15. Maren
Maren
I 've been watching him sleep for the better part of an hour, switching between his unconscious face and whatever mindless show marathon is playing on TV.
The blue light flickers across his features, highlighting then shadowing the curve of his cheekbone, the slope of his nose.
I'm fascinated by the tiny movements of his eyes beneath their lids.
What the fuck does Riggs Rhodes dream about?
He shifted once, about twenty minutes ago, his body sliding deeper into the couch cushions, his hand tightening briefly around my ankle before going slack again.
I should move my legs. Should get up and do literally anything else.
But there's something weirdly comforting about the weight of his hands on my skin, even in sleep.
The commercial break ends, and the show returns with dramatic music and the flash of police lights. I've lost track of the plot entirely. Something about a serial killer who leaves origami at his crime scenes.
I reach for the remote to change the channel, and that's when Riggs' phone lights up on the coffee table. The screen casts a white glow, illuminating the half-empty beer bottle beside it.
I shouldn't look. It's none of my business who texts him at—I glance at the clock—twelve-thirty-seven in the morning.
But I've never been good at respecting boundaries. Especially not when they're lying passed out on my couch, making little huffing sounds with each exhale.
Kayla
Hey, you never got back to me earlier. Still want help relaxing after your game? Martinez said he'd let me into your room. I could be waiting when you get there
Something hot and ugly twists in my stomach. I read the message again, my eyes catching on “waiting when you get there.” Like she's done this before. Ew, is this their routine?
Of course, it is. Of course, Riggs has girls waiting in his bed after games. He's a fucking hockey star.
I blink at the screen, my vision suddenly tinted red. The words blur, but I've already committed them to memory. Help relaxing. That's what she's calling it?
The heat crawling up my neck isn't logical. It's not like Riggs and I are…anything. He takes up space on my couch. Brings me food. Touches me in ways that make my skin feel too tight for my body. But we're not exclusive. We're not even friends with benefits. We're nothing.
So why does my hand shake as I set his phone back down?
I try to pull my legs away from his grip, but even in sleep, his fingers tighten reflexively around my ankle. Like he's claiming me. Like he has the right.
The possessiveness of that unconscious gesture only fuels whatever this toxic feeling is that's bubbling up inside me. I don't get jealous. I don't care enough about people to feel jealous. Jealousy requires investment, and I don't invest in people.
“So what?” I argue with myself, keeping my voice low. “It's not like you want him that way.”
But the lie tastes bitter on my tongue. I've watched his hands, imagined them places they haven't been before. I've cataloged the scars on his knuckles, the veins that stand out when he grips something tightly. I've noticed the way his pupils dilate when I stretch.
I shake his hand off my ankles, harder this time. He stirs, mumbling something unintelligible, but doesn't wake up.
Standing up, I ignore the cold that rushes to fill the space where his heat had been. My feet make no sound as I walk to the kitchen, but inside my head, it's fucking deafening. The thoughts won't stop coming, one after another, like water rushing through a broken dam.
I grip the edge of the counter, staring at nothing. Kayla is probably some perky sorority girl with highlighted hair and a collection of team jerseys. The type who bakes cookies for the hockey house and pretends to understand offside rules. The type who's safe.
The counter is cold beneath my palms. I spread my fingers wide, watching the tendons shift beneath my skin. These hands have done terrible things. Beautiful, terrible things.
Riggs knows it too. That's what makes this whole situation so fucked up. He's seen the darkness in me—tasted it, even—and yet here he is, passed out on my couch like this is normal. Like I'm normal.
I open the fridge, though I'm not hungry. The air hits my face, and I stare at the half-empty shelves, at Riggs' protein drink lined up like a perfect little soldier next to my chaotic collection of takeout containers and energy drinks. Even our food doesn't belong together.
Behind me, Riggs shifts on the couch, muttering something in his sleep. The sound of his voice, even unconscious, sends a ripple down my spine that I refuse to acknowledge.
It wasn’t always like this. Weeks ago I licked his blood off my fingers and watched his pupils blow wide with something that wasn't fear; he couldn't keep his hands off me. Couldn't stop looking at my mouth when I talked.
The way he kissed me in the alley, kneeling between my legs as if I’m a god and his job was to worship me, to when I tugged him into the hall after class and marked his mouth with my own. Now, all he does is touch my fucking ankles and calves. His touch is gentle instead of desperate.
He kissed me like he was drowning and I was air.
Maybe that's the problem. Maybe he realized I'm not air at all. I'm more like carbon monoxide—odorless, invisible, deadly. Getting too close to me is a slow suicide.
Walking back toward the couch, I study him from a distance. In sleep, his features are relaxed, the constant tension of awareness gone. He looks younger. Softer. Vulnerable.
I don't remember moving. One moment I'm standing between my kitchen and living room, the next I'm hovering over Riggs like some fucked-up angel or bloody fucking Mary, as they call me.
My knees slide along the couch cushions, one on either side of his thighs.
The weight of my body settling onto his lap doesn't wake him—he's out cold, running on fumes after the game.
“Riggs,” I whisper, not really wanting a response.
He doesn't stir. His chest rises and falls beneath me, steady and strong. I can feel the heat of him through the thin fabric of my sweatpants, through his. The intimacy of the position should bother me. It doesn't; it never does and I’m not trying to unpack that shit right now.
My gaze drifts to the coffee table where my switchblade rests beside a stack of psychology textbooks. I always keep it within reach—not hidden, because why bother? Every girl should have a weapon handy at any given moment. It's always warranted in a world full of men who think they own you.
The knife is nothing special, except Uncle Matteo gave it to me when I was thirteen before he disappeared for a while.
Three-inch blade, black handle worn smooth from years of my grip.
But there's something beautiful about it.
I reach for it without thinking, my fingers closing around the familiar weight.
The blade snaps open with a soft click that sounds impossibly loud in the apartment.
I hold it up, turning it this way and that, watching how the light plays across the surface.
Beneath me, Riggs sleeps on, oblivious to the predator straddling his lap.
I press the flat of the blade against my palm, feeling its coolness against my skin. Then, slowly, I lower it until the tip hovers above the exposed column of his throat. His pulse beats there, strong and steady, each throb pushing his skin minutely closer to my blade.
One quick slice. That's all it would take.
His eyes would fly open, confusion giving way to understanding.
He'd try to speak, but there'd only be the wet gurgle of blood.
I'd watch the light fade from those hazel eyes, watch as they dulled from bright to glassy.
Blood would bloom across his hockey team shirt, turning the gray fabric black in the dim light.
I press the tip against his skin, just enough to create a tiny dimple without breaking through.
“What would you do?” I whisper, “if you woke up right now?”
As if in answer, Riggs shifts beneath me, his head tilting slightly to the side. The movement exposes more of his neck to my blade. Trusting, even in sleep. Fucking idiot.
My weight shifts as his body tenses beneath me, consciousness seeping back into him one cell at a time. His hands find my waist in the dark, fingers digging into my hips like he's done this a thousand times before, in a thousand different dreams.
“Maren,” he murmurs, voice thick with sleep and something darker. My name in his mouth sounds like a prayer and a curse wrapped into one. His hips roll up, a slow, deliberate grind that sends heat spiraling through my core.
My breath catches. The blade trembles against his skin.
His arousal is obvious now, hardening beneath me, pressing against the thin fabric between us.
I should move. Should lift the knife away.
Should do anything but what I'm doing, which is pressing my weight down to meet his upward thrust, chasing that friction like I'm the one who's been asleep all this time and just now waking up.
“Fuck,” he groans, fingers tightening on my hips. His thumbs find the strip of exposed skin where my t-shirt has ridden up, drawing small circles that burn like brands. “Maren.”
His eyes are still closed, but I can tell he's no longer sleeping.
His breathing has changed, becoming more ragged.
He's awake enough to know what's happening, awake enough to want it.
The realization sends a thrill through me that has nothing to do with the knife in my hand and everything to do with the heat pooling between my legs.
I shift my weight, grinding down against him, and his fingers flex against my skin. “Jesus,” he hisses, the muscles in his throat working beneath the blade's tip.
“Who the fuck is Kayla?” I whisper; the words slip out before I can stop them. “And why are you here when she's waiting for you?”