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“Thatcher! Where the fuck have you been?” Ezra yells as I exit my car. He stands shirtless and barefoot on the lawn, still littered with red solo cups and empty beer cans. I have to get some people to clean that up but now’s not the time.

Ezra’s face is pale, his eyes wild. He’s breathing hard, his usual laid back attitude replaced by raw panic. It’s understandable, considering the situation.

I shrug. “I had something to do.”

“Something to do? Fuck man! The cops are up our asses here!” he shouts, waving his arms around like he’s losing it.

I glance over, finally registering the swarm of police cars parked up and down the street, the flashing lights reflecting on the frat house windows. A couple of officers are standing by the door, chatting while others talk to some guys on the porch. It’s chaotic, but I don’t let it rattle me.

I shrug again, my tone calm, almost bored. “Yeah, so what?”

Is this why he’s been blowing up my phone since the crack of dawn?

I stifle a yawn, stretching my arms over my head. “You’re overreacting, dude.”

He gapes at me, his frustration mounting. “Overreacting? Jack is dead! Dead!”

He runs his hand through his disheveled hair.

“Fuck! The cops are in there grilling everyone, and you say I’m overreacting?”

I meet his frantic gaze. “Yeah, I get it. He’s dead,” I say, trying hard not to roll my eyes. “But freaking out isn’t going to change that.”

Ezra lets out a frustrated growl and begins to pace back and forth. “How the fuck are you so calm? They’re looking for answers. They think that one of us might’ve had something to do with it.”

Leaning against my car, I scan the scene—cops swarming the place, guys standing around looking like they’re about to shit their pants. I meet Ezra’s wild eyes with a cool stare.

“And? Relax, man,” I say, keeping my voice low. “Let them ask their questions. They’re just doing their jobs.”

He shakes his head, his annoyance bubbling over. “You don’t get it do you? We could all be in deep shit.”

I shrug, barely fazed. “Then don’t act like you’re guilty. If we didn’t do anything, we’ve got nothing to worry about.” I push off the car, glancing back toward the house. “Just keep it together.”

Ezra glares at me, his frustrated mixing with disbelief. “Keep it together? Are you even listening to yourself, Thatcher? Jack is dead. You know how bad that looks, right? You’re the one who found him!”

I stay silent, but his words strike a nerve. My mind drifts back to the party last night, to Rhea. The way her hair caught the neon lights, how she looked in that fucking tiny tennis skirt, standing in the middle of the crowd, smiling. But that smile wasn’t for me. It was for Jack.

I told myself it didn’t matter, that Rhea was just caught up in the moment. But every time I saw them together, my blood boiled.

I tried to ignore them, tried to lose myself in the alcohol, the drugs, the writhing bodies…

but I couldn’t. It was irrational, I knew it, but it didn’t stop the possessiveness clawing at my chest, the anger simmering just beneath the surface.

Jack had no business being that close to her. He wasn’t supposed to touch her.

He wasn’t supposed to touch what was mine.

Ezra’s voice pulls me back to reality. His eyes, wide and panicked.

I’d known Ezra since we were little kids just stumbling around on skates at hockey camp but right now, all I can think about is how much I want to punch something—anything.

Preferably Jack. I try to focus on Ezra, his panicked words blending into the background noise of my own thoughts.

We’ve been through a lot, Ezra and I, from summers spent on the ice to nights like this, where chaos and adrenaline feel like second nature. But nothing about this feels right. Not last night. Not now.

Ezra’s still talking, his hands running through his hair in frustration, but my mind is stuck on Rhea. On Jack’s hands on her, his mouth on hers. I had no right to feel so fucking protective like this, but it didn’t matter. I felt it anyway.

She was supposed to be mine, not his, not anyone else’s. The thought of them upstairs together last night, what might’ve happened—it makes my blood boil all over again.

It makes me want to kill him again.

Ezra’s voice cuts through my haze. “Thatcher, are you even listening? We need to keep it together, man!” His eyes search mine, but all I can think about is how close I was to losing it last night.

How close I am to losing it now.

“Yeah, yeah,” I say, my jaw clenching as I try to pull myself together, trying to push the memory back, burying it deep where it belongs. “I hear you, but we don’t know what happened, so stop acting like we’re fucking guilty.”

One of the officers notices us from the porch and starts walking over. Ezra glances nervously at him, his hands shaking.

“ Just…don’t say anything stupid, alright?” I mutter under my breath as the cop approaches.

Ezra nods, but I can see the fear in his eyes, the tension in his posture. He’s never been good at hiding his nerves. Meanwhile, I keep my face neutral, pushing down the chaos swirling inside me. I can’t afford to let it slip.

The cop steps up, adjusting his belt as he looks us over.

“Morning, gentlemen,” the officer says, his voice gruff but not unfriendly. He flashes a badge at us before introducing himself. “I’m Detective Sanchez.”

He motions at me with his pen. “You the president of the frat?”

I tilt my head slightly, studying him for a moment before answering. “Yeah, Thatcher van Doren, what’s this about?”

The detective’s eyebrow rises at my name, but he doesn’t miss a beat, flipping open his notepad. “Van Doren huh?”

I try not to smirk at his tone and nod. “Yeah, that’s right,” I say, keeping my voice steady, casual.

Detective Sanchez taps his pen against the notepad, his eyes narrowing just slightly. “Interesting name around here. I’m guessing you’re aware of that.”

I shrug. “I don’t really keep track of what people think.”

He studies me for a beat, like he’s trying to decide if I’m playing dumb or if I just don’t care. After a moment, he nods, flipping back a page in his notebook.

“Alright, Thatcher. Mind telling me what you remember from last night? You see Jack Parker at the party?”

I clench my jaw, thinking about Jack and Rhea upstairs, his hands on her. The memory flashes hot and sharp, but I keep my voice even.

“Yeah, I saw him. Everyone saw him. It was a party,” I answer.

“And when was the last time you saw him? Specifically?”

I pretend to pause to think, but the memory is all too clear. Jack collapsed on the floor, a rapidly growing halo of blood around his head and Rhea, staring at me, terror and shock etched into her wide eyes, her figure halfway out the window.

I blink back to reality and stare at the expectant detective. “Sometime after midnight,” I say. “Like I said it was a party, and I don’t keep tabs of my brothers’ whereabouts during bashes like that.”

Detective Sanchez doesn’t blink, just scribbles a note in his pad. “You see him with anyone? Girlfriend? Friends?”

Rhea’s terrified face flashes in my mind, but I keep my tone casual.

“Girlfriend?” I almost laugh, and the cop observes me closely.

“No. No girlfriend. Friends, though? I mean I didn’t really notice,” I shrug, knowing that Jack was on bad terms with the Reapers.

He’s a fucking idiot for intertwining himself with initiates business.

“People were all over the place, you know how it is. Hard to keep track of who’s with who.

” Pausing, I run a hand through my hair.

“You talk to Evan? He was the one who found him, right?”

“Yeah,” he replies simply, scribbling away. “He says he didn’t see anyone else in the room apart from him.”

Good. That dickhead Evan did as he was told.

The detective looks at me for a second, as if waiting for more. When I don’t say anything else, he flips his notepad close and glances at Ezra, who’s still nervously fidgeting beside me.

“If you think of anything else, give me a call,” he says, handing over a card.

I take it from him, briefly glancing at it. Ryan Sanchez…

“Sure thing, Detective.”

I watch the detective walk away, his boots crunching over the littered lawn. I tuck the card into my back pocket without another glance. Ezra exhales beside me, as if he’s been holding his breath this whole time.

“Fucking hell,” he mutters, wiping his sweaty palms on his jeans.

I don’t respond. A plan already forming at the back of my mind.

I just need to figure out my next move, something to keep everything under control. Jack’s death complicates things, but if I play it right, I can stay ahead of this. Stay ahead of Rhea.

Ezra starts rambling about the cops, about how they’re questioning everyone.

But his words fade into the background. I’m thinking about how to keep Rhea from saying anything, from slipping up.

I have plans for her. Long term plans, own her forever kind of plans.

That will get fucked up if she gets arrested for that fucker’s death.

But this gives me an opportunity…a golden opportunity to get what I want. To tie her to me…to make her mine.

“Just keep your head down, Ezra,” I say finally. “We don’t have anything to worry about.”

At least, not yet.

Coach is fuming.

I don’t blame him.

I would be angry if my second-string center was late for the fourth time this week. But I don’t feel one ounce of regret.

Coach decided to punish the entire team by making us do a bag skate because of me. My teammates give me dirty looks as we skate back and forth, the drills making our muscles burn.

But I can’t find a fuck to give.

How could I when what I desperately want is finally within my reach?

I can’t even contain the fucking grin on my face as I barrel across the ice, my breath fogging in the cold air.