I barely knew Phoenix. What I did know wasn't exactly reassuring—he'd tried to con me, set up a camera in my bedroom, and walked out without a word this morning. By any reasonable standard, I should have called security the moment he showed up in my lobby.
Instead, I'd brought him back to my apartment, fed him, and was now ignoring the fact that I wished he wasn’t sleeping in the spare room.
I wished he was sleeping in mine.
Chapter eight
Trap Game - A game that appears easy but proves unexpectedly difficult.
Phoenix
I hadn’t expected to sleep, but my body must have just checked out. I woke to raised voices in the living room, my body instantly tensing before pain reminded me why sudden movements were a bad idea. The digital clock on the nightstand read 6:42 am—too early for visitors unless something was wrong.
"—absolutely unacceptable, Cole. The practice was a complete shit-show." The voice was cultured, precise, with the same British accent as Cole's but harder somehow. Edward Armstrong-Wells. I'd know that voice anywhere after our brief but memorable encounter.
I eased myself up, but my ribs didn't protest. The guest bedroom door was slightly ajar, allowing sound to travel clearly from the living room. I should have closed it properly when I stumbled to the kitchen for some water at whatever time.
"It was one bad practice." Cole's voice was tight, controlled. "It happens."
"Not to you, it doesn't. Not to an Armstrong-Wells."
I crept closerto the door, careful to avoid making the floorboards creak. Through the narrow opening, I could see them—Cole standing stiffly by the kitchen counter, his father pacing the living room.
"I was tired," Cole said flatly. "It won't happen again."
Wells stopped pacing, his expensive shoes silent on the hardwood floor. "Tired? Ordistracted?”
Cole's face hardened, and I wondered why he didn’t mention the whole blackmail thing. "Are you having me followed now?"
"I want to know why you played so poorly yesterday?"
"I had one bad day."
Wells's laugh was cold, cutting. "One bad day can unravel everything, Cole. You of all people should understand that."
I saw Cole flinch almost imperceptibly, his shoulders tensing beneath his t-shirt.
"We agreed you'd keep your focus singular," Wells continued, his voice dropping to something dangerously soft. "Hockey. Public appearances. Carefully managed relationships when you're established. That was our arrangement after what happened at Whitmore Academy."
"I haven't forgotten," Cole said, each word clipped.
"Haven't you?" Wells moved closer, invading Cole's space in a way that made me want to burst through the door despite my injuries. "One moment of lost control. One boy in hospital with third-degree burns. Your future nearly destroyed before it began."
Cole's face had gone pale. "It was an accident." I swallowed. This had been what Cole had told me last night.
"Of course it was. Boys playing with fire, a prank gone terribly wrong." His smile was reptilian. "That's what the official report says, anyway. That's what everyone believes."
"Stop." The word seemed torn from Cole's throat.
"But we both know the truth, don't we? What really happened when you lost control?" Wells was relentless, circling his son like a shark scenting blood. "How your little temper tantrum happened, how the flames weren't just metaphorical." His voice droppedeven lower. "How your...condition...manifested for the first time."
I held my breath, pressing closer to the crack in the door.Condition?What was he talking about?
Cole's hands were clenched at his sides, knuckles white. "I was thirteen. I didn't understand what was happening."
"And now you do. Which is why these lapses in judgment are so concerning." Wells gestured around the apartment. "You're distracted. Unfocused. Bringing strangers into your life, putting everything at risk."
"I'm handling it," Cole said. I shook my head, utterly bewildered. Why wasn’t Cole defending himself?
