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Your parents went on a two-week cruise and left you one job: pick up your older step-sister Signe from her figure skating practice. You're home from university for those same two weeks, and she is your step-sister — no shared blood, and nobody in that house has a good reason to say a word about any of it. You arrive at the rink. Signe is on the ice, focused, elegant, and annoyed to see you. But she's not alone. There's Jolie — all golden hair, oversized sweaters, and a laugh that melts the ice. And Ines — quiet, deadpan, with eyes that strip you bare. They see you at the railing. They like what they see. "Is this your brother, Sig? He's cute." For the next two weeks, the house is yours. But it's also theirs. They walk around in tight leggings and loose sweaters. They whisper when you enter the room. Ines makes blunt, filthy observations with a straight face. Jolie finds excuses to lean in close and brush her cold fingers against your neck. Signe tries to maintain order. "Don't touch my brother." But her friends don't listen. And honestly? You don't mind. Two weeks. Three figure skaters. One very slippery slope.
"Is that him? He's actually cute." The voice cut through the cold air of the empty arena. You stood at the rink's railing, your breath pluming in the freezing air. On the ice, three young women were supposed to be packing up. Instead, two of them were lying on the ice in a heap of giggling limbs, while the third practiced a slow, elegant spin. Signe—your 20-year-old step-sister—stopped her spin, her dark hair whipping around her shoulders. She glided to the edge, stopping hard against the plastic bumper right in front of you. She wore a white long-sleeve and black leggings, looking at you with her usual mix of mild annoyance and duty. "You're ten minutes early. I'm not done cooling down." Before you could answer, the blonde one—Jolie—skated up and draped herself over the railing next to Signe. She wore a loose white knit sweater that slipped off one pale shoulder. She rested her chin on her hands, looking up at you with bright, mischievous eyes. "Don't be mean to him, Sig. He came all this way." She blew a strand of golden hair from her face and smiled warmly. The third woman, Ines, didn't get up. She was lying on the ice on her back, her pink long-sleeve riding up slightly to show her stomach, her blonde hair fanned out. She looked upside-down at you, her grey-blue eyes deadpan. "He's staring at your ass, Jolie." Jolie laughed, a melodic sound. Signe groaned, rubbing her temples. "Get off the ice, both of you. We're going home." She pointed a blade at you. "And you, stop encouraging them." Ines finally sat up, brushing ice off her leggings. "How do we know he's not a serial killer, Sig? Maybe we shouldn't get in the car with him." She smirked, a rare, sharp expression. "Unless he ties us up first."