6. Riggs
Riggs
S tumbling away from the ring, I barely register the wild cheers and shocked faces surrounding me. My chest heaves, blood dripping from my split knuckles onto the concrete floor. So much for that fucking tape job badass Barbie gave me.
I scan the crowd frantically, searching for that flash of dark hair, those haunting eyes. The warehouse doors swing shut, and something primal clicks inside me.
Mine.
I spot Johnson leaning against a support beam, raising an eyebrow at me. I give him a quick nod to let him know I'll be back. He understands immediately, returning the nod with a slight tilt of his chin. No questions asked. That's what I like about him.
I shoulder my way through the crowd, ignoring the slaps on my back, the voices calling my name. My skin feels too tight, like there's something clawing to get out. Blood trickles down my forearm, but I barely notice. All I can think about is Maren and that fucker's hands on her.
My bare chest prickles with goosebumps, sweat cooling rapidly in the night breeze. I scan the area, squinting through the dim glow of the streetlights. There’s nothing. They've vanished.
“Fuck,” I spit, tasting copper and rage.
I start moving, circling the building, my sneakers crunching on gravel and broken glass.
I round the corner to the back of the warehouse and freeze. There, in a narrow alley between the main building and another smaller one, I see them. My blood runs cold, then hot, then cold again.
Maren stands with her back against the grimy brick wall, the guy looming over her.
She's a vision in black and red—a crimson top that clings to her curves like a second skin, the color of fresh blood against her pale skin.
Her legs seem to go on forever in those black fishnets, disappearing under a short black skirt that barely covers anything worth covering.
Red heels that make her legs look like weapons, dangerous and deadly.
Her dark hair falls in messy waves around her face; even from here, I can see something in her eyes. Instead of just looking dead there is a gleam. It looks almost wild and untamed.
The guy has one hand braced against the wall beside her head, the other sliding up her thigh, pushing under that scrap of black fabric she calls a skirt. He's whispering something in her ear, his lips brushing against her skin in a way that makes my vision blur with rage.
I move before I realize what I'm doing, my boots silent on the damp pavement. Years of hockey have taught me to move quietly, efficiently, even when every cell in my body is screaming for violence.
I'm closing in, fists clenched so tight my knuckles are screaming, when something catches the dull glow of the moonlight.
Maren's hand moves in one fluid motion, like she's done this a thousand times before. There's no hesitation, no trembling—just pure, calculated violence. The knife appears from nowhere, a wicked little blade with a black handle that looks like it was made for her delicate fingers.
Before I can even process what's happening, she drives it straight into the guy's throat.
The sound is what gets me first—a wet, gurgling puncture as steel parts flesh and cartilage like it’s nothing.
Then comes the blood, pulsing out in rhythmic spurts that paint Maren's pale skin in crimson constellations.
It splashes across her top, but against the red fabric, you'd hardly notice if you weren't looking for it.
The guy's eyes go wide, his mouth working silently like a fish out of water.
His hands fly to his throat, fingers scrabbling uselessly at the wound as blood seeps between them.
He staggers backward, confusion giving way to terror as the realization hits him—he's already dead; his body just hasn't caught up yet.
Maren doesn't flinch. Doesn't even blink. She watches him with those stormy eyes, a small smile playing at the corners of her blood-flecked lips. There's something almost tender in the way she observes his death throes, like she's savoring every second of his descent into oblivion.
The guy drops to his knees, a puppet with its strings cut. Blood bubbles from his lips, dark and thick in the dim light. His hands fall away from his throat, too weak now to even try to stem the flow. He pitches forward, face-first onto the filthy pavement, and then he's still.
Just like that. One minute he's alive, pawing at Maren like he has the right, and the next he's cooling meat on dirty concrete.
I should be horrified. Should be running for the hills.
Should be doing anything but standing here with my dick getting hard in my shorts.
But all I feel is a rush of something animalistic and possessive.
My little nightmare is so much more dangerous than I ever imagined, and fuck if that doesn't make me want her even more.
Maren's eyes find mine across the alley, and there's no surprise there. She knew I was watching. Maybe she wanted me to see.
“You're bleeding,” she says, her voice soft and raspy, like she doesn't use it much.
I glance down at my knuckles, still dripping from the fight. “So are you.”
She looks down at herself, at the splatter pattern decorating her skin like abstract art. “Not my blood,” she says with a small shrug, like we're discussing the weather and not the deceased at our feet.
“We should probably get out of here,” I say, my voice rougher than I intended. My eyes dart to the body, then back to her face. She hasn't moved, just watches me with those storm-cloud eyes that see too much.
“Probably,” she agrees, but makes no move to leave. Instead, she reaches out, her bloodstained fingers hovering just above my split knuckles. “Did you win at least?”
“Always do.” The words come out automatically, cocky, like I'm not standing over a corpse with a woman who just casually committed murder.
She smiles then, a small, crooked thing that doesn't reach her eyes but still manages to punch me in the gut. “Of course you do. Lucky number thirteen, undefeated.”
I snort, ignoring the way my skin burns where her gaze lands. “Nothing lucky about me.”
“No?” She tilts her head, studying me like I'm a puzzle she can't quite figure out. “Why are you still standing here instead of running to the nearest police station?”
“Maybe I like the view.”
She laughs and steps over the body as casually as stepping over a puddle.
Her heels click softly on the pavement as she moves toward me, each step deliberate and predatory.
I should back away. Any sane person would.
Instead, I stand my ground, watching the sway of her hips, the way the blood on her skin catches the light.
“Oopsie,” she says, her voice a mocking singsong that doesn't match the coldness in her eyes. “That's twice you've seen me doing something bad.” She stops just inches from me, close enough that I can smell her.
“However will your golden boy self handle it?”
“Golden boy? You've got the wrong guy, sweetheart.”
“Do I?” She reaches up, tracing one blood-flecked finger along the line of my jaw. It leaves a sticky trail in its wake, marking me. “Captain of the hockey team. College scholarship. All those adoring fans back there.” Her eyes flick toward the warehouse. “Everyone loves Riggs Rhodes.”
“They love what I can do,” I counter, catching her wrist before she can pull away. Her pulse flutters under my thumb like a trapped bird. “Not who I am.”
“And who are you, Riggs?” Maren's voice drops to a whisper, her breath warm against my skin. “Because the boy I met at freshman orientation wouldn't be standing in an alley with a killer.”
Her words hit me like a sucker punch. I tighten my grip on her wrist, feeling the delicate bones beneath my fingers. I could snap them if I wanted to. She could probably slit my throat before I even tried.
“You look like you want to kiss me,” she says, her voice dropping to a husky whisper.
Her free hand comes up to rest against my bare chest, right over my hammering heart.
Her fingertips leave little blood prints on my skin, marking me as hers.
“Do you want to kiss me, Riggs? Do you want to taste death?”
The way she says my name—like she's tasting it, savoring it—sends a shiver down my spine. I'm acutely aware of the cooling body just feet away, of the knife she's somehow made disappear, of the blood drying on both our skins. I should be disgusted. Terrified. Instead, I'm fucking mesmerized.
“Yes,” I say simply, because what's the point in lying? She can probably read it all over my face anyway.
Her laugh is soft and dangerous. “Even knowing what I am? What I've done?”
“Especially knowing what you are.” The words come out before I can stop them, raw and honest in a way I rarely allow myself to be. “You've been haunting me.”
Maren's eyes darken, pupils dilating until there's just a thin ring of gray surrounding them. She leans in closer, her body pressing against mine in all the right places. It makes my head swim.
“Obsession is dangerous,” she warns, but there's something like hunger in her voice. “I break things, Riggs. People. Lives. Mine included.”
“I break things too,” I say, my voice dropping to match hers. “Just usually on the ice.”
There's a flash of interest in her eyes.
“Hockey's a controlled violence,” she counters, tilting her head. Her dark hair falls across one eye, a curtain hiding half her expression. “Rules. Referees. Penalties.”
“You think I play by the rules?” I lean closer, close enough that our breaths mingle in the cold night air. “There's nothing controlled about what I do out there. Ask the guys I've put in the hospital.”
She makes a noise of acceptance, but the next words out of her mouth pull me right into her orbit once again.
“Well?” she whispers, her fingers dancing along my skin. “Are you going to kiss me or not?”