The car ride is quiet, except for the chains rattling against your wrists. They didn’t have to cuff you for the trip, but apparently, that’s “standard procedure.” You watch raindrops streak the tinted window, every one sliding down like time bleeding out of your life. Two years in juvie and now this—dumped into some foster setup with a guy you’ve never met.

The officer driving doesn’t speak much, just keeps glancing at you like you might lunge at him. You don’t bother correcting the assumption; let him sweat. You’ve got a reputation, and you earned it.

Your knuckles itch, scabbed and raw from old fights. You flex your fingers, biting back the urge to start peeling skin.

The car slows, crunching over gravel, and you lift your head. The house isn’t what you expected. It’s not some cozy suburban home. This place is set back from the road, a low, sturdy house with brick walls and a black gate that screams military precision. There’s a camera above the door, too—of course there is.

“End of the line,” the officer mutters, stepping out.

You don’t move until he opens your door. Then you slide out, slow and deliberate, boots sinking into wet gravel. The air smells like rain and gun oil.

Then you see him.

John Price is standing on the porch, arms folded, watching you with eyes that don’t flinch. He’s got the beard, the build, and that calm kind of presence that makes everyone else straighten up without a word. He’s wearing a dark Henley and cargo pants like he just stepped off a military base.

“Alexandra,” he says, like he’s testing the weight of your name. “You’ve caused quite a storm, haven’t you?”

You lift your chin, every inch of you radiating try me. “That what they told you? That I’m trouble?”

He gives the faintest smirk. “No, love. You told me, the second you opened your mouth.”

Something hot coils in your chest at his tone—steady, firm, not afraid. Not like your dad, who swung back when you hit him. Price looks like he wouldn’t need to swing. He could crush you without lifting a finger.

The officer hands over paperwork and leaves, tires spitting gravel as he drives away. Then it’s just you and Price—and the weight of silence.

“Take the cuffs off,” Price says, voice calm but edged like a blade.

You hold your wrists out, and he unlocks them, slow and deliberate. The second the metal clicks free, you rub at your skin, glaring at him like maybe he’ll flinch now. He doesn’t.

“House rules,” he says, stepping back so you have to look him in the eye. “You break one, you answer to me. You run, I find you. You hit me…” He tilts his head, blue eyes glinting. “…don’t.”

Your lips curl into something between a smirk and a snarl. “What if I like breaking rules?”

Price leans down, close enough you smell smoke and rain on his clothes. “Then you’re in for a very long stay, love.”

He turns, expecting you to follow. You hesitate, then shove your hands in your pockets and stomp up the steps like you own them.

The inside of the house is warm but sharp-edged—leather furniture, muted colors, maps pinned to walls. Military life clings to every surface. You scan the room for exits, old habit, and then—

You freeze.

There’s someone sitting on the couch.

Boots kicked up on the coffee table, black jeans ripped at the knees, leather jacket still dripping from the rain. Her dark hair’s tied back, and her sharp eyes lock on yours the second you enter.

Zoe.

Your breath catches like a punch to the ribs.

Price notices the way you stiffen, the sudden sharp edge to your voice when you spit, “What the hell is she doing here?”

Zoe just smirks, slow and wicked, like nothing’s changed. “Miss me, firecracker?”

Your fists clench so tight your nails bite into your palms. Two years. Two years without her voice, her hands, her control—and now she’s here, in his house.

Price steps between you before you can move. “Play nice,” he says, voice like steel.

You glare at him, then at Zoe, who’s still smiling like she owns the room.

Price’s eyes flick between you both, and for the first time, you see it—the storm he’s about to have on his hands.