LOGINMaeve’s POV The walk from the arena back to my dorm was a study in sensory overload. Every shadow seemed to have a voice; every footfall behind me felt like a subpoena. I kept my head down, the cold night air biting at the exposed skin of my neck where the mark was still thrumming with the adrenaline of being seen. It felt raw, as if the camera’s lens had physically scraped away the protective layers I’d spent months applying. I reached the safety of my room and leaned against the door, the wood cool against my back. The silence of the dorm was a lie. My phone, abandoned on the duvet, was a glowing, vibrating insect. I didn't want to touch it. I knew what was waiting there. The Ashford machine didn't sleep; it recalibrated. When I finally picked it up, the screen was a wall of notifications. News alerts, Instagram tags, and the one that made my stomach drop into a cold, dark void: seventeen missed calls from my mother. There was one voicemail. I hit play, my hand shaking so viole
Declan’s POV The locker room felt like a pressure cooker. The air was thick with the scent of pine-sol, wet equipment, and the sharp, ozone-scented anxiety of twenty young men who realized their captain had just nuked his own social standing in front of the entire student body. I stripped my gear off in silence. Every snap of a strap, every clatter of a pad against the floor, sounded like a gunshot. I could feel the eyes on me—the sideways glances from the freshmen, the worried frowns from the seniors. Nobody knew what to say. In the world of collegiate sports, "low-drama" is the currency of the elite. I had just spent that currency and gone into a massive, unpayable debt. I sat in my stall, my head in my hands, letting the sweat drip onto the rubber mat between my feet. My phone was already vibrating in my bag. I didn't have to look to know who it was. Dan, my agent, would be spiraling. The scouts from the Bruins and the Rangers would be recalibrating their "character" assessm
Declan’s POV The ice was a mirror of my own adrenaline, a cold, slick surface reflecting the violent strobe of the arena lights and the frantic motion of twelve men chasing a frozen disc of rubber. My lungs burned. It was not the sharp, clean burn of a normal sprint, but a heavy, oxygen-deprived ache that felt like I was breathing in liquid lead. I was deep into the second period, my jersey damp and clinging to my skin, my heart a frantic hammer against my ribs. But the physical exhaustion was a secondary concern. The primary concern was the tether. I could feel her. It wasn’t just the usual low-frequency hum of the bond; it was a high-tension wire pulled so tight it was vibrating. It was pulling my focus away from the puck, away from the defensive assignments, and upward toward the rafters of the Ashford Arena. I found her during a whistle at the twelve-minute mark. She was tucked into the upper tier, the nosebleed section where the air was thin and the students usually went to
Maeve’s POV The transformation didn't start in my head; it started in my hands. On Monday morning, I stood in front of the bathroom mirror in the dorm. The lighting was harsh, illuminating the faint blue veins in my wrists and the shadow under my eyes from a weekend of not sleeping. I picked up the foundation stick, the same one I had used every morning since October to hide the truth from the world. I looked at the bond mark. It was vivid today, a deep, bruised violet that seemed to pulse in time with my heart. It was a brand. To my mother, it was a defect. To the law school, it was a distraction. I thought about the six weeks. I thought about the video. I thought about the way Declan’s voice had broken when he said he wanted his mate. I looked at the foundation stick, and for the first time, it didn't look like a tool for survival. It looked like a tool for betrayal. I put it back in the drawer and closed it. Alana noticed at breakfast. We were sitting in the dining hall, the
Maeve’s POV The walk to his apartment felt like a descent. Every step I took away from the central campus was a step further away from the safety of the Ashford name and deeper into a territory where I had no map. I could feel the eyes on me—the sharp, curious glances from students heading to lunch. The way the whispers seemed to ripple outward from my path like a wake behind a boat. They knew. The campus was a hive, and the news that the Senator’s daughter was spiraling toward the hockey captain had finally reached a fever pitch. He didn't open the door all the way. When I reached his floor, the hallway smelled of floor wax and stale coffee, a stark contrast to the scent of cedar and expensive leather that clung to my mother’s world. I knocked, my heart doing a frantic, syncopated rhythm against my ribs. When the latch clicked, he opened the door just the width of his body—a physical barrier made of muscle and hurt. He stood there, his hair still damp from a post-practice sho
Maeve’s POV The video came from an unknown number at nine the next morning. I was sitting on the edge of my bed, staring at a cup of cold coffee that Alana had left for me. My phone buzzed on the nightstand, a sharp, intrusive sound in the quiet room. No message. Just a file, forty-three seconds long, clearly taken on a phone held at table level by someone who had been trying very hard not to be seen doing it. The quality was not good, and the image was a blur of mahogany table legs and the hem of a charcoal suit—but the audio was clinical. I pressed play. The lawyer’s voice came through first. Mr. Sterling, one of the primary partners at the firm that handled my mother's private interests. His voice was professional and flat, the sound of a man who moved millions of dollars around as easily as some people moved furniture. "Mr. Hayes. The offer stands as presented," Sterling said. I could hear the rustle of the paper of the contract. "One million dollars, deposited into a private
Maeve's POVMy mother called on Sunday at noon as usual. I was ready for her this time. I had spent the week building the version of myself that sounded settled, productive and completely fine, so when her contact photo lit up my screen, and I answered on the first ring. "Maeve." Her voice was pl
Maeve's POVThe first thing I noticed about Tyler was that he was easy, and in my current situation, easy was the most attractive quality a person could have. He didn't make the bond do anything. He didn't make my omega sit up and take notice. He was just a boy in my study group who was funny and s
Maeve's POVI knew the moment he found out who I was. I was in the library when the bond went sharp with shock first, and then it grew into heat, and before I knew it, I was partially blinded by the rage Declan was feeling. It hit me so suddenly that I knocked my highlighter off the table and had
Declan's POVIt started slowly. That's what I told myself, anyway. That the first few attempts were reasonable, the kind of thing any person might do in the same situation, which was: bonded to someone whose last name they didn't know, on a campus of several thousand students, with a bond that cou







