Violet and Willow come out of Amanda’s apartment an hour before our meeting with the school’s publicist. My teeth have been grinding for the last ten minutes, but I refused to go pound on the door—or text her. Not when she couldn’t have been bothered to text me back yesterday.
Her indifference in the daylight irritates me. All week, she’s been acting like nothing is wrong. Like a former friend didn’t dump a drink over her head and then make out with me. Like she wasn’t hurt by that.
Maybe she wasn’t. Maybe Paris has always been the enemy, and she’s used to her behavior.
I could dig deeper.
Cut harder.
My cock twitches, and I lean forward. I rest my chin on my forearm, on top of the steering wheel. I can almost see her as I will when I’m finished with her. I can’t get the thought of blood out of my head. The little winces of pain, the distrust.
The other day, Knox reminded me of our bet. He said Willow was coming along, and it didn’t seem that I gave a shit about Violet.
That’s wrong.
I don’t give a shit about the bet .
But it keeps him occupied.
I reach down and grab the folding knife from my cup holder. I flip it open and press the point into my thumb, hard enough to sting but not hard enough to draw blood.
Seeing her handcuffed last night just deepened my fascination. She squirmed, she seemed scared, but then a switch flipped.
She wanted me .
Violet and Willow reach the sidewalk.
Her head comes up, and she finds my out-of-place sedan a good ten seconds before Willow has even noticed something is amiss. She stares at me, her brows furrowing.
Hmm.
The windows on my vehicle are tinted, making it impossible to see in unless you’re right up against the glass.
I’ve become a certified stalker.
But we’ve got limited time, and I need to make sure that she’s ready for what I need her to say. Coach Roake wants us to deny anything. The picture was a coincidence, the party was just a hockey house party, and someone else invited her. Her roommate, maybe, or another player.
They begin their walk home, and I drop the knife back to the cupholder. I put my vehicle in drive. I roll behind them, uncaring that I’ve raised the alarm bells in Violet’s head. She seems ready to bolt.
I smirk.
This scared version of her is new.
Is it because of what happened last night?
Willow finally clues in and looks around. She glances at my sedan, then faces forward again. Their pace increases.
Finally, we reach their apartment. I pull over, ready to jump out, but Violet is already stomping toward me.
I open the door and hop out.
She skids to a stop, her mouth dropping open.
Then… relief?
I tilt my head, confused as to why she’s relieved to discover me. A question for later, though, because she advances again and whacks my chest. Her pretty face is pale, her blue eyes boring into mine.
“You—” smack “asshole—” smack “you—” smack “make me—” smack “CRAZY!”
I have to resist the urge to laugh at her, instead snatching her wrists and pulling her close. Her gaze is wild, and she fights with surprising viciousness. Much better than last night when I caught her unaware.
I drag her with me as I open the back door of my car and force her inside it. I climb in after her and slam the door shut.
“What the fuck?” she demands.
So saucy.
“Say something.” She yanks at her wrists, which I have in one of my hands.
She’s delicate. I could break her bones if I squeezed hard enough.
I reach forward and grab the knife, flicking it open.
She goes still.
I look from it to her. She’s pressed against the far window, her arms extended in front of her. But she’s given up on getting her hands back. With my free hand, I drag the knife over her fingers.
Her tell is her shivers. When she’s found something that intrigues her, that scares her, that pushes her out of her comfort zone.
“Did Jack take your virginity?” I ask, still sliding the knife tip up and down. I’m making a little path over her knuckles, down the edge of her thumb, then back up. “Was he the one who fucked you first, or was it a high school boyfriend?”
Violet loves to give me nothing.
I tsk. “Even your silence tells me what you want to hide. I should know.”
Her eyes narrow.
I release her wrists and flick the knife down, cutting open her leggings on the inside of her thigh. The move is unexpected, and it nicks her skin, too. She gasps, but there’s nowhere for her to go. I’m the fucking wolf, hunting her down. Scenting her blood.
And it wells up so prettily on her pale skin.
“What was that for?” Her voice trembles.
I look up from it. “Not answering my question.”
She twists around and yanks at the door handle.
It doesn’t budge. That one’s tricky. It sticks sometimes. I crawl forward and remove her hand from the door, then kiss her knuckles. I shouldn’t. It feels wrong, like I’m plying her with affection. Something that might give her a sense that I care about her.
“Greyson,” she whispers. “Let me out.”
I shake my head and lean down, licking the strip of exposed skin on her inner thigh. Her blood hits my tongue, and my cock immediately hardens. Fuck. Her blood is warm and metallic, and I suck and bite at the shallow wound.
She groans.
Her hands slide into my hair, tugging me away, but I ignore it. I drag my teeth along her flesh, then lick. Suck. Repeat.
Her thigh shouldn’t be erotic.
Her blood shouldn’t make me hornier than a teenager.
I just fucked her last night, and I want to do it all over again. Savagely.
“Grey,” she says, louder.
Damn it, I like it when she calls me that.
I slip my hand into the hole in the leggings, up to her panty line. I run my finger along it, over the damp fabric, and rub her clit over the barrier. It’s not nearly as satisfying, but she shifts her hips all the same.
“You’re a little slut for me,” I tell her. “No one else will give you this rush.”
“Fuck off,” she snaps breathlessly.
No stop . I should’ve picked a more unique word for her. A safe word that won’t slip as easily from her lips.
But she hasn’t spoken it, even when I gave her the chance last night.
It solidifies a few things in my mind, but the main one is that she wants this. She’s a glutton. And I can keep pushing her until she breaks, or I do.
“Please,” she begs. “Jesus, just fucking touch me.”
I take in her pink cheeks, the heat that has flushed her exposed skin across her collarbones.
I look and watch and bring her right up to the edge of ecstasy, and then I withdraw.
It takes every last ounce of willpower to not rip her clothes off.
Instead, I shove the door open and lean back in the seat.
I tilt my head to the street. “Get ready for this interview and try not to look freshly fucked while you’re at it.”
She rears back.
I’m clearly in her way, and she waits a beat for me to move.
I don’t.
It seems to occur to her only seconds later, and she climbs over me. Her pert ass slides across my groin, and she lets out a hiss when she brushes my cock. I don’t move to touch her, still practicing that self-control. And then her feet are on the asphalt, and she must feel safe enough to turn back and look at me.
Her gaze drops to my lap.
“Anytime you want to take a ride, sweetheart,” I goad.
She narrows her eyes.
“You’ve got an hour.”
That makes pretty Violet pause. “To meet with that publicist?”
I check my watch. “Technically, we meet with her in forty minutes.”
“Why should I go with you?”
Oh, a test? I do love these. I pull my phone from my pocket and open the video of her breaking the NDA. Her anger comes off her in waves on my screen, palpable even from here. I let it play, enjoying the theater of it.
When it ends, I watch her. “If you don’t talk to me, then this goes to my father. Remember?”
“This is blackmail,” she says.
I smile. “Clock’s ticking, Vi.”
“You’re a controlling ass,” she murmurs, already heading back to her apartment.
I don’t bother refuting that. Therapists have told me I have a controlling nature. It has to do with my parents. My father’s blasé child-rearing, my mother’s abandonment. Dad only cared about success, prestige, money. Power . He raised me to care about those things, too, and only those things.
The therapist said I tried to control people through manipulation to regain power over my environment.
Whatever.
Fifteen minutes later, Violet reemerges from her apartment and climbs into my passenger seat. She adjusts the long charcoal-gray skirt and sweater decorated with oversized opal buttons. The color is fitting, even if she doesn’t know it yet.
She gnaws on her lower lip as I take us back to campus. Her fingers dig rhythmically into her left thigh. I keep glancing at her out of the corner of my eye.
She’s in my car.
She smells good.
I shouldn’t fucking like that she smells like flowers, that her blonde hair is brushed straight and lays over her shoulders, that her makeup is flawless.
It makes me want to fuck her mouth till mascara streams down her cheeks.
If only that was an option…
“Take a picture,” she says, not looking at me. “It’ll last longer.”
I smirk. “Why take a picture when I have a video of you? Two, actually…”
“Wow, just when I was thinking you weren’t that terrible.” Her gaze is fastened out of her window, and her fingers keep digging into her leg.
I check the clock—we have time to spare—and pull over swiftly. Annoyance surges through me, and I reach out and grab her chin. I pull her back toward me and wait for her eyes to follow. She gives them to me eventually, as the seconds tick by, and they go from my lips to my eyes. Her tongue pokes out, wetting her lips.
“Let’s get something straight,” I say slowly, my gaze fixed on her lips. It’s a real struggle not to kiss her. “I am that terrible —and worse. Remember that, sweetheart, when you go to sleep and wish for dreams. Because you’ll just get nightmares. And me? I’m the worst fucking nightmare you could imagine.”
Her eyes flash, giving me not fear but hurt. Like she has a better picture of me in her head, but I’m ruining it.
Good . It should be ruined.
I release her and pull back out onto the street.
