Chapter 2

It was 2:55 PM.

The underground hockey arena at Spencer Academy was bone-chillingly cold.

But my palms were slick with sweat.

It wasn't just because of the security footage that could ruin my entire infiltration plan; it was because of the shudder-inducing aggression radiating from Rowan when he had pinned me against the wall a few hours ago.

I hated losing control. But facing him, my body's honest reactions left me frustrated.

A sudden image flashed in my mind—an old photo buried deep within a locked album on Sylvia's shattered phone.

In the picture, Rowan sat by a pier late at night, the top two buttons of his shirt undone. He held a can of cheap beer, laughing right at the camera. It was a remarkably pure smile, tinged with a subtle, almost childlike brokenness.

That was a Rowan King the public had never seen.

What exactly was his relationship with Sylvia? And did he have anything to do with her "accident"?

Three o'clock on the dot. I stood in front of the equipment room door.

Without a shred of hesitation, I grabbed the handle and pushed the door open.

The overhead lights were off. Only a few dim sconces cast a cold, gloomy glow across the equipment room.

A heavy wave of raw testosterone, mixed with his sharp, icy cologne and the damp scent of fresh sweat, instantly stole the breath from my lungs.

Rowan's back was turned to me.

He had clearly just finished a brutal hockey practice. Grabbing the hem of his sweat-drenched black jersey, he stripped it off in one fluid motion and tossed it carelessly onto a nearby bench.

I stopped dead in my tracks.

In the low light, his broad shoulders and the V-taper of his back were tightly coiled, every inch of his skin radiating explosive, primal power.

But marring that flawless expanse of muscle were several faded, yet shocking, scars.

My heart skipped a beat.

Insanity. Harper, you are completely losing your mind.

I swallowed hard, digging my nails into my palms to force myself to tear my eyes away from his back.

"Where is the footage?" I asked, perfectly masking my momentary lapse in control.

Rowan froze.

He didn't answer right away. Instead, he turned around with agonizing slowness.

His bare torso was completely exposed to my gaze. Beads of sweat trailed down his chiseled chest, disappearing past the waistband of his low-riding black sweatpants.

He casually picked up a towel from the bench and rubbed it through his messy dark hair. Then, with long, deliberate strides, he started walking toward me.

He held a heavy metal object in one hand.

It was a heavily mangled motorcycle clutch.

And it was a model I knew intimately.

"This is a clutch from a limited-edition V4 engine." Rowan planted both hands on the table, a dangerous sneer curling his lips. "And in this entire city, the only person who can fix it is the underground street racer, 'Ghost'."

My breath hitched, just for a microscopic second.

He had actually dug that deep.

"Fix it," Rowan said, straightening up. "And I'll delete the security footage right in front of you."

I lowered my eyelashes, staring at the trashed V4 clutch, and let out a faint, scoffing laugh.

"Did your brain freeze over on the ice, Captain King?"

I tilted my chin up, meeting his aggressive stare without an ounce of fear. I filled my eyes with a mix of perfect innocence and biting mockery.

"I'm just a scholarship student barely scraping by. I couldn't even afford a used bicycle."

I took a deliberate step backward as I spoke.

"I have no idea what you're talking about. If you dragged me down here just to act crazy, I'm done."

I spun around without a second thought and marched toward the door.

But the second my fingers brushed the metal door handle, Rowan closed the distance.

His warm hand shot out over my head, slamming flat against the door just inches from my face!

Once again, I was caged in the suffocatingly small space between his hard chest and the heavy door.

He lowered his head. He was close. Way too close.

His nose practically brushed mine. His wild, hot, sweat-laced scent crashed over me like a tidal wave.

A violent shudder ripped through me.

"Still playing dumb?" Rowan's voice dropped to a low, dangerously sexy gravel.

His hot breath fanned across my cheek, like a predator sniffing out its prey.

"You have the faintest trace of nitromethane on you. It's the byproduct of burning high-octane racing fuel. The average person wouldn't catch it, but I know it all too well."

He stared right into my eyes, his gaze sharp as a scalpel, peeling away all my layers. "How much longer are you going to play this game, bunny? Did you know you look exactly like your sister?"

There was nowhere to run.

My back was pressed flush against the freezing steel door. I tilted my chin up, matching his stare with pure, stubborn defiance.

Rowan's gaze drifted downward. It felt almost physical as it dragged over the bridge of my nose, finally coming to a brazen halt on my slightly parted lips.

My heartbeat was deafening in my own ears.

I thought he was going to kiss me.

Subconsciously, I had already braced myself for his rough, plundering lips.

But he didn't.

Rowan's Adam's apple bobbed. Suddenly, he turned his head, his warm lips brushing feather-light against the shell of my ear.

"Or maybe," he paused, his voice a dark whisper. "You went to all this trouble, disguising yourself as a pathetic little good girl to sneak into Spencer..."

His scorching breath hit my earlobe, sending a fresh wave of shivers down my spine.

"...just to find the person who pushed Sylvia down those stairs?"

My head snapped up, my pupils dilating in pure shock.

He knew everything!?