“Luke will be furious,”I said out loud, but not as information for him; he knew that. That’s why he chose alcohol specifically. Luke was firm about the drinking rule. When I disobeyed it the last time, Luke’s disappointment almost killed me. I’m not a monster who feels regret, but I did then.
I vowed never to do it again until I was of age. When Luke found out I’d gorged on a half-bottle of scotch—because Uncle Jasper would make sure he did—I’d have to experience the full force of not just his disappointment this time, but his betrayal.
This was so much more than seeing if I’d follow orders. Uncle Jasper wanted to know I’d follow them even when there were consequences. Even when he was sending me into hell.
My throat caught as another realization hit—this had the potential to wedge me and Luke apart. Something Uncle Jasper wanted more than anything. Luke was his golden boy; he hated how much Luke loved the little monster in his home. It would be worth teaching me, and worth however long he had to wait to see me become something worse than I already was. Something Luke would stop loving.
But Luke.
Beaten. Broken. Not even allowing himself to sob. Luke’s disappointment couldn’t matter. Nor could his betrayal. He had to be free no matter the cost.
I put the bottle to my lips.
“Tate,” a voice whispers.
“Mhm?” My chin tilts up, bringing Ryan into my eyeline. He’s changed, wearing a white, short-sleeved button-up and black dress pants. His hair’s wet, slicked back, all but a few pieces that have escaped to fall over his left eye.
“Please let me help you?” It’s both a statement and a question. He doesn’t wait for my answer, sitting on the desk, inching toward the center as I roll away enough to let him position himself in front of me. He spreads his legs, and I roll between them. Ryan picks up the tweezers, gripping me by the wrist, cradling my hand in his lap.
The slanted edge of the tweezers finds a glass shard. There’s a needle-point scrape, I wince, the glass pops out, and my muscles relax. He continues to work. It becomes a pattern. My heart catches when I sense the tweezers gripping glass, pain, relax. Grip, pain, relax. Grip, pain relax …
“You’re good at that,” I murmur.
“North Point. On-field medical training.”
There’s still so much I don’t know about him. Things I would have liked to get to know about him. But tonight was a good reminder. I can’t do that shit.
He holds my hand up to the light, hitting every angle. “Think this one’s good. Let’s see the other one.” He reaches.
I flinch from his hand, muscles twitching.Pull it the fuck together, VanCourt.With great effort, I force the shaky limb into his, closing my eyes. It’s not like this is the first time I’ve had to let someone tend wounds when making skin contact is the last thing I want. It’s Ryan. After the initial shock, Ryan’s touches don’t have the same effect as others, and if not for the pain, I’d melt into them. But the sharp pain is a blessing—there’s no mistaking it for little claws.
Keeping my gaze locked on him, I study every bruise, letting the fury replace fear. That’s how I get a grip. Anger is the only thing holding me together.
“What are you mad about now?” he says as he works. Blood soaks his pristine white shirt, a good metaphor for the way I want to seep into the cracks of him.
“Your face. When I find out who did this, I’ll take a skate to their face. Guess which side I’ll beat them with?”
He huffs a laugh, concentration locked in. “It’s not much worse than a regular game.”
“There are more rules in a regular game and some semblance of humanity.” Betrayal rears its ugly head again as I’m reminded of how he played against my very clear orders.
Ryan brings my bloody—but now glass-free—knuckles to his lips, pressing a kiss there. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize this would affect you this much.”
“What did you think was going to happen?” I snap. I don’t think I’ve ever snapped at him. Not in anger. I don’t like it, but cold fury is the only thing stopping me from imprisoning my husband-to-be in my underground lair.
“I don’t know. Heard a rumor your brother spanks McKinnon, or something like that. Thought it would be in that arena. Maybe some cute banter?”
Me standing forces his gaze upward. I cinch my throbbing hand into his wet hair. “A spanking for disobedience is too fucking cutesy for me, dollface. I'm the lock-you-in-my-dungeon-where-I-can-make-sure-you-stay-safe kind of guy.”
He licks his lips, swallowing. “Mm-hmm,” he moans, eyes fluttering.
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you? My pretty doll, shelved away, ready for use?”
Ryan nods beyond the pain. “Yes.”
I want to kiss him. Want to bite down on that sultry bottom lip of his, but I can’t let myself do that. I can’t let him continue to break the confines of the carefully constructed control I’ve maintained all these years.
That’s how…
