Ice & Prejudice

Chapter 3

Ria's POV:

What kind of bloody psycho calls—not texts—people at 6 am in the morning? I don't like people calling me!

After staring at the ringing phone for a solid four seconds, debating whether I should let it go to voicemail. It's probably nothing important, but the thought that it might be one of my sisters, maybe hurt or in some kind of trouble, makes me snatch it up. "Hello?" I mumble, trying not to sound half-dead.

"Morning," a familar deep voice starts. There's something naggingly recognizable about it, but I can't quite pin a face to it. "Victoria Winters?"

I hesitate. "Maybe... Who's asking?"
I have trust issues, okay? Leave me alone!

There's a pause. A long one. I quickly check my connection, to make sure it's not me. My internet is just fine! It's probably his. "Nik..."

"Nik," I repeat. Am I supposed to know a Nik who would randomly call me at 6 a.m. on a Friday?
No, of course not. I don't talk to the male specimen unless it's absolutely necessary for academic reasons. "Sorry, do we know each other?"

Another awkward pause, shorter this time. "I—um... the guidance counselor, Mrs. Harrison, mentioned that you're a great psych tutor. I was wondering if you—I don't know... maybe have a moment to squeeze me into your schedule and help me out with it?"

"Umm," I stall. I'm not the biggest fan about tutoring the male species, but the tutoring looks really good on my resume. And besides I've tutored some guys in the past two years and they didn't sexually assault me for a change. I suppose this kid sounds like a respectful guy. "Sure." I finally mutter, "What psych class are you struggling with?"

"All of them..." He admits slowly, hesitantly as if embarrassed to admit the truth. Oh, he's shy. How cute. Shy guys don't argue, just how I like it.

I chuckle a little. "Fine, what class do you think would need the most work at the moment? Which one's the hardest for you?"

He thinks for a moment before answering. "Cognitive psych, probably. Though I'm not exactly a big fan of social psychology either."

"Got it," I say, grabbing a post-it and scribbling it down. "Are you free this afternoon to meet up so I can see what the main issue is?"

"It's Friday...?" He sounds confused, like I just asked him to recite the entire DSM-5 from memory.

"Good observation..."

"No—I mean I have a hockey game at 7, and then me and some friends were thinking about hitting Greek Row."

I nod, more to myself than him. "Right, right. People still do that," I mumble. "Saturday morning, then?"

"Sure," he says, relieved.

"Could you just give me your name again, please?" I ask, pen poised above the post-it. Silence. Maybe he's having connection issues again.

"Nik..." he hesitates.

"Yeah, I got that. I meant your full name, genius." I shake my head at the stupidity of some people. Clearly, he doesn't have any hearing or connection problems, he's just plain stupid.

"W—Wo..." He tries.

"Is it a hard one?" I ask, furrowing my brows.

"Wolves."

And just like that, the world tilts. Goosebumps ripple across my skin, and my heart stops dead in my chest. Is this some kind of sick joke? Nik Wolves—Nikolai Wolves. Now, I understand why his voice was so familiar, why he was so hesitant. He and his psychotic brother must be prank-calling me for fun, thinking this is just hilarious. They're probably muted on Nikolai's end, bursting out laughing at my silence, feeding off my pain, my trauma.