I spend the entire game watching Donovan and feeling that heat inside me escalate until my skin feels like it’s boiling. As soon as the game ends, I stand, my fingers running over the pass I was handed earlier.
I might as well take advantage of it.
I wonder if he’s going to realize that I’m leaving. I wonder if he’s going to think that I did it without saying goodbye.
Does Donovan even notice that I’m in the stands? Can he feel my eyes on him—the way I can’t seem to stop drinking down the movements of his body, living art on ice…
Does he realize he’s in real danger, and I’m not sure what kind it is anymore?
At least I’ve been here before, so I understand where I need to go. Ineedto see him.
Up close. With his helmet—wearing my art. I want to see the sweat on his skin, the way his hair is probably slicked with it.
I want to see him wearing my blood.
It’s almost painful to wait for the crowd to filter out of the stands after the game ends, but I know Donovan isn’t going to get off the ice until everything is over. At least I know enough to know that I can turn to the right while everyone else moves toward the exit.
My eyes roll up to the sign that saysAUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY.
My fingers slide across the smooth plastic of the pass Donovan left for me as I make my way down, and when I hold it up to the security guard posted at the entryway and he waves me through, something inside me sparks.
Hewantedme to be here.
He wanted me to be able to find him.
And I know exactly where the locker room is. I wonder if I can pull him to the side, if I could get him alone…
I wonder if…
I hear his laughter above the noise coming down the hallway as his team makes their way toward me. It’s strange, the way I’d know that sound anywhere—the way I can pick it out above all the rest of the chatter and amusement.
It’s just…
Donovan.
He’s surrounded by people, which isn’t exactly what I wanted… or…
Is it? I don’t know anymore. I don’t know why I’m here. I just know that my fingers are itching to reach out and brush against his skin the same way they did against my sketch. It’s not logical. It doesn’t make sense.
I don’twantpeople… but I wanthim.
And when his head swivels in my direction, I have less than a second to make a decision. I can slip back and not let him see me—I’ve already shown him entirely too much of myself. He knows I break into his apartment. He knowsmy art. And as I stand stilland tilt my head when his eyes meet mine, I realize I’m going to let him know this too. I flick the pass he gave me between two fingers with an arched brow.
I’m watching him. Stalking him… and he gave me the fucking keys to the kingdom.
And like the perfect victim, Donovan says something to the people around him and heads in my direction. He yanks his gloves free as he approaches me, and I watch those long, slender fingers carefully pull the helmet from his head. I want to ask him if he liked it—I want to ask him if he knows what I used for paint. I want a lot of things, but Donovan apparently has something else on his mind.
I don’t have time to think when his big hand carefully slides around my waist and he half drags, half pulls me further down the hall. We turn a corner before he stops, and though I can still hear the echo of footsteps, there’s no one around us.
I open my mouth and then shut it just as quick—I’m not sure what to say. I want totellhim what he’s wearing. I want to tell him torun. I want to warn him that I don’t have to know him toknowthat he’s something I want to keep, and that might be more dangerous for him than if I’d just killed him in that alley where I first found him.
I don’t say any of it, and he meets my restraint with silence. It gives me a chance to crane my neck to look up at him. His eyes were so wide, so full of…
Confusion.
And heat. A spark of anger orpain. I don’t know. I just know that he slips his hand around the back of my neck—those warm fucking fingers—and I have to come up on tiptoe when he pulls me forward and crashes his lips against mine in a kiss that might just damn us both.
CHAPTER TWELVE
