CHAPTER 4 — THE RULES AREN’T MADE FOR YOU

MICAH

The locker room smelled like heat and metal.

Steam rolled off damp skin, Alpha dominance thick enough to sting the back of my throat. Lockers slammed. Laughter cracked sharp and territorial. Somewhere down the row, someone snarled over a towel dispute like it mattered.

I kept my head down and my movements efficient.

In. Out. Change fast. Don’t draw attention.

It didn’t work.

“You skated like you had something to prove.”

The voice cut through the noise without rising. Calm. Controlled.

Deadly.

My shoulders tightened before I could stop them.

Ronan stood three lockers down, bare-chested, pulling his jersey over one arm with infuriating ease. Up close, the scars were impossible to miss—old claw marks across his ribs, a faint line along his collarbone where something had nearly torn his throat out.

This wasn’t a man who survived on reputation.

This was a man who enforced it.

“I skated like I wanted to stay on the team,” I replied, keeping my tone neutral.

His gaze flicked to me, sharp and assessing.

“Most first-years don’t last five minutes in high-tier drills,” he said. “You lasted twenty-three.”

I shrugged. “Lucky day.”

That earned a faint curve of his mouth. Not a smile. Something colder.

“Luck doesn’t move like that.”

The locker room quieted around us. Not fully—but enough. Alphas listened when Ronan spoke, even when he wasn’t loud.

I focused on my laces, hands steady.

“I train hard,” I said.

“So do they,” he replied, nodding toward the others. “Yet they bleed.”

I didn’t answer.

Silence stretched.

Then Ronan stepped closer.

Not aggressively. Not invading.

Just close enough that I felt him—his presence like pressure before a storm.

“You don’t respond to dominance,” he said quietly. “Most Alphas do. Even strong ones.”

My pulse jumped.

“I respect rank,” I said. “That’s not the same thing.”

His eyes narrowed.

Interesting.

Not threatening. Not dismissive.

Interesting.

“Careful,” he murmured. “That line gets people tested.”

“I’ll pass,” I said before I could stop myself.

A few heads snapped in our direction.

Ronan studied me for a long moment. Then he straightened.

“See what you do,” he said. “Because this academy doesn’t tolerate anomalies.”

And just like that, he walked away.

I let out a slow breath I hadn’t realized I was holding.

---

The summons came an hour later.

A message flashed across my wristband as I left the showers.

ADMINISTRATIVE REVIEW — ATTENDANCE REQUIRED.

My stomach didn’t drop.

It tightened.

Reviews weren’t standard for first-years. Not this early. Not unless—

I’d always known this would come. I just hadn’t expected it to happen this fast.

I slipped another suppressant into my mouth before anyone could see and headed down the east corridor, past glass offices and observation decks overlooking the ice.

The administration wing smelled sterile. Neutral. No dominance.

That was deliberate.

It always had been.

The dean’s office door slid open silently.

Inside, the dean sat behind a polished desk, posture precise, expression unreadable.

Nothing about him had changed.

Same controlled stillness. Same careful distance.

He’d always believed control worked better when it looked calm.

To his right stood Coach Marek.

To his left—

Ronan.

My spine went rigid.

Of course he was.

You never handled a problem alone if you could turn it into pressure instead.

“This isn’t disciplinary,” the dean said, gesturing me inside. His tone was even. Measured.

“Relax.”

He said it the way he always did—like it was a choice I could simply make if he suggested it.

I didn’t.

“You were placed in high-tier drills without a full background assessment,” he continued. “That’s an oversight on our part.”

An oversight.

An oversight meant something planned hadn’t gone perfectly.

Not that it hadn’t been planned at all.

Coach Marek grunted. “Kid moves like he’s been here for years.”

Ronan said nothing.

The dean folded his hands. “You understand Black Ice runs on hierarchy.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And hierarchy requires certainty.”

The word settled deep.

“We’re simply confirming placement,” he said. “Medical records. Training history. Sponsorship clearance.”

I nodded.

I’d learned long ago not to expect protection where preparation was offered instead.

Ronan finally spoke.

“Why hide your scent?”

The room went still.

My eyes flicked to him before I could stop myself.

“I don’t,” I said carefully. “I manage it.”

“For an Alpha,” he added.

I met his gaze evenly. “Some of us prefer not to broadcast.”

Coach Marek snorted. “Smart.”

Ronan’s expression didn’t change.

The dean cleared his throat. “That will be all for now. You’re cleared to continue high-tier—on probation.”

Probation.

A controlled word. A measured leash.

I inclined my head and turned toward the door.

As my hand brushed the panel, Ronan’s voice followed me.

“Black Ice isn’t a place for pretending.”

I paused.

Not because I was afraid.

Because for half a second, I wondered if this had always been the point.

“Then it’s a good thing I’m not,” I said, and walked out without looking back.

He hadn’t called me by name.

He never did, when distance mattered more than care.

---

That night, I lay awake in my dorm, staring at the ceiling as the wards hummed softly in the walls. I haven't been assigned to my room yet, I hope my name is called out tomorrow.

My suppressants burned faster now.

Not from the ice.

Not from Ronan.

From the understanding settling cold and certain in my chest.

That meeting hadn’t been a concern.

It had been contained.

Ronan didn’t know.

But he was watching.

And Black Ice didn’t need the truth to destroy you.

It only needed permission.