And then my stomach drops.

Because there, standing dead center at the front of the group, is Thatcher.

He’s wearing the same smirk I’ve come to loathe—confident, smug, like he owns everything around him.

His hair is shorter, curling around his face like a curtain.

His tall, muscled frame, which towered over the rest of his frat brothers, is clad in a dark colored letterman jacket.

Thatcher’s presence dominates the photo, even though it’s supposed to be a group shot.

He’s the tallest, the broadest, and the one everyone else seems to be gravitating toward.

My eyes zero in on the title stitched onto his jacket—”Fraternity President”. Of course, he’s in charge.

My heart sinks, and a wave of nausea sweeps over me as I stare at the image. Even in a candid frat photo, Thatcher exudes control and dominance, his undeniably handsome features and that effortlessly charming smile that could disarm anyone, even me.

I feel Cassidy’s expectant eyes on me, completely oblivious to the turmoil churning inside. She’s still rambling about Connor, pointing out how cute and sweet he is, but her words are just background noise.

My entire focus is locked on Thatcher, and I can’t shake the unease creeping up my spine.

His chiseled jawline, piercing bottle green eyes, perfectly tousled brown hair and that infuriatingly flawless smile—it’s a combination that would be impossible to ignore even if I wanted to.

His looks are almost too good to be true, the kind of look that makes people forgive his arrogance, the kind that makes you second-guess whether you hate him or if part of you is drawn to him against your better judgment.

I swallow hard, trying to push away the weight settling on my shoulders but it’s no use. Thatcher’s image burns into my mind, his presence more powerful than just pixels on a screen.

“Rhea?” Cassidy’s voice breaks through my haze. “What do you think? Connor’s cute, right?”

I force myself to look away from Thatcher’s face, fighting against the tension building in my chest. “Yeah,” I murmur, trying to sound normal. “He seems…nice.”

But my words are hollow, barely cutting through the storm swirling in my mind.

Thatcher’s image is burned into my thoughts, his smug expression and ridiculously good looks wrapping around me like a vice.

His eyes seem to see right through me, even through the phone screen.

It’s maddening how someone so infuriatingly arrogant could be this captivating at the same time.

Cassidy prattles on, oblivious to my internal struggle, her phone now back in her hands as she starts texting someone.

“You should totally meet Connor,” she says, grinning. “He’s cute, sweet and totally not a weirdo, I promise.”

I manage a weak smile, turn back to my vanity and grab my mascara.

“I’ll think about it,” I finally say, my voice distant, but the truth is I’m not sure I can think about anyone else right now.

I finish my makeup with a shaky breath and with one last glance at the mirror, I stand and straighten my clothes, a desperate motion to calm myself. “Ready to go? We’re going to be late.”

“Yep!” Cassidy chirps, bouncing to her feet, but then she pauses, her eyes sweeping over my outfit. “Is that what you’re wearing though?”

I look down at my clothes–baggy ripped jeans, a black turtleneck, a light green denim jacket and my Doc Martens. It’s nothing fancy, but it’s comfortable and right now, comfort is what I need.

“What’s wrong with it?” I ask, raising an eyebrow.