CHAPTER 5 — DORM TERRITORY

MICAH

The dorms were quieter than the rink.

That should have made me feel safer.

It didn’t.

Silence at Black Ice Alpha Academy wasn’t peace. It was an observation. It was the kind of quiet that listened, waited, remembered.

We stood in the intake hall while names were called.

Not all at once.

Not fairly.

Some were assigned immediately—high-tier sponsors, known bloodlines, obvious ranks. Their names echoed, doors opened, territories claimed.

Others waited.

I was one of them.

“Micah Tyler”

The room shifted.

Not loud. Just enough.

A few heads turned. Not recognition—assessment.

“Dormitory C. Room 417.”

No rank. No partner listed.

Temporary.

My jaw tightened as I stepped forward and accepted the keycard from the administrator. Her eyes lingered on me half a second too long before she looked away.

Conditional placement, the card read.

Evaluation status ongoing.

The hallway outside my assigned room smelled like cold steel and restrained aggression. Every door was shut. Every plaque engraved with ranking tiers that didn’t exist yet—but would soon decide who mattered and who didn’t.

First-years. Unsorted. Untested.

Disposable.

I slid my keycard through the reader and stepped inside.

Two beds.

Two desks bolted to opposite walls. One narrow window reinforced with wards thick enough to stop a shifted Alpha from tearing through it. The kind of window you didn’t escape through.

One bed was empty.

I chose the one farthest from the door.

Habit.

I unpacked quickly. Clothes folded tight. Skates cleaned and placed beneath the bed. Suppressants hidden inside a sealed case beneath a loose floor panel I already knew existed—thanks to a set of blueprints my adoptive father had shown me once, years ago.

Just in case, he’d said.

Just in case control failed.

I sat on the edge of the mattress and rolled my shoulders, forcing my body to loosen. My muscles still hummed from training. From impact. From him.

Golden eyes. Smoke and frost. That grip on my jersey.

I shoved the thought away.

A knock hit the door sharp and fast.

I was on my feet before I realized it.

The door slid open.

An Alpha stepped inside.

Not dominant. Not weak. Mid-tier, first-year—his scent is clean, restrained, cautious. Dark hair. Broad shoulders. Alert eyes that scanned the room once before settling on the empty bed.

“Looks like we’re rooming,” he said.

“Looks like it.”

A beat passed.

“I’m Eli.”

I hesitated for half a second, then nodded. “Micah.”

No handshake. No challenge. Just acknowledgement.

We unpacked in silence, moving around each other carefully, like two wolves who understood that attention was dangerous. He didn’t ask where I was from. I didn’t ask why his hands shook when he thought no one was watching.

That night, he fell asleep quickly.

I didn’t.

I lay on my back, staring at the ceiling, counting breaths.

In. Out. Control.

---

The siren woke us before dawn.

It wasn’t loud. It didn’t need to be.

We were already conditioned.

The training yard was worse than the rink.

No words. No spectators. Just concrete, steel, and space for hierarchy to be enforced without witnesses.

I felt him before I saw him.

Ronan.

The air changed when he arrived—pressure settling heavy over the yard. Voices dropped. Spines straightened. Instincts snapped to attention.

When his gaze swept over us, it paused on me.

Not long.

Long enough.

I kept my posture neutral. Alpha-neutral. I didn’t bow my head. I didn’t bare my throat. I didn’t challenge myself.

The whistle blew.

This wasn’t hockey.

This was control.

Endurance holds. Paired combat. Instinct suppression under stress. Orders barked faster than bodies could process.

I was paired with a heavier Alpha.

He struck first.

I absorbed it, redirected, and dropped him with minimal force.

Too clean.

I felt it immediately—attention sharpening.

“Tyler.”

Ronan’s voice cut through everything.

My stomach tightened.

“Yes, Captain.”

He stepped closer. Up close, his dominance pressed against my skin, hot and suffocating. My suppressants flared painfully, heat spreading through my veins.

“You’re holding back.”

It wasn’t a question.

“No, sir.”

His eyes narrowed slightly.

“Then you’re efficient,” he said. “That makes you unpredictable.”

Unpredictable was dangerous.

He leaned closer—not touching, but enough that I caught his scent again. Smoke. Ice. Command.

“Unpredictable wolves get tested,” he said quietly.

His gaze dropped briefly to my throat.

Then he stepped back.

“Fall in line.”

Ronan reached out.

Two fingers closed around my wrist.

Not rough. Not gentle.

Just enough to stop me.

Heat flared instantly where he touched me—sharp and invasive—my suppressants screaming as his thumb pressed once against the inside of my pulse.

His eyes darkened.

He felt it.

Then he released me.

I obeyed.

My hands didn’t stop shaking until long after the drills ended.

My wrist still burned where he’d touched me.

---

That night, locked in the dorm bathroom, I injected another dose of suppressant.

It burned sharper than before.

My reflection stared back at me—eyes too bright, skin too warm, control thinning at the edges.

Ronan didn’t know.

Not yet.

But Black Ice was patient.

And it never forgot prey once it noticed the chase.

I capped the syringe, hid it, and straightened my shoulders.

Tomorrow, I'll skate again.

Tomorrow, I'll survive.

Because at Black Ice Alpha Academy—

Survival was the only victory that mattered.