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CHAPTER ONE

ELLIE

TEN MONTHS AGO

The sundress was yellow. That mattered because I’d tried on four others before it, standing in my apartment in my underwear, staring at the options laid out on my bed like evidence in a case I was trying to build. The yellow one had capped sleeves and a flared skirt that moved when I walked. When I looked in the mirror, I didn’t immediately think I looked awful.

I looked like someone who’d just graduated with her PT degree.

Which I had. Two days ago. I was Dr. Eleanor Lundrig now, thank you very much.

The drink in my hand was something with rum and pineapple and a little paper umbrella I’d already lost. Sticky-sweet and ridiculous, something I never ordered but felt entitled to after surviving three hours of academic interrogation. The park pavilion had been strung with lights that hadn’t been turned on yet, the golden hour doing all the work, and I was sitting at a picnic table with green paint, watching the Purple Punishers celebrate the end of their hockey season.

My brain wouldn’t shut off. Occupational hazard.

One of the forwards, Fedor, favored his left knee. Veskar had tension through his shoulders, probably from the hit he’d taken in the last game. Mikael moved like someone who’d forgotten what it felt like not to be in pain, which meant he was either very good at hiding it or very used to it.

And then there was Brashe Kedish. The team’s star goalie.

Seven feet of green-skinned, tusk-bearing orc who looked like he could break someone in half and probably had.

A ridged tongue. Not that he was showing it now, but I’d pretty much grown up around orcs.

They had ridged tongues.

He was loud, though not in an obnoxious way. His kind of loud made people lean in, made them want to be part of whatever he was saying. He stood near the grill with three teammates, and whatever story he was telling had them doubling over with laughter.

I’d watched enough of my brother Crim’s games to know Kedish’s reputation. He was brutal in the net, making saves that were perfect for highlight reels. He left forwards with bruises they’d feel for weeks. Off the ice, the whispers were different. He was a player. He never dated anyone more than once.

I didn’t care about that.

What I cared about was how he moved through the world like he’d never once questioned whether he belonged in it.

Must be nice.

Fedor’s three-year-old daughter toddled past the group of players, clutching a juice box. One of her shoes was untied. Her mom, Simone, followed, laughing.

Brashe bent down and stopped her. He tied her shoe, tapped her nose when she laughed, and plucked a dandelion from the grass and held it out to her.

She took it, giggling.

He straightened and went back to his story without missing a beat.

I watched him and thought, I could make him laugh like that.

The bench beside me creaked. Crim dropped onto it, folding his tall, muscular frame into the space with the ease of someone who’d spent his last fifteen years being too big for human furniture. He held a plate piled with three burgers and fries.

“Oh, thanks!” I snatched a fry and ate it, enjoying how salty it was.

“You’ve been staring,” he said, his gaze following mine.

“I’m observing.”

“You’re staring at Kedish in particular.”

I took a sip of my drink. Pineapple and rum could lead to bad decisions, but I was confident they wouldn’t today. “I’m watching the team. You know, the thing I’ll be doing professionally after I finish my fellowship.”

Crim huffed and took a bite of one of his burgers.