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

Chapter 31

Two days in this mansion feel like two weeks. Lola sleeps through most of it, the cocktail of drugs we used hitting her harder than expected. I watch her sometimes, trying to find traces of grief for her father, but there's nothing. She's as empty of feeling for Rick Kemper as I am for my mother.

Maybe that's why I can't stop wanting her. Other girls cry, break, run away when they see the darkness in me. But Lola? She matches it, carries her own shadows without apology. When I take her, rough and demanding, she gives as good as she gets. Her demons dance with mine.

The morning we get clearance to leave, I'm shoving clothes into my bag when she finally stirs. Her hair's a mess across my pillow, but her eyes are clear for the first time in days.

"Going somewhere?" Her voice still carries sleep.

"We're clear." I toss her fresh clothes. "Time to get you back to your dorm."

She sits up too quickly, eager to escape. "Really?"

Someone’s feeling better. "Yes. Get dressed."

She mumbles that she needs to use the bathroom, leaving the bedroom door cracked. I hear her soft "hey" down the hall, followed by Jack's low murmur. Something in his tone makes me move.

I find them by the bathroom, his hand wrapped around her forearm. "Let go," she whispers, but there's something in her voice I don't like. She’s trying to hide it, not realizing that I can hear her.

Jack drops her arm the moment he sees me, but too fucking late.

I stand in the doorway and snap, "Keep your hands off what's mine, Jack."

Lola's expression flickers—surprise, defiance, something else I can't read. Jack holds my stare for a heartbeat too long before retreating to his room. The intense moment of eye contact is enough to make me pissed. Everything was fucking cool downstairs, but I get the feeling that he’s never going to leave her alone.

The drive to campus stretches silent between Lola and I. My red mask is earned, my initiation is complete. I should be done with her. But something about Lola Kemper has gotten under my skin—her stubborn pride, her false innocence hiding deadly desires, the way she yields to me while never fully breaking.

I kiss her before letting her go, marking her with my tongue one last time. Watch her walk away like she isn't still mine.

The rink calls to me. I need skates on my feet, need to shoot pucks until my arms burn and my head clears. But I already know—Lola isn't someone I'm letting go of. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

The puck slams against the boards again and again. Caleb joins me without a word, Noah right behind him. We all need this—the mindless violence of drills, the burn in our muscles drowning out memories of gunfire and blood.

Jack's absence from the locker room makes my gut twist. "Where is Jack?"

"Home." Noah's face gives nothing away, but something flickers in his eyes. Even he's getting tired of Jack's feral unpredictability.

I don't shower. The need to check on Lola drives me across campus like an itch under my skin.

Kiah answers my knock with an eye roll that could kill. "It's for you," she calls over her shoulder.

Lola sits cross-legged on her narrow bed, textbooks spread around her. She's already shed my clothes for her own, hair damp from washing away the last two days. The sight of her safe and normal settles something in my chest.

"Can I help you?" Her eyebrow lifts. "Is it my––"

She starts to ask about news, but I shake my head, shutting the door behind me. The tiny dorm room feels safer than the mansion's luxury. I settle beside her on the bed, ignoring Kiah's pointed stare.

"Miss me already?" Lola's voice carries equal parts amusement and wariness.

My hand finds her thigh, tracing circles on her bare skin. She's warm, alive, here, and Jack isn’t near. I’m relieved.

She glances between me and Kiah. "Did you have practice?"

"Yeah. I'm going to nap." I lean back on her pillow.

"There's not enough room for you." But she doesn't push me away. "Go on the ground or something."

"You’ll manage."

She returns to her studying, my hand still claiming her. Eventually she moves to her cello, and the first notes of something dark and beautiful fill the room.

I watch her through half-closed eyes. She loses herself in the music, forgetting I'm here, forgetting everything that happened. The melody wraps around me like a lullaby, and sleep comes easier than it has in days.

My last thought before drifting off: Jack better stay the fuck away from what's mine.

The next few days blur into a routine—ice time to burn off rage, then checking on Lola when she least expects it. By the third day, she doesn't even startle when I appear in her doorway.

But today's different. Her face is streaked with tears and Kiah isn’t in here.

"Duchess." I keep my voice neutral. Crying girls are nothing new. She crashes into me, fingers gripping my shirt. I let her, pressing my lips to her hair.

"My mom." Her voice breaks. "She's not at the facility." Each word comes faster, panic rising. "What if she's still in a trunk somewhere, Brody? What am I going to do? Those pictures he sent—I feel like that makes me an accomplice. You told me not to go to the police and I listened because I was scared of making you angry, but now..."

"Shh." I press her face into my chest, muffling her hysteria.

She pulls back, eyes sharp despite the tears. "Did they really search the trunks like you said?"

"I don't know."

"So you lied?"

I drag her back against me. "I told them to look. Whether they did or not—I can't confirm what I didn't see. I wasn’t there, so I’m not going to tell you that they did. Understand?"

"Do I go to the police now?" She breaks away, pacing like a caged animal. "What if she's dead? He sent me those pictures, Brody. He's fucking insane! What if she’s dead in his trunk?" Her hand covers her mouth in disbelief.

"Keep it down."

"I waited too long." Fresh tears fall. "I was too fucked up from the drugs, the hangover... if she's dead because I didn't—" Her voice cracks. "I can feel it, Brody. She's in some trunk somewhere, and she didn’t make it. What the fuck am I supposed to do?"

I catch her mid-pace, trap her against my chest until her breathing steadies. "What do you want to do?"

She wipes her face on my shirt. "I need to find her."

"Let's think." My hands find her shoulders. "If she's alive, where would she go?"

Something shifts in her eyes. "Her best friend's house, probably."

"Then we go there."

"No, I can't involve—"

"Do you know who you're talking to?" I cut her off. "Get your shit."

"But I just said—"

"Trust me, Duchess." A smile tugs at my mouth. "Her friend won't even know we're there. Let's go."

Some problems need a Reaper's touch to solve.