Total pages in book: 149
Estimated words: 146548 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 733(@200wpm)___ 586(@250wpm)___ 488(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 146548 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 733(@200wpm)___ 586(@250wpm)___ 488(@300wpm)
“Can’t help it.” He wipes his mouth on his bicep. “They’re the Bad Luck Crew.”
I roll my eyes and clutch the doorknob. “You may be assigned to one of them.”
“Nah, I already requested the Good Luck Crew.” He means the Cobalt family.
I smile into another bite of apple. “Have fun with that.” I kick open the door, en route to Maximoff Hale.
When I’m in the elevator, I pull out my phone and contemplate calling or texting Moffy for more information, to ensure he’s okay, but I don’t even have his number.
Fucking hell.
I pocket my phone. Not long after, I take a cab to my father’s house in Northwest Philly, pack the supplies and medicine in my bag, and I reach the airport in plenty of time to board the private jet. Moderate turbulence and decent shut-eye later, I’m on the ground.
An unknown source has already granted me access to Moffy’s dorm hall. If I made an educated guess, I’d say Security Force Omega is on top of this clandestine emergency. But Maximoff isn’t aware that any doctor is coming, as far as I know.
His dorm room is on the fourth floor next to the communal bathroom. I knock on the scratched wood. Waiting. No noise.
Answer, wolf scout.
I knock again. Complete silence, even inside the hall. Most students must be on campus, the old dorm quiet in the afternoon.
After another knock and more silence, my jaw hardens. In the email my father sent, he left an instruction: if Moffy doesn’t answer the door, call his bodyguard to open it.
He could be unconscious on the floor. I’m not wasting time or handing over that easy task to someone else. I turn the knob. Locked.
No hesitation, I pound my boot in the wood. The door bangs, but it needs a couple more kicks to bust in.
I don’t even prepare for the second kick before the sound of footsteps echoes on the other side. He’s moving.
Good.
I expel a heavier breath through my nose.
The door opens to a nineteen-year-old, six-foot-two celebrity with a jawline cut like marble.
Instantly, his forest-greens catch my brown, and I meet his questioning gaze. I run my tongue over my silver lip piercing and break eye contact.
Quickly, I sweep his swimmer’s build for visible signs of a wound. His jeans are loose on his legs, his green tee tight on his chest. I don’t see an injury, and an earbud cord dangles over his shoulder.
He must’ve been listening to music, unable to hear me knock.
“What are you doing here?” Moffy asks, voice firm. He even peeks over my shoulder.
“It’s only me, wolf scout.” I push further into the cramped dorm room before he can shut me out. I whistle at the unmade bed to the left, a Harvard crimson comforter rumpled and sheets balled. “Bad roommate?” I ask and drop my bag to the floorboards.
Maximoff crosses his arms, his biceps bulging. “That could be my bed.” He nods to the messy area.
“No,” I say matter-of-factly. “That’s your bed.” I point to the orange comforter tucked into the wooden frame. “And that’s your desk.” His oak desk is wedged nearby, a philosophy textbook cracked open and a highlighter uncapped like I caught him in the middle of studying.
“Great.” He rakes a hand through his thick, dark brown hair. “Now that you’ve Sherlock Holmes’ed my dorm, you can leave happy. Mission accomplished.”
“I’m not leaving,” I say seriously.
Maximoff isn’t an idiot. He sees my trauma bag. He knows I’m here because of the phone call he made to my father. I don’t need to spoon-feed him this information.
But we’re at a slight standstill because he’s not forthcoming about his injury. I examine him from about four feet away. He usually has a tan complexion, but he’s lost color in his face. And he’s sweating.
“You look pale,” I tell him.
He blinks slowly. “Thanks.”
I tilt my head. “That wasn’t a compliment.”
“I was being sarcastic.”
My brows rise, a smile at my lips. “I know.”
Maximoff grimaces and rests his hands on his head like communicating with me is brutal. The times we talk, I like irritating the shit out of him, but today’s different. He’s my patient.
“Jesus Christ,” he growls under his breath.
“Moffy—”
“I’m fine,” he says strongly, his hands dropping to his sides. “If I thought I wasn’t, I would’ve gone to the ER. Alright, you can go do whatever the fuck you do on a Wednesday afternoon. I’m sorry you had to come up to Cambridge.” His apology sounds extremely sincere.
“Don’t be,” I say. “I’m supposed to be here.”
Right here.
Right now.
This was my choice. I could’ve told my father no, but I said yes to this call. To Maximoff, and I’m not leaving until I’m sure he’s safe.
He cracks a knuckle and stares off, lost in thought.
I wait and comb a hand through my dyed hair. A few pictures line his desk, most of siblings or with his best friend Jane. I recognize one group photo from St. Thomas with all the families squished together, a summer vacation. The picture leaked on the internet a few years back.