Don’t You Pucking Dare (The Blackridge Reapers #2)

Chapter 12

The black shirt still carries her scent— strawberry and rosin from her precious cello. I fold it carefully, almost reverently, before sliding it into the manila envelope. Next come the photos: Lola walking to class, practicing in the window, laughing with Kiah. Moments stolen through my lens. Finally, the strands of hair from her brush, collected like evidence of a crime not yet committed.

Rick Kemper needs to understand the message without a single word being written. Someone's gotten close enough to touch his daughter's things. Close enough to take pieces of her.

"Noah." I hold up the envelope, heavy with threat and promise. "Need one of your guys for a special delivery. First phase is ready."

He takes the envelope, weighing it like he's measuring my commitment. "My people are discrete. Consider it handled."

"I'll send you Kemper's schedule." My phone's already loaded with his movements, tracked as carefully as his daughter's. "Every detail's mapped out."

"Both of them?" Noah's eyebrows rise. "You're running surveillance on father and daughter simultaneously?"

"The only way to break him is to know everything." The words taste like victory. "Every weakness. Every routine. Every chance to strike."

Noah grips my shoulders, pride and warning in his grip. "Finish the second phase, and you'll be one of us." His smile carries an edge sharp enough to draw blood. "Don't fuck it up."

I won't. The envelope may carry pieces of Lola, but soon I'll own every part of her.

The look on Rick Kemper's face when he opens the envelope is worth every second I spent stalking his daughter. I watch from the shadows as one of his lackeys delivers my little gift. The great Rick Kemper, hands shaking as he lifts a lock of chestnut hair from the envelope.

The photos fall into his lap. All those precious moments he never bothered to witness himself. When he glances around, I sidestep into the alley and disappear.

"How'd daddy dearest take it?" Caleb asks, sprawled on the leather couch while I sharpen my knife. Jack's in the corner, methodically cleaning his newest toy.

"Couldn't even tell if it was her hair at first." The blade catches light as I test its edge. "Probably doesn't know what color it is. He probably doesn’t know what she wears. What she smells like. I wouldn’t be surprised if he had no idea what she looked like. He hasn’t been in her life."

"Fucking pathetic." Caleb's voice carries that edge it gets before someone bleeds. "You sure hitting the daughter will work?"

"You should've seen his face," I smirk, remembering how the mighty Rick Kemper turned to his grunt for advice. "The great man, reduced to asking his dog what to do."

The words from her father's letter echo in my head— all that cold dismissal, that casual cruelty. He's a monster, sure. But watching Lola read that letter over and over, seeing how she treasures even his rejection...

Something twists in my chest. Something that feels dangerously close to sympathy.

I press the blade harder against the stone. Sympathy isn't part of the plan.

Jack looks up. "Get back in that dorm and get more dirt."

I nod in agreement. She is my entry to the Reapers, and the process has finally begun.

The ice welcomes me like an old friend. My skates carve clean lines as I strip the puck from some B-team kid who never saw me coming. This is like coming home. Where everything makes sense.

Just like Lola with her cello. The thought hits without permission, and I channel it into aggression, into the perfect shot setup. The goalie's eyes widen as I load up. He knows what's coming— they all do— but knowing doesn't help. The puck sails top shelf where mama keeps the cookies.

"That's how it's done!" Coach's approval echoes across the rink. "Everyone take notes. Friday's game needs to be perfect, but Black?"

I nod at him, letting him know he has my full attention. I’m ready to hear that he’s changing my position.

"You’re still at the pucking net. Is that understood?"

Shit. "Yes, Coach."

Thatcher chuckles, so I slam my shoulder into his.

The shower's heat works out the tension, but my mind drifts to Lola again. To her fingers on strings, to how she trembled in the garden. I need to focus. This isn't about desire— it's about destruction.

Night wraps around me as I stash my gear and head for her dorm. The building's quiet, most students either studying or partying. Jack's keeping Kiah occupied— he's good at that, even if she's already in deeper than she should be.

I lay out a Blackridge Ravens hockey shirt on her bed and then search for a pen. I scrawl Friday's game time in her notebook, no signature needed. Let her wonder. Let her come to the game with no idea which one I am.

Her cello stands in the corner, and I can't resist running a finger along the strings. The soft vibration takes me back to that twilight performance when she played like her soul was bleeding through the bow. I’m not leaving her journal here. She’ll have to come to Friday’s game for it.

Footsteps sound around the corner right as soon as I'm out the door and melting into shadows. Lola appears, and she passes close enough that I catch the scent of her strawberry shampoo.

Soon, Duchess. Soon you'll know exactly who I am.