CHAPTER 3

The world was a smear of grey stone and cruel laughter. Without his glasses, Milo felt untethered, floating in a sea of predatory shapes. He reached out, his fingers trembling as they brushed the cold, damp grass, searching for the frames that allowed him to navigate a world that already felt too sharp for him.

"Looking for these, Princess?" Miller’s voice was right above him. Milo heard the distinct crunch of a boot heel pressing into plastic and glass.

Milo’s heart stuttered. A sob caught in his throat, making his chest heave, the movement straining the fabric of his oversized hoodie. "Why?" he whispered, his voice cracking. "I didn't do anything to you."

"You exist," Miller sneered, reaching down to grab a fistful of Milo’s fluffy brown hair. "You walk around here with those hips and that face, looking like you’re waiting for someone to—"

"Let go of him."

The voice didn't sound human. It sounded like the tectonic plates of the earth shifting. It was a low, guttural vibration that Milo felt in his very bones.

Miller froze. The grip on Milo’s hair loosened as the bullies turned toward the sound. Milo, squinting through the blur, saw a massive silhouette blocking out the sun. The figure was a wall of black leather and sheer, intimidating height. At 6'4", the stranger didn't just stand there; he occupied the entire horizon.

"Who the hell are you?" Miller barked, though his voice had jumped an octave. "This doesn't concern you, biker. Keep walking."

The giant didn't keep walking. He stepped forward. Milo heard the heavy thud of combat boots—slow, deliberate, and terrifying.

"I don't like repeating myself," the shadow rumbled. The air around the group seemed to drop ten degrees. "I said. Let. Him. Go."

Miller, fueled by the presence of his friends, threw a desperate punch. Milo gasped, pulling his knees to his chest, his wide hips curling into a ball on the grass. He heard the sickening thud of a fist hitting meat, but it wasn't the stranger who groaned. It was Miller.

Jax hadn't even broken his stride. He caught Miller’s wrist in a hand that looked large enough to crush a skull, his knuckles scarred and stained with the grease of his morning’s work. With a sharp twist, he sent the bully stumbling backward into the dirt. The other two jocks lunged, but they were nothing compared to a man who grew up fighting for air in the Vance empire and fighting for respect on the asphalt.

Jax was a whirlwind of controlled violence. He moved with the grace of a Greek god and the brutality of a street brawler. A shoulder check sent one boy flying; a sharp jab to the ribs folded the other. Within seconds, the "kings of the hallway" were nothing more than groaning heaps on the pavement.

Milo watched, wide-eyed and terrified. To his blurry vision, the man was a dark blur of power. He saw the flash of tattoos on the stranger's forearms—inked lines that looked like ancient runes in the sunlight. He saw the massive, muscular frame that made his own body feel even smaller, even more "porcelain" by comparison.

Jax turned toward the boy on the ground. His breath was heavy, his blood rushing with a protective heat he didn't understand. He looked down at Milo—at the tear-stained face, the trembling lips, and the way the boy’s soft, curvy body seemed to shrink away from him.

He reached out a hand, his large fingers twitching. He wanted to touch that white skin. He wanted to see if it was as soft as it looked.

"Are you—" Jax started, his voice uncharacteristically thick.

Bzzzzzt. Bzzzzzt.

The violent vibration of the phone in Jax’s leather jacket pocket shattered the moment. He swore under his breath and pulled it out. The screen flashed: FATHER - URGENT.

Jax stared at the phone. He looked back at Milo, who was staring up at him with those big, terrified doe eyes, totally unaware of who was standing over him. Jax knew he should stay. He should help him up. He should find his glasses.

But the phone rang again—the signal of the "Rich Heir" leash tightening around his neck. If he didn't answer, his father would send the security detail to the campus, and that would draw a spotlight neither of them wanted.

"Take these," Jax rasped, reaching down and snatching a spare pair of sunglasses from his own pocket. He dropped them into Milo's lap. "Stay down until they’re gone."

Before Milo could even find his voice to say thank you, the roar of an engine ripped through the air. The black Harley screamed to life, tires chirping against the pavement as Jax tore out of the parking lot like a bat out of hell, disappearing before the dust could even settle.

Milo sat alone on the grass, clutching the heavy, expensive sunglasses to his chest. He couldn't see the man's face. He didn't know his name. All he knew was the smell of expensive cologne mixed with motor oil, and the memory of a voice that sounded like a storm.