The Art of Freezing

[LARA’S POV] The Canadian cold didn’t just bite at your skin; it seeped straight into your bones, making a home there. My breath plumed in the freezing air, hanging like a ghost before the wind snatched it away. The sky above the Saint-Croix University campus was the color of bruised iron, heavy and unforgiving. Snow was falling in thick, silent sheets, as if the sky was trying to bury the world before nightfall. I shoved my numb hands deeper into the pockets of my thrift-store coat. It wasn’t thick enough for Montreal in February, but it was all I had. I kept my head down, my chin tucked into my scarf, fighting against the biting wind that threatened to knock me off balance. Just keep walking, I told myself. Don’t look back. Don’t stop. I had come all this way for a reason. I had traded everything I knew, everything I loved, for a full-ride scholarship to the most elite, isolated, and ruthless university in the country. Turning back now wasn’t an option. Not when the alternative was going back to him. The courtyard was crowded with students rushing to escape the freeze. It was a sea of expensive dark winter coats, designer scarves, and lowered heads. They looked like they belonged here. They looked like they owned the ground they walked on. I felt like an imposter. A stray dog that had wandered into a wolf’s den. I quickened my pace toward the massive, gothic stone archway of the main administration building. I just needed to get my dorm key, find my room, and lock the door. And then, the crowd parted. It wasn’t a conscious choice by the students. It was instinct. They just naturally shifted away, creating a wide, almost reverent berth for the guy walking through the center of the courtyard. The whispers started instantly, a low hum that cut through the sound of the wind. My eyes locked onto him before my brain could tell me to look away. He was tall, impossibly so, with broad shoulders that strained against the fabric of his custom black wool coat. He didn’t wear a hat, and the snow dusted his dark, messy hair, but he didn’t seem to feel the cold. He walked with a lethal, predatory grace, his hands buried in his pockets, his jaw clenched so tight I could see the muscles ticking from twenty feet away. He looked dangerous. Not the kind of danger that makes you run, but the kind that makes your feet turn to concrete. As if feeling the weight of my stare, he stopped. The entire courtyard seemed to hold its breath. Slowly, he turned his head. Time snapped and stretched all at once. His eyes found mine through the flurry of snow. They were dark. Too dark. Like a stormy ocean right before it drowns you. There was no warmth in them, no mercy. Just a cold, calculating assessment that made my skin prickle. My heart slammed against my ribs. Every instinct I had screamed at me to run, to hide, to disappear into the snow. There was a warning in his gaze, a silent promise of ruin. He didn’t blink. He just stared at me, dissecting me, memorizing the flush of my cheeks, the terror in my eyes, the cheap fabric of my coat. He was reading me like a book he was about to tear apart. Then, the corner of his mouth twitched. It wasn’t a smile. It was a smirk. A dark, arrogant curl of his lips that said he knew exactly what kind of effect he had on me. It was a promise. He held my gaze for three agonizing seconds before turning his back and walking through the heavy oak doors, swallowing himself into the warmth of the building. I let out a shaky breath, my knees nearly buckling. I was already in too deep. [ATLAS’S POV] The cold never bothered me. If anything, it kept the weak away. And I liked it that way. I walked through the courtyard, ignoring the whispers that trailed in my wake like a foul scent. They always whispered. The heir. The monster. The untouchable. Let them talk. Fear was a currency, and I was the richest bastard on this campus. My mind was elsewhere, tangled in the encrypted message my father had sent at 3 A.M. “Stay in your lane, Atlas. The Board is watching. Do not make me come to Montreal.” My jaw tightened, a muscle ticking in my cheek. Let them watch. I’d been playing their game, playing the perfect, ruthless son for twenty-two years. It was time I started making my own rules. I was ten feet from the main entrance when I felt it. A shift in the air. A sudden, violent pull in my chest that I hadn’t felt in years. I stopped, my eyes scanning the sea of pathetic, shivering students. And then I saw her. She was an anomaly in the gray landscape. A splash of warmth in a world I kept frozen. She was struggling against the wind, her cheeks flushed pink from the cold, her eyes darting around like a trapped rabbit. She was clutching her bag to her chest like a shield. A new girl. A stray. She didn’t know the rules of this place yet. She didn’t know who owned it. I should have kept walking. I should have pushed through the doors and forgotten about her. But my feet refused to move. My eyes were glued to the way her chest hitched with every breath, the way she tried to make herself smaller. Then, she looked up. Her eyes met mine. Wide, terrified, and strikingly bright. Like a deer caught in the headlights of a semi-truck. Something dark and primal uncoiled in my gut. I didn’t look away. I couldn’t. I wanted to see if she would break under my gaze. I wanted to see if she would run. Instead, she just stood there, her pulse visible at the base of her throat, beating a frantic rhythm. She was terrified of me, but she wasn’t running. There was a spark of defiance in there, buried deep under the fear. A slow, dark amusement curled in my chest. I gave her a fraction of a smirk—just enough to let her know I saw her, just enough to let her know I wasn’t done with her—before turning my back and stepping into the building. The heavy doors shut behind me, cutting off the freezing wind. The grand foyer was stiflingly warm, smelling of old money, polished wood, and expensive cologne. "Atlas, man!" I ignored the voice. Julian was jogging toward me, flanked by two other guys from the lacrosse team. They looked like they owned the place. They didn’t. I did. "You're hard to find," Julian said, clapping a hand on my shoulder. "The Sigma house party is tonight. Are you coming or what?" I shrugged his hand off my shoulder, my eyes flicking back to the frosted glass of the front doors. I could still picture her face. The terror. The spark. "Not tonight," I said, my voice low, rough from the cold. Julian frowned, following my gaze to the doors. "What are you looking at? You good?" I turned away, heading toward the private stairwell that led to the senior suites. "Find out who the new transfer students are," I threw over my shoulder, not bothering to look back. "Specifically, the girls. I want a list on my desk by midnight." Julian let out a low whistle. "Hunting season has already started, huh? Who is she?" I didn't answer. I just kept walking, the ghost of her terrified eyes burned into my retinas. She thought she was just a new student. She thought she could just blend into the walls and survive my university. She was wrong. She had just painted a target on her back. And I was going to enjoy watching her try to survive me.