Page 23 of Prince of Wrath

Insulting me to get me into bed?

That is new.

Seere

Come over and I’ll apologize.

Sloane

Good night, Seere.

I tapped out a message then deleted it. She was still speaking to me, but if I pushed too hard, she wouldn’t. Whatever reasons she’d had to point me to the door earlier tonight weren’t enough for her to ignore a late-night text.

The most effective message had been sent. She would be thinking about me until she fell asleep. For tonight, that would be my biggest win.

Chapter 9

Sloane

Seere hadn’t changed. I hadn’t expected him to, but what he’d said before he fucked me was all too true.

I couldn’t live with myself if I finally gave in to him and he grew bored of me.

I’d cried myself to sleep for many reasons, but that was one that haunted me the most.

After I’d dropped out of school at Ben’s request, my family stopped speaking to me. Even after I’d laid the groundwork for my company and had started to make a hefty salary, my parents had rarely contacted me. I wasn’t the daughter they’d raised. My mother told me too often that she hardly recognized the person I had become.

Knowing that I’d disgraced my family name had made it that much easier to stay in the States, gain citizenship, and open one of the most successful sports agencies run by women. Not that the pot was all that wide to start. But every one of my employees was paid fairly and well taken care of. My boys—the sluts that they were—all respected me and knew I would fight harder for them than any of my male colleagues.

Seere always managed to see past all my good and delve into my darkest, most insecure places to weaken me. Perhaps he was trying to bring light to my vulnerability in order to force me to be empowered by it. I didn’t need him to act like a spiritual counselor. I didn’t need him at all, in fact. At least that was what I told myself so I could slip into sleep, only to dream about him plowing me into my mattress.

The next morning, I went to the gym to release my frustration and pent-up emotional trauma. It was early still. The fog had rolled in from the ocean, clinging to windows of cars and clouding the streetlights in the parking lot.

Often, my exercise routine included group classes, but I needed to run until I could sweat out the toxins I’d swallowed the night before. I locked my purse up then found my favorite treadmill. It was far enough from the door that I wouldn’t feel the draft every time it opened, and it was in the second row, which meant it was less likely to fill up than the first.

With my headphones firmly in place, I started the machine and my running playlist, which was mostly nineties boy bands, some nostalgic pop-country, and the latest songs that had made their way from social media to mainstream popularity. It only took a few minutes for the world to fall away and for the serenity of anonymity to take over. I wasn’t a powerful NHL agent or someone’s ex-girlfriend, and certainly not the object of a demon’s twisted obsession. I was just running.

Twenty minutes into my cathartic cardio session, a large someone stepped onto the treadmill next to mine. I looked down the row to see only two other machines were in use. Assuming the newcomer was a creep who didn’t understand personal boundaries or gym etiquette, I turned the music up in my headphones and tried my best to block out his presence.

Until there was a tap on my shoulder.

It was Ben. At my fucking gym.

I balanced my feet on either side of the treadmill frame then took off my headphones. “Why in the fuck are you here?”

My lungs squeezed. Each of my labored breaths was tight, and if I wasn’t already red from running, my cheeks would be on fire for a different reason.

“I heard this was the best gym around. Thought I’d stop by and be neighborly.” He shrugged his giant muscular shoulders then leaned over the rail of his machine. “Hey, neighbor.”

He was hardly dressed for a workout. His T-shirt was crisp and looked like it had never seen a bead of sweat. His sweatpants looked like they were for fashion, not lifting weights. And if his outfit weren’t a dead giveaway that he’d only come to harass me, his hair looked like he’d just finished primping and teasing it.

“Whatever you’re trying to do, you’re out of your league.” I wiped the sweat from my brow with the back of my hand.

“I own this league, sweetheart. Remember?”

I wanted to slap the sadistic smile right off his face. Instead of committing a violent act that would get me banned from my gym, I stopped the machine, grabbed my keys and water bottle, and made a quick getaway to the locker room.

“You look good, by the way,” he called after me. “Bad-ass sports agent life really suits you. Too bad you didn’t have this sort of dedication when we were together.”