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

Chapter 34

Everyone has a breaking point. Mine came somewhere between my father bleeding out on a concrete floor and my mother pretending I don't exist. I chose to jump off that ledge myself, using the cruelest weapon I had—the truth about Jack.

At least with Brody, the destruction was my choice. I made myself unlovable before he could decide I wasn't worth it. Like mother, like daughter—we poison everything we touch. Now he'll stay away, and I can pretend that's what I wanted all along.

Something catches my eye as I sit up. White blobs on my sheets, still slightly damp. My stomach turns as realization hits—someone came into my room while I slept. Someone marked their territory like a fucking animal. I smell it. Yeah, that’s fucking semen.

Brody or Jack.

Please be Brody. The thought comes unbidden. Even after everything, I'd choose him over Jack's unhinged darkness. But after what I told him last night... my gut twists. This has Jack written all over it.

I rip the sheets off my bed, hands shaking. I need to get these washed before Kiah wakes up, before I have to explain why I'm terrified of my own bedroom.

"Breakfast?" Kiah mumbles from her bed. "Remy and Tara are meeting at the dining hall."

Normal. I can do normal. "Yeah, give me fifteen."

The dining hall buzzes with fall break morning life—students nursing hangovers with greasy eggs, complaining about midterms, planning parties. It’s a little empty, the only ones here are the ones with nowhere else to go. At least we all have that in common.

"I’m dying with all these assignments I have to catch up on," Remy complains, drowning her pancakes in syrup.

"The winter showcase is coming up," Tara adds. "You playing, Lola?"

I push eggs around my plate. Music feels distant now, like it belonged to a different version of me. But maybe that's what I need—to be that girl again. The one whose biggest worry was playing my cello and proper posture.

"Yeah," I hear myself say. "I'm playing."

Kiah shoots me a look but doesn't comment. She's the only one who knows how far I've fallen, how hard I'm trying to climb back up.

Normal. I can pretend to be normal. I smile, even with Jack's threat hanging over me, even with Brody's absence aching like a wound.

I just have to keep pretending until this is all behind me. Hopefully all of this is behind me now, left in the past.

The second half of fall break becomes my sanctuary. It’s been nothing but my cello and empty practice rooms, where I can pretend the world outside doesn't exist. Every morning, I wake before Kiah, slip out while she's still sleeping, and claim the practice room in the music building. The acoustics aren't great, but the solitude is worth it.

Here, surrounded by concrete walls and fluorescent lights, I can pour everything into music. The betrayal of my mother's indifference becomes a minor key progression. The memory of my father bleeding out transforms into sharp, staccato notes that echo my racing heart. Brody's absence—and what I did to ensure it—weaves through every piece like a shadow.

My fingers are raw from practicing, but I can't stop. As long as I'm playing, I don't have to think about Jack, about whether he'll appear in another bathroom, another dark corner. The music drowns out my fear that I’ll never be loved. Each new composition feels like armor I'm building note by note.

Kiah tries to drag me out—parties, study groups, anything to make me act "normal." But normal feels like a foreign language now. I tried it for the day with Remy and Tara, but that act didn’t last very long. How do you small talk with people who've never watched their father die? Who've never been strapped to a chair by someone they're falling for? Who've never had to wonder if their mother's alive or dead in some trunk?

So, I stay in my practice rooms, letting my cello say everything I can't. By the end of the break, I have three new pieces finished. They're darker than anything I've written before—Professor Schweig will probably hate them. But they're honest in a way I can't be with anyone else.

The morning classes resume, I haul my cello across campus. The weight feels right, grounding. Students stream past in their post-break haze, complaining about assignments and sharing party stories. Their normalcy feels like it belongs to another planet.

Amanda's voice cuts through my thoughts as she bursts into the classroom. "Girl, that party was insane!" She wraps me in a hug that smells like expensive perfume and privilege. "I tried texting you all break!"

The party. My stomach turns as fragments surface—the garden maze, Brody's torture chamber, my father's blood on concrete floors. How much does Amanda know?

"Sorry," I manage as I settle into my seat. "I totally forgot you texted. Yeah, the party was wild, wasn’t it? I barely remember that night."

"You were so wasted." Her perfect hair swishes as she sits too close, cheeks flushing pink. "But oh my God, Caleb..."

"Wait, really?" The pieces click together like discordant notes. "That’s where you disappeared to?" Her disappearing with Caleb wasn't some romantic moment—it was planned. They needed me alone. See, this is more proof that they’re a bunch of assholes.

"If you’re surprised then I’m assuming he didn’t ask a thing about me."

I sort of shrug, trying to get out from answering. But she doesn’t care as she leans her head on my shoulder with a smile. Then she pops up noticing my cello.

"Are you playing for us?" she asks.

I nod just as Professor Schweig walks in. "Welcome back, everyone." His eyes land on my cello. "Hope you all had a nice break. I know I did. Lola? Do you want to play something for us before we get the class started. Come on down, let's hear what you've been working on."

This isn’t like the beginning of the school year. I’m no longer intimidated, especially since I enjoy the mean girls company now.

I take my place at the front, adjusting my bow grip. The piece starts soft—a lament for the girl I was before that night, before I learned what kind of monster my father really was. Before I knew the truth of why I even exist in the world, and why I’ll never be truly loved. The melody builds, carrying all my fear about Jack, all my confusion about Brody, all my anger at my mother's indifference.

But who could blame her? Can you imagine having a child you don’t want because I know I can’t. I know she’ll only love me in the way that she knows how to, but my entire life makes sense now. I’ve only ever been a burden to her, and now that I’m grown, I’m no longer her problem.

I close my eyes, enjoying the sweet darkness of strings I’m playing.

Then the practice room door opens.

My fingers stumble on the strings as Brody walks in like he owns the place. Like I didn't tell him I fucked his brother Reaper. Like he hasn't stayed away for days, leaving me terrified that Jack would come instead.

"Don't stop." His voice carries that familiar command that makes something in my chest ache. He slides into my empty seat beside Amanda, eyes locked on me with an intensity that burns.

I force myself back into the music just to not raise suspicion, but my hands shake. Why is he here? Did he talk to Jack? The relief of seeing him instead of Jack wars with terror of what comes next. After what I said, he should hate me. Should want me dead. Instead, he's watching me like I'm still his to watch.

The music changes with him in the room, turning darker, hungrier. Each note carries the weight of what I told him that night, of the way his fist hit the wall beside my head. My bow drags across strings with too much force, making the cello growl beneath my hands.

Professor Schweig leans forward in his chair, intrigued by this new sound. He doesn't understand that this isn't art anymore—it's a confession, it's a plea, it's the sound of falling apart while trying to look whole.

Brody's presence fills the room like smoke. Even with my eyes closed, I feel him watching. The intensity of his gaze makes my skin prickle, makes my fingers stumble over notes I've practiced a dozen times. Part of me wants to stop playing, to run. But another part needs him to hear this—to understand what this past week has done to me.

The piece builds to its crescendo, all my fear and want pouring into the music. Fear of Jack appearing in another dark corner. Want for the monster who should terrify me more. The final note hangs in the air like a question I'm afraid to ask.

"Passionate." Professor Schweig's voice breaks the spell. "Different from your usual style, Lola. But so good."

When he starts clapping, the rest of the class follows.

Amanda practically bounces in her seat. "That was amazing!"

And Brody is clapping for me too.

What a change of events.

My focus narrows to the walk back to my seat, to Brody's long legs stretched into the aisle, to the way I'll have to brush past him to sit down. My hands shake as I put my bow away, trying to buy time.

His knee touches mine as I slide past him. The contact feels deliberate, possessive. I sink into my chair, hyper-aware of his heat beside me, of Amanda watching us both with too much interest.

"Beautiful." His voice is low. "Write it thinking of me?"

My throat closes around any response. Because yes, his torture was enough to send me mad, but the ripple effects of what he has done to my life is unbearable. Every dark melody carried his name. But I can't admit that, can't let him know how deep under my skin he lives.

"Now," Professor Schweig calls out, "who's next?"

Some girl takes the piano, but her notes blur into background noise. All I can focus on is Brody's presence beside me, the way his arm brushes mine when he shifts. He shouldn't be here. Doesn’t he have something better to do?

But as I stare forward, my body is aching for his touch. Now my heart’s racing at the thought. Am I glad that he’s here? I think so. Because every day without him has been filled with shadows, with wondering if Jack would come to get revenge on me. Brody might be a monster, but he's the monster I chose. The one who tortured me but still feels safer than the alternative.

His fingers drum against the desk, a rhythm that matches my racing heart. I want to ask why he's here, what this means. Want to know if he talked to Jack and if Jack denied it. I want to understand why he's still looking at me like I belong to him when I did everything possible to make him hate me.

But I stay silent, letting the piano wash over us both.

Every step to my dorm feels like walking toward execution. Brody's silence behind me carries weight, promise, threat. My hand shakes against the door knob—stupid tell of weakness I can't hide. The cello case bumps against my leg as I set it down, my last shield between us gone.

His presence fills my tiny room, making it hard to breathe. The hole he punched in my wall that night stares back at me, reminder of what happens when I push too far. Why is he here? After what I did with Jack, he should want me dead, not... whatever this is.

When I turn, he's close enough that I catch every detail—the faint stubble along his jaw, a bruise fading near his temple, pupils blown wide as they search my face. His breath carries mint. Everything about him feels too intense, too real after days of imagining worse scenarios.

His hands cup my face, and my heart nearly stops. This is it—punishment for what I did, for trying to make him hate me. I squeeze my eyes shut, bracing for pain. Instead, his lips brush mine, gentle in a way Brody has never been. The kiss feels like a question I'm afraid to answer.

I stay frozen, waiting for the trap to spring. This has to be another game, another way to break me. But seconds pass and his touch stays soft, reverent almost. When I finally let myself kiss back, his whole body seems to relax, like he was holding his breath too.

His hands explore my body with none of his usual violence. This isn't the man who tortured me in that chamber, who marked me as property in front of his brothers. This is something else—something that terrifies me more than his cruelty ever did.

"Duchess." The word vibrates against my lips as his hands find my ass, pulling me closer.

Fear and need war in my chest. I break away, searching his face. "Brody, what is this?"

"Shh." He tries to reclaim my mouth, but I need answers more than I need his touch.

"I'm serious." My voice shakes despite my attempt at strength.

A smile plays at his mouth—that dangerous curve that usually means trouble. "Let's play a game. Ask your questions, but each answer means you take off a piece of clothing."

My breath catches. "Why do you want that?"

"Because you're mine." Simple. Possessive. The same claim he's always made.

"But—"

"Ah." His fingers find my shirt hem. "One answer, one piece."

"That's barely an answer." But I don't fight as he pulls my shirt over my head. Cool air hits my skin, making me shiver.

"Next question." His eyes devour newly exposed flesh, and something hot coils in my belly.

I force myself to ask what I need to know. "Why do you still want me? Shouldn't you hate me?"

"I just want you." His gaze burns paths across my skin. "Nothing changes that."

"Nothing? I did the worst thing possible, did I not? This isn't some twisted game?" The words come out small, vulnerable.

"You did, and it’s not. That was two questions." His hands strip away my bra and pants with practiced ease, leaving me nearly naked and trembling. Not from cold.

I try to cover myself, old instinct taking over, but he catches my wrists. This feels too exposed, too honest. "My turn," he says. "Do you want me to leave?"

The question hits harder than any physical touch. "I just want to understand why you're here."

"For you, Duchess." Like it's that simple. Like I haven't spent days terrified of what he'd do after the reality of what I’ve done sank in.

"You should hate me! Why don’t you hate me?" All my confusion, my guilt, my fear pours into the words.

He strips off my underwear—last piece of armor gone. "You're losing this game fast, Duchess."

"You didn’t answer."

"I don’t hate you."

Standing naked while he remains fully clothed should feel degrading. Instead, it feels like penance. "You can't want me after what I did." My voice breaks. "Do you even believe what I told you about Jack? You know that I was telling the truth, right? It wasn’t something I made up."

"I believe you did what trapped animals do." He sits on my bed, eyes never leaving my naked form. "Lashed out at the nearest threat."

Something in my chest cracks. He sees through me so easily, understands the desperate fear that made me try to push him away. After my mother's rejection, after watching my father die, after everything—I couldn't bear to wait for Brody to decide I wasn't worth keeping.

"Why did I do it then?" My voice comes out challenging despite my vulnerability. "Since you know so much?"

His eyes travel my body, but there's something different in his gaze now. Not just hunger—understanding. "Because your mother proved you were never wanted. So why would I want you for anything but fucking?"

The truth of it hits like a physical blow. Every abandonment, every rejection, every person who's proven I'm not enough—they all led to this moment. To me trying to destroy whatever this is before Brody could.

"Is that all this is?" I gesture to my naked body, to the space between us. "Just fucking?"

He laughs, but it's not his usual cruel sound. "Maybe I'm fucked up. Maybe this is the only way I know to show I care."

"What?" The word comes out breathless. Because this can't be real—Brody Black doesn't care.

"Sex is the deepest human connection, isn't it?" His voice drops lower, intimate. "The most honest?"

I want to believe him, but fear holds me back. "Aren't you a puck boy, Brody?" The words taste bitter. "You would take any girl."

"I care whose skin I'm under." Something dark and possessive enters his tone. "I care that you're not in my lap right now, apologizing with that pretty mouth."

Heat floods my body despite my uncertainty. Because he's right—this is how we communicate best. Through touch and taste and claiming. Words just get in the way, become weapons we use against each other.

I take a step toward him, then another. His hands find my hips as soon as I'm in reach, pulling me between his spread legs. The fabric of his jeans scratches my bare thighs, reminder of how exposed I am while he remains clothed.

"I'm sorry." The words come easier than expected. "For what I did."

His fingers dig into my skin. "I know why you did it."

"I was scared." Another truth I didn't mean to voice.

"Scared?" His thumb traces circles on my hip.

Everything about Brody terrifies me—his violence, his gentleness, the way he sees straight through my defenses. But most of all, I'm terrified by how much I crave him anyway.

Instead of answering, I lean down to kiss him. He lets me set the pace, keeps his hands still on my hips while I explore his mouth. It feels different than before—less like a claiming, more like a conversation.

When I pull back, his eyes have darkened. "Still want me to leave, Duchess?"

"No." The admission costs something, but I'm tired of this game. "Stay."

His smile turns predatory. "Good."

The praise shouldn't affect me the way it does. I shouldn't want this man who tortured me, who used me as bait, who understands my darkness better than anyone. But I do.

He pulls back and whispers, "Don't you fucking dare do that to me again because I will murder someone, and it might just be you."

"Brody Black," I whisper, tasting the violence in his name, savoring it like blood on my tongue. His threat wraps around me like a collar—perfect, crushing, ours. I drag my lips across his. "My heart is yours too," I murmur sarcastically.

He takes off his pants, and the predatory gleam in his eyes makes my breath catch. This is what we are—violence and tenderness wrapped in a dance of possession. His hands find my hips, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise, marking me as his. The pain blooms like music through my body, a crescendo building with every touch.

My nails rake down his back, drawing blood, drawing a hiss from his lips that turns into a savage smile. This is our language—blood and bruises, pleasure and pain. He pushes me back against the wall, and I feel the cold concrete against my skin, a stark contrast to the heat of his body.

The world narrows to sensation—his hands, his mouth, the weight of him against me. The last coherent thought I have, before everything goes black, is that this is what falling feels like, this terrible, beautiful surrender to the darkness we share.