Chapter 1
Ramsey
The first time I saw Reese St. Pierre, I knew I’d ruin her. Not today. Not tomorrow. But eventually. Every day I try and resist the urge to claim her. To kill her little experiment of a boyfriend. I can still taste the watermelon lip gloss from three years ago as I claimed her first kiss. I’ve been chasing that high ever since, which is why I’m currently at the gym right off campus beating the fucking shit out of this heavy bag.
I slam my fist into the bag again, my knuckles screaming beneath the wraps. I imagine it's Justin's face, his little fucking side snaggletooth shattering under my hand. The fantasy sends another surge of adrenaline through me, and I hit harder as I keep control of my breath. She belongs to me and only me. Always has and always will. No matter whose in her fucking orbit. It’s always gonna be her and I.
Sweat pours down my back, my tank top clinging to my skin like a second layer. I’ve been here for two hours, and I'mnowhere near done. The place is almost empty now, just a few dedicated fuckers scattered around the weight racks. None of them dare come near me.
The way the bag swings reminds me of how Reese's hips switch when she walks. How they swayed today when I saw her at the campus coffee shop in between classes, laughing at something one of her dance bitch friends said as they left. She didn’t see me. I didn’t want her to but it’s always so easy to know where she’s at. I left after class and pulled up her location. Just to watch her, look at her stunning face and the way it lights up.
"Jesus fucking Christ, Ghost. You trying to kill the bag or just maim it?"
I don't need to turn around to know it's Copeland. His voice cuts through the haze of my rage like it always does. He’s got a cold, clinical tone that somehow manages to sound both bored and dangerous at the same time. Using that stupid fucking nickname he gave me our freshman year. Something about how I’d appear from nowhere on the ice to steal the puck.
"Fuck off, Cope," I grunt, landing another combo that makes the bag swing wildly.
He steps into view, all six-foot-four of tattooed muscle. His black hair's still damp from a shower, and his ice-blue eyes watching me with a predatory focus that makes most people shit themselves. Not me, though. We're cut from the same fucked-up cloth. Objectively I can say he’s attractive. We look like we could be related and I’m fucking hot. Let’s not make it weirder.
"You've been here for hours," he says, leaning against the wall. "This about your little dancer again?"
My only answer is another brutal combination, the impact vibrating up my arms.
"I'll take that as a yes." He smirks, crossing his arms over his chest. "You know, there are easier ways to deal with this. Like just fucking her already."
I whip around, glaring at him. "Watch your fucking mouth."
He holds up his hands, but the amusement in his eyes only deepens. "Touchy, touchy. I forgot she's special." The way he saysspecialmakes it sound like a disease.
I turn back to the bag, trying to ignore him. The problem with Copeland is that he never takes a hint. It's what makes him such a good captain. He doesn't give a fuck about boundaries or feelings or any of that shit.
"Come on," he says, moving closer. "Let's spar. You can beat on someone who's gonna beat back."
I pause, considering it. My muscles are screaming, but the rage is still there, bubbling under the surface. The bag isn't cutting it anymore.
"Fine," I mutter, unwrapping my hands. "But I'm not holding back tonight."
His grin is all teeth, like a shark that's scented blood. He backs up to the ring, his eyes almost screaming that he’s been waiting for this all day. If it wasn’t me, it would have been someone else.
I follow him, rolling my shoulders as we step onto the mats. A few of the remaining gym rats look up, their interestpiqued. They know what's about to happen. Copeland and I aren't exactly known for our gentle approach to fighting.
"Rules?" I ask, though I already know the answer.
"Don't fuck anything up that can't heal by practice on Monday," he says, bouncing on the balls of his feet.
I nod, dropping into my stance. "Sounds good. I’m gonna make you hurt, Reaper."
We circle each other, neither rushing in. The gym has gone quiet except for the distant clanking of weights and the squeak of our shoes against the mat.
"So," Cope says, feinting left, "when are you gonna stop being such a little bitch about that girl?"
I don't take the bait. Not yet at least. "When are you gonna stop riding my dick about it?"
"When you either fuck her or kill her boyfriend. This in-between shit is boring as fuck."
I lunge forward with a jab that he barely slips. "Some of us have self-control."
He laughs, a harsh sound that echoes through the gym. "Is that what you call it? Because from where I'm standing, it looks like torture."
