Cold blood and velvet

Olivia’s POV The smell of smoke would not wash out of my skin. It was in my hair. It was deep in my lungs. Every breath felt like swallowing broken glass and wet ashes. My hands shook as I dragged two heavy black trash bags through the freezing downpour. The plastic was slick and cold against my scraped fingers. Inside those two bags was every single thing I owned in the world. The nightmare began exactly five hours ago. At quarter to five, while I was wiping grease off tables at the campus diner, the third floor of my off campus apartment building went up in flames. I did not know about it until my shift ended at seven. When I walked down the street expecting to study for my economics exam, I found three fire trucks, yellow police tape, and a crowd of weeping tenants standing in the rain. My apartment was a pile of black charcoal and melted plastic. My textbooks, my clothes, and the two hundred dollars in cash I hid under my mattress were gone. By eight, the city declared a local state of emergency because thirty students and low income families were suddenly out on the street with nowhere to sleep. The red tape was overwhelming. I spent two miserable hours standing in the rain outside the police cordon, waiting for the tenant roster to clear. At ten, with freezing water soaking through my canvas shoes, I marched into the university emergency housing office. I demanded help. I had twenty three dollars in my checking account. I had a phone with a cracked screen and six percent battery left. I had three jobs and a full course load, and my body ached so badly that my knees threatened to buckle with every step on the wet floor. The woman behind the desk looked at my soot covered face like I was a stray dog. Exactly ten minutes ago, she shoved a brass key and an official emergency placement slip into my numb hands. Preston Hall. Suite 404. I stared at the slip in the rain outside, sure there was an error. Everyone on campus knew Preston Hall. It was not a dorm. It was a palace funded by billionaires. It had private elevators, heated floors, and limestone arches. Only the heirs of politicians, oil barons, and real estate dynasties lived there. Kids like me, kids on full hardship scholarships who scrubbed greasy grill pans until two in the morning, were not even allowed to deliver pizza past the front lobby. Yet here I was, standing in the marble entryway, leaving a trail of dirty puddle water across the clean stone. The security guard looked ready to tackle me, but I shoved the emergency placement paper into his chest. He read the university seal, swallowed hard, and stepped aside without a single word. The elevator ride to the fourth floor was silent and fast. The air smelled like expensive cedarwood and polish. Warm air blew down from the vents, but it did not stop my shivering. My wet socks squelched inside my cheap shoes. My gray hoodie was stuck to my ribs. When the elevator doors opened, the hallway was lined with thick navy carpet. Suite 404 was at the very end of the hall. I dropped the bags on the floor, took a deep breath, and banged my fist against the dark oak door. Ten seconds passed. I raised my fist to knock again, but the door swung open. The breath stopped in my throat. The man standing in the doorway was tall. His shoulders were wide enough to block out the warm yellow light of the luxury suite behind him. He wore a crisp white button down shirt that was left open at the collar, showing the sharp lines of his throat and the hard hollow of his collarbones. His sleeves were rolled up to his forearms, exposing thick veins, lean muscle, and dark hair on his skin. He had wet dark hair pushed back from his forehead, sharp cheekbones, and eyes the color of winter slate. Damien Lockwood. I knew his face. Every student at this university knew his face. He was the son of Senator Lockwood. His grandfather owned half the shipping ports on the east coast. He walked through campus like he owned the ground under our feet, surrounded by people who begged for a single glance from him. Right now, his gray eyes dropped from my wet face down to my soaked shoes, then to the dirty puddle spreading across his hardwood floor. His jaw tightened. A look of pure disgust crossed his handsome face. "The laundry drop off is in the basement," he said. His voice was low, deep, and smooth, but it cut like ice. "Take your trash and get away from my door." He started to push the heavy oak door shut right in my face. Rage hit me so fast that my vision went red. I shoved my wet shoe into the door frame, catching the wood before it clicked shut. The impact sent a sharp jolt of pain through my bruised toes, but I did not back down. Damien froze. He looked down at my battered shoe, then slowly lifted his eyes back to mine. "Move your foot," he warned. The air between us turned thick and dangerous. "You do not want to test me tonight." "I am not your maid, Lockwood," I spat, my voice raw from smoke and fury. "And this is not your laundry." I shoved the door open with both hands. He did not move easily, solid as a brick wall, but my sudden push caught him off guard. I bent down, grabbed the handles of my two trash bags, and stepped right past him into the living room. The suite was enormous. It had high ceilings, a kitchen with dark granite counters, a plush leather sofa, and floor to ceiling windows looking out over the city lights. It was bigger than the entire house my mother raised me in. Damien closed the door behind me. The latch clicked shut, loud in the quiet room. When I turned around, he was walking toward me. He moved with slow, predatory grace. He was at least a foot taller than me, his chest broad and solid beneath the thin cotton of his shirt. Every line of his body was tight with anger. The scent of him washed over me, a mix of expensive citrus, amber, and hot skin. It made my stomach tighten in a way that had nothing to do with fear. "Who let you up here?" he demanded. He stopped just inches away from me. He was so close I could feel the heat radiating from his chest. His gaze dropped to my mouth, then to the wet fabric of my hoodie clinging to my breasts. For a split second, something dark and heavy flared in his cold gray eyes. It was not just anger. It was a raw, physical hunger that made my pulse jump in my throat. I forced my chin up. I refused to let him see me shake. "The dean of housing," I said. I pulled the crumpled, damp paper from my pocket and slapped it flat against his hard chest. His fingers came up and caught my wrist. His grip was broad, his palm rough and burning hot against my cold pulse. My skin flared everywhere he touched. My breath hitched, my heart hammering against my ribs so loudly I was sure he could hear it. "Do not put your dirty hands on me," he whispered. "Then let go of my wrist," I answered, glaring straight into his eyes. He did not let go right away. His thumb pressed firmly against the inside of my wrist, feeling the frantic race of my blood under the thin skin. His eyes narrowed, studying my face, lingering on the soot near my collarbone and the curve of my neck. Then he snatched the paper from his chest and shoved my hand away. He unfolded the wet paper and read it. I watched his face change. The calm arrogance vanished, replaced by sheer, furious disbelief. "This is impossible," Damien muttered. "My father paid for the entire fourth floor suite. No one lives here but me." "Your father can go cry about it," I said, kicking my trash bags toward the hallway. "The city declared a state of emergency three hours ago after the apartment fire down the block. University rules say every single empty bed gets commandeered until the crisis passes. Suite 404 has two bedrooms and one shared bathroom. And as of ten minutes ago, that second bedroom belongs to me." Damien stared at the paper. His knuckles turned white as he crushed the paper in his fist. "You will not last a single night here," he said. His voice was dangerously quiet now. "Watch me," I whispered. He tossed the crushed paper onto the granite island. Then he stepped into my personal space until my back hit the wall. He did not touch me, but his body trapped me completely. His chest rose and fell against mine, the heat of his skin bleeding right through my damp clothes. I could see the flex of his jaw, the thick line of his neck, and the dark fire burning in his pupils. "You think this is a game, Olivia?" he asked. I froze. My breath locked in my lungs. I had never told him my name. I had never spoken a word to Damien Lockwood in my life before tonight. "How do you know my name?" I demanded, my heart leaping into my throat. A cruel, slow smile touched the corner of his lips. He leaned in until his mouth brushed the curve of my ear, his hot breath making the tiny hairs on my neck stand up. "Because my father did not just pay for this suite," Damien whispered softly against my skin. "His company bought your burned apartment building three hours ago. And I am the one who ordered the demolition."