“I—”
“Pack your shit, Ryan. No, forget about your shit. I’ll buy you new shit. Just wait until I get my hands on him. He can join Kline. They can fight over the scraps of food I give them.”
Using all my strength, I grip the lapels of his jacket. “Tate. I can’t leave. Griff. Remember Griff?” I’m fucking lucky Griff’s still here. Father hasn’t made good on his threats—yet.
Tate doesn’t speak, but it’s clear from his growl that he doesn’t care about what happens to Griff so long as I’m out of danger. He knows he can’t say that to my face.
His fingers dig into my hair, wreaking havoc on the roots. “You don’t go home, dollface. You don’t go anywhere with him, do you understand?”
“Ow, motherfucker.Okay.”
He eases off. “I’m going to give him the Braveheart treatment and pull his innards out inch by inch while he screams for a crowd.”
Fuck. This is going nowhere. He’s still a bit cagey, like he was when he got here. Tate needs to be led away from this topic.
“Did Clarence fuck with the records?” I ask. “Back then, to get you in trouble with your uncle?”
“Most likely. I could never prove it, and it wouldn’t have mattered. My uncle would have sided with him over me every time. Even if he knew Clarence was lying. That fucking worm.”
“He’s a worm,” I agree, but my distraction’s not working. There’s murderous rage in his eyes and something else.
“I hate that I can’t save you from what he’s already done to you, dollface.”
“Don’t you dare fucking pity me, Tate. I’m a hockey player. I’m built for this shit.”
“Oh, yeah? How old were you when he started using your grandfather’s inventions?”
I grit my teeth. Okay, point him. I wasn’t a roughened hockey player when Father started his fucked-up conditioning camp.
“How old were you?” I counter.
Our stare-off is a dare. He breaks first.
“Let’s agree we were too young for what happened to either of us.”
“We were too young,” I agree.
I descend on his lips before he has the chance to do it first. We’re so messed up. Two broken souls, twisted together. I pull back, trying to get a read on him. He’s in a volatile frame of mind. He wouldn’t hurt me, but he’s unhinged enough to act on some of his darker designs. I wish I could stay with him.
“I should call the others in,” he says. “We’ve been alone for too long—which is a fucking ridiculous concept. You should be with me for as long as I want you to be.”
I kiss his lips one more time. Maybe it will calm him a little. Doubtful.
“Kane King, Rhys Beckett, Gideon Thorne, and Torin Ackerman. That’s who you want to speak to next. Call them in, they’ll help us out.”
Mid-Late November
We have a home game this weekend, the last before Thanksgiving break, except it’s not a break for the five of us. We’ll be playing in Tate’s special league.
Which, ah, he doesn’t exactly know about yet. After what I found out about him, the smart thing to do would be to tell my friends I’m out. But I can’t do that to them. They need me. Tate’s just going to have to understand. I’m going to have to ask for forgiveness instead of permission on this one. He wouldn’t just say no; he might actually chain me to him.
Tate
You still haven’t answered me. What the fuck is wrong with your cousin? How are you related?
I smile at the text. I’m not supposed to have my phone out during mealtimes, not even supposed to have it in the mess hall, but I … fuck. Tate texts me now. He’s been texting me regularly since the day of his impromptu visit and having him in my pocket feels like having him with me.
Yeah, I can hear the voices of reason,don’t fall for the borderline psychopath, Ryan. But I won’t, okay? I’m just getting to know my future husband. That’s strategic.
