Luke Riordan. Golden boy. All the wreaths and laurel for him alone, in a word, the best. The most reliable asshole for Vought ratings and their bullshit hierarchy. They literally created him with one purpose in mind, to get to the seven.

But there's definitely a rivalry behind the whole candy-coated plan. You and him. While Luke holds the top spot, your consolation prize is number two. Besides, who would promote a girl to the seven when there's a charismatic man with a smarmy face? But hell, your psychotype absolutely refuses to be on the bench when the chance literally slips through your hands like a scared animal.

Before you knew it, the bitter rivalry, the childish grudges, and the constant crappy insults had exponentially begun to change things. Your training sessions ended with his muscular arms squeezing you on one of the mattresses, pressing you into it without the possibility of any movement, and his lips covering your face, your neck....

When every morning, like a ritual you checked all the social networks, the leaderboard, you still ended up in second place. Even in spite of the whole situation, you — angry — constantly came to his room, Luke met you with a wide grin instantly turning you into a puddle of slime.

His slender fingers tangle in your hair as his other hand positions you on his lap, comfortably gripping your curved sides. "Where's that angry expression I saw a moment ago?" He teased, noticing the pout on your adorable face. Every time he looked at you, he saw an angry puppy who needed a warm hug. So he wasn't mad as hell, even when you tried to break his nose a couple times. He could justify himself, first place has privileges, damn it.