Twisted Demands

TWISTED DEMANDS A Dark College Romance MARLEE WRAY Copyright © 2023 by Marlee Wray All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. CONTENTS Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Chapter 20 Chapter 21 Chapter 22 Chapter 23 Chapter 24 Chapter 25 Chapter 26 Chapter 27 Chapter 28 Chapter 29 Chapter 30 Chapter 31 Chapter 32 Chapter 33 Chapter 34 Chapter 35 Chapter 36 Chapter 37 Chapter 38 Chapter 39 Chapter 40 Chapter 41 Chapter 42 Chapter 43 Chapter 44 Chapter 45 Chapter 46 Chapter 47 Chapter 48 Epilogue Afterword Cast | DK Companion Also by Marlee Wray About the Author 1 ARYA The new year is cold, dangerous, and brutal. Now, out of the corner of my eye, I see him. The Viking. A man who epitomizes those things. Staring fixedly at the silver doors of the Columbus Tower elevator, I purse my lips as he approaches. Erik Sorensen and I run in the same circles, but we never talk. Or even acknowledge each other. I despise him. And the feeling is mutual. At six-foot-nine, he towers over me, despite the fact that I’m five-nine today since I’m wearing boots with three-inch heels. I resent his height. And his massive size in general. The temptation to stalk away hits me hard, but I force myself to remain still. I’m determined to keep my appointment with a pair of Granthorpe reporters. Last week, a dead girl washed ashore, and I have something I want to get off my chest about Casanova, the campus serial killer. The police don’t seem to be doing anything useful, so this is a last-ditch effort to get more eyes looking at a spot north of campus where I think I may have seen him. I glance at the Viking, giving him the side-eye as I take stock. I had hoped that after football season ended, I wouldn’t need to look at him anymore. Not that it’s a complete hardship. Sorensen could be Thor… if Thor worked out more. My teeth grind together at the thought of him being godlike, and I force my gaze back to the button panel. He looms above. Standing next to him, I feel an inch tall. Lack of shaving or haircuts during football season means he looks less handsome than usual. But the rugged, maniac berserker-look has a pull, too. I wish it didn’t. Right now, he stands near me with his ruddy beard, long unruly golden hair, and bruising under his eyes courtesy of the broken nose he sustained in the Palmetto Bowl. The image of blood pouring down his football jersey as he snarled up at the screaming fans is one I will never forget. Even standing still, he looks wild and lawless. I shudder. I hate his fucking marauder vibe. Partly because it’s sexy. And partly because it is exactly that brutality that caused the perpetual frostiness between us. His glacial blue-eyed gaze does a slow once over, pausing on my Cleopatra cuff necklace, gold knit shirt, and silver rings. His eyes return to my chest. I feel like saying, yes, they’re “C” cups, but you can stop staring because they’re not for you. I wear sports bras a lot, so guys frequently get hung up on the difference when I wear anything that shows off my breasts. My hand drops to the drawstring of my silk pants and plays with the knot. It does the trick of pulling his eyes down. Though now, instead of looking at my chest, he’s looking at the junction of my thighs. Sexual awareness courses through me. Two and a half years ago, we almost had a night together when I would’ve found out whether his whole body is as big and hard as advertised. My nipples tighten. For fuck’s sake. Today his thick blond hair hangs in a curtain past his massively broad shoulders, and because I’m tired and pissed, I can’t resist a jab. Staring straight ahead, I murmur, “Your hair looks like my Barbie’s. Gonna take care of that soon? Or is Rapunzel the look you’re cultivating these days?” He licks his lips, giving me the side-eye without comment. “What are you doing here, anyway?” My tone is half question, half accusation. More silence. Usually, I give as good as I get with the silent treatment, but it’s unnerving to stand this close to him. Finally turning in his direction, I say, “Did that last concussion do some damage to your brain’s speech center? I asked why you’re here.” His cocky gaze moves slowly up and down me, settling on my face. And his expression feigns boredom. “Charming,” I say when it’s clear he won’t speak. The painted black fingernail of my right index finger clicks against the elevator call button. It’s already lit, but I press it all the same. The door opens and I push past him to enter, my black coat sleeve brushing against his elbow. “I have an appointment. Take the next one.” I try to block his entry, but Sorensen uses his gigantic size to force me to the back of the car as he steps in. “Asshole,” I mutter under my breath. “Tease.” The set-down is made in a gruff baritone I haven’t heard directed at me in a long time. My response is instantaneous and clipped. “Not true.” Our bitter anger at each other is over a sordid interlude that never happened. I stiffen, always unsettled when I think of that time. His long finger hits the button for the top floor. Just fantastic. He’s headed for the Granthorpe Daily Dispatch offices, too. Why