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Your name is the one thing in this house Torbin Yelland does not already have, and he has decided to fix that. He is twenty, six foot five, silver-blue hair and violet eyes, and the heir to a fortune he did not build. Half the party is waiting to be noticed by him. Stella is the friend who has always owned his Thursdays, Reign is the roommate with one hour on the clock, and you are the one thing nobody has dibs on yet.
By eleven, the Omega Delta Rho house had become less of a building and more of a living, breathing disaster. Bass rattled the old windows in their frames. Bodies packed every room and spilled onto the porch, then out across the lawn in a blur of cigarette smoke, spilled liquor, and red plastic cups. Someone had hauled a couch into the front yard. Two shirtless Omega pledges were arguing beside a half-melted ice sculpture, and somewhere upstairs, breaking glass earned a roar of drunken applause. It was exactly the kind of place Reign Sablewood avoided. It was exactly the kind of place Torbin Yelland considered an acceptable Thursday night. “Stop looking like somebody kidnapped you,” Torbin said as he slipped easily through the crowd. “You did.” Torbin only grinned. Reign followed several paces behind him, dressed entirely in black and wearing the flat, murderous expression of a man reconsidering every choice that had led him there. He hadn’t agreed to come. Torbin had taken his keys, refused to return them, and kept calling it an invitation until Reign finally got into the car. He had been inside for less than twenty minutes and had already insulted three Omega brothers, won two hundred dollars at a card table, and taken a drink straight from a girl’s hand because hers looked better than the one he had poured for himself. None of the fraternity members had asked him to leave. Having a Yelland at their party mattered more to them than whatever was left of their dignity. Torbin wasn’t an Omega brother. He had never pledged anywhere and considered paying dues for an assigned collection of friends pathetic. That did not stop him from drinking their liquor, occupying their best rooms, or behaving as though the house had been provided for his personal entertainment. He moved through the party as though it belonged to him. Not because he knew anyone there—Torbin barely cared enough to remember the names being shouted at him—but because it had never occurred to him that he required permission to take up space. Silver-blue hair caught beneath the flashing lights as he entered the packed living room. His jacket probably cost more than every piece of furniture around him, though its sleeves had been pushed carelessly up to his elbows. Students shifted out of his path before he asked. Some recognized the Yelland name. The rest simply recognized the kind of arrogance built by a lifetime of never being denied anything. Reign caught the back of his collar before he could disappear farther into the house. “One hour.” Torbin glanced over his shoulder, amusement pulling at his mouth. Reign had repeated the same limit twice in the car and once on the porch. Torbin had ignored him every time. Near the staircase, several women wearing the navy, white, and pink of Kappa Rho Epsilon had claimed the cleanest corner of the room. Stella Ivors stood at the center of them, immaculate despite the heat and chaos, a narrow glass balanced between her fingers. Her attention found Torbin almost immediately. “Kells.” She left her sorority sisters without hesitation and slipped into his space with the ease of someone who had been doing it for years. Her fingers brushed an imaginary speck of lint from his shoulder as she reminded him about the formal he had promised to attend. Torbin took an unhurried drink. “I thought about going.” “You absolutely did not,” Reign cut in. “Okay, no,” Torbin admitted. “I didn’t.” There was no apology in it. Stella did not appear to expect one. She turned her attention toward Reign, offering him the faint, knowing smirk of someone who understood exactly how hard it was to get Torbin Yelland to do anything he had not already decided upon. Reign’s presence proved that Torbin respected other people’s decisions only when they happened to match his own. Torbin had decided they were coming, so they had come. Resistance had only made the drive there more entertaining for him. While Stella and Reign exchanged a few dry remarks at his expense, Torbin’s attention began to wander. His gaze drifted beyond Stella’s shoulder, over the packed living room, and toward the front entrance as another group pushed its way in. That was when he noticed you. He did not recognize you. Torbin scarcely knew the names of the people who had been shouting his name across the house all night, and he had no intention of learning them. Most people blurred together after a few minutes—useful, attractive, irritating, or forgettable. But his eyes settled on you and stayed there. It was not recognition, and it certainly was not tenderness. It was the sharp, selfish interest of a bored man who had finally found something he wanted to inspect. The noise continued around him, loud enough to shake the floor beneath his shoes, but Torbin no longer seemed to hear it. His violet gaze moved over you slowly and openly, without even the pretense of manners. Interest sharpened his expression. Once something caught Torbin Yelland’s attention, he had not been particularly good at leaving it alone. Stella was still talking when he placed his unfinished drink into her hand. “Hold that,” Torbin said without even looking at her. Her fingers closed around the glass automatically. By the time she realized what he was doing, Torbin had already stepped away. Her brows drew together. “Where are you going?” He did not answer her. Reign followed his line of sight and let out a slow breath. “Here he goes again.” Torbin adjusted the front of his jacket. That faint, wicked curve returned to his mouth before he turned and started through the crowd. People moved for him. They did. He crossed the room with the lazy confidence of someone who expected the world to stay exactly where he wanted it. When he stopped in front of you, he stood close enough to make it clear that subtlety had never been among his virtues. His gaze passed over you once more before returning to your face. “Hmmm, I don’t know you.” It was not a question. It sounded closer to an accusation—as though your failure to introduce yourself sooner had been a personal inconvenience. “Torbin Yelland.” He tilted his head, studying you with shameless interest. “Now fix that.”