I find him in the weight room after practice, alone with the iron and his thoughts.
He's stripped down to a black tank top, muscles flexing as he works through a set of pulls that would make most athletes weep. Sweat gleams on his shoulders. His jaw is set in concentration, and he doesn't look up when I slip through the door—but his rhythm falters. Just for a second. Just enough to tell me he knows I'm here.
"Stalking me now?" He racks the weights without turning around. "I told you to think about it, not hunt me down."
"I thought about it." I lean against the doorframe, arms crossed. "I have conditions."
That makes him turn. His gray eyes sweep over me, assessing, calculating. "Conditions."
"You want me to play your girlfriend? Fine. But we do this my way."
Something flickers across his face—surprise, maybe, or the beginning of amusement. He reaches for a towel, dragging it across the back of his neck. "I'm listening."
"First." I push off the doorframe and move closer, refusing to let his half-dressed state distract me. "You teach me to control my shifts. No more halfway transformations. No more bones breaking wrong. You know how it works—you're going to show me."
His jaw tightens, but I cut him off before he can argue. "Non-negotiable. You helped me once in that elevator—you knew exactly what I needed, exactly how to guide me through. You're going to teach me to do it myself. That's the price."
I stop a few feet away from him, close enough to catch his scent—sweat and exertion layered over that cold, expensive smell I've started recognizing in my sleep.
Silence stretches between us. His fingers twist the towel, knuckles going white around the fabric, and I can see him weighing his options—how much this costs him versus how much he needs my silence.
"Fine." The word comes out clipped, reluctant. "What else?"
"No one touches me without my permission. Including you." I hold his gaze. "This is fake, Rhys. Whatever we do in public is performance. You don't get to blur the lines when no one's watching."
"And if you want the lines blurred?"
My pulse stutters, but I keep my voice steady. "Then I'll let you know."
His mouth curves—not quite a smile, something darker. "Anything else, or are you done making demands?"
"One more." I take another step closer, and we're barely two feet apart now. I can see the individual drops of sweat sliding down his throat, the tension in his shoulders, the way his chest rises and falls just slightly too fast. "Whatever your secret is—whatever you're hiding—I don't tell anyone. Ever. But that means you owe me honesty. If I ask a direct question, you answer it. No deflection. No lies."
"Some questions don't have answers you want to hear."
"I'll take that risk."
He studies me for a long moment, gray eyes searching for something I'm not sure I'm offering. Then he tosses the towel aside and closes the distance between us.
"My turn." His voice drops low. "If we're doing this, we do it right. Public affection. Couple behavior. You sit with me at meals. You wear my jacket. You let me touch you in front of people—hand on your waist, arm around your shoulders. Nothing obscene, but nothing that looks like we're playing pretend either."
"Fine."
"You move under my protection. That means my teammates stop being a problem for you. But it also means Grayson's wolves become a bigger one." He tilts his head, watching my reaction. "Your brother is going to lose his mind. His pack is going to make your life hell in ways they haven't even tried yet. You ready for that?"
"I've been living in hell since I got here." I don't flinch. "At least now I'll have company."
Something shifts in his expression—a crack in the armor, a glimpse of something almost like respect. "We meet twice a week for your training. Private sessions, somewhere no one will see. I teach you control, you keep your mouth shut about what you observe."
"Where?"
"Old groundskeeper's cottage, east side of campus. Abandoned for years—no one goes there." He pauses, something dark flickering in his eyes. "No one will hear you scream when the shifts get bad."
"Charming."
"Realistic." He's close enough now that I have to tilt my head back to meet his eyes. "Once we start this, there's no backing out. You understand that? No getting cold feet, no changing your mind because your brother throws a tantrum. We're in this until I say we're done."
"Until you say?" I raise an eyebrow. "I don't think so. We're in this until we both agree it's over. Equal terms."
His jaw works. For a moment I think he's going to argue, but then he nods once. "Equal terms."
"Good." I extend my hand. "Do we have a deal?"
He looks at my hand like it might bite him. Then his fingers close around mine—cool, firm, his grip strong enough to feel the leashed power underneath. He doesn't shake. He holds.
"One more thing." He tugs my hand, pulling me closer until we're sharing breath. "If this is going to work, we need to look like we want each other."
My heart hammers against my ribs. "Shouldn't be hard. I'm an excellent actress."
"Are you?" His free hand comes up, fingers catching my chin, tilting my face toward his. His thumb traces along my jaw, feather-light, and every nerve ending in my body stands at attention. "Because right now your pulse is racing. Your pupils are dilated. And you haven't pulled away."
"Maybe I'm practicing."
"Maybe." His thumb brushes across my lower lip, and my breath catches audibly. His smile turns sharp. "That shouldn't be too hard for you."
I should step back. Should break the contact, prove that I'm in control, that this is just business. Instead I stay exactly where I am, his thumb on my lip, his eyes burning into mine.
"Tomorrow morning," I manage. "Dining hall. We walk in together."
"My hand on your waist." His voice has dropped to something rough. "The whole school watching."
"No turning back."
"No turning back," he agrees.
He releases me slowly—first my chin, then my hand—and the absence of his touch leaves my skin tingling. I take a step back, then another, putting distance between us that does nothing to slow my pulse.
"Seven-thirty," I say. "Don't be late."
"Wouldn't dream of it." He picks up the towel again, turning back to the weights like we didn't just negotiate a deal that's going to blow up both our lives. "Sweet dreams, Sloane."
I walk out without answering, my legs steadier than they have any right to be.
Tomorrow morning, everything changes. Tomorrow morning, I walk into that dining hall on the arm of the vampire prince, and my brother watches his worst nightmare unfold in real time. Tomorrow morning, I stop being Grayson Imler's problem to manage and become Rhys Vance's girlfriend instead.
My fingers find my lower lip, tracing the path his thumb took. The skin still tingles.
This is a terrible idea—I know it's a terrible idea. But terrible ideas are the only kind I have left, and at least this one comes with benefits.
Control over my shifts. Protection from the bullying. A front-row seat to my brother's meltdown. And Rhys Vance's hands on my body, even if it's just for show.
I'm not afraid of him—I told him that, and I meant it. But walking back to my dorm with his scent still clinging to my skin, I'm starting to think maybe I should be.