Chapter Nine
She sees me.
A prize to claim regardless of the party continuing around me. I could honestly give two shits about the hot and rowdy people dancing on the floor. If that’s even what you would call it. It was more like a bunch of middle school kids dry humping each other. Fucking useless, all of them.
But yet… through all the bullshit—she’s there.
A fixture amongst the chaos that stands out as if she has her own spotlight.
Even if she doesn’t seem to notice it.
I can’t help but be intrigued by her. Hell, I’ve been watching her for a while now. Caught my eye back when I saw her downing a shot, exposing her pretty throat. Waiting to see how long it would take for her to notice me. To notice that she was prey amongst the sea of animals that surrounded her.
The alarm on her face doesn’t perturb me. I take my time staring her down, measuring her delicate curves and the soft lines of her face.
There’s something in the way she moves that excites me. Usually I don’t bat an eyelash at most girls, but with her, there’s something different. She’s dancing, but not like the rest of them. An understated grace carries her from one step to the next. Practiced. She’s in good shape—arms long and lean, on full display thanks to a halter top fitted over firm, compact breasts. Waves of deep golden hair, a strange contrast to her olive skin, cascade to a waist small enough to cup between my hands. I could break her. I should break her for the fact that she’s still looking at me.
People lower their eyes around me. They don’t stare.
She has no right to meet my gaze.
Just as she has no right to stir my cock against my jeans, tight and throbbing. I’m not easily moved—girls don’t make me feel this desperate until they’re stripped naked and on their knees, obedient, ready to swallow me whole.
“Dixon,” I say out of the corner of my mouth. “Who is that?”
Shane Dixon, nefarious cokehead and resident know-it-all of Gamma Omega Delta, looks up from where he’s been arranging a line of powder on the pool table beside me. He’s buzzed his hair for the year, which keeps taking me by surprise—without the distraction of a messy black mullet, his gangly build and often unblinking eyes are enough to make him look like someone to be afraid of. He’s not; at least not to me. I don’t get frightened—especially not by the men under my command.
“Girl in green? Harper Quinn. White trash at its finest, no matter how much makeup she slaps on.” He returns to his line of coke, his credit card shaping the edges with an almost artistic precision. He’s not done yet, and I know there’s no point in interrupting—once Dixon gets going, nothing short of a bullet can shut him up. “From what I know, her mom married lucky. She’s poor to the bone, even if her new daddy is paying for Crimson Elite. Some things you can’t change. Birthright being one of ’em. Not that you need me to tell you that, big guy.”
“Thrilling. But I didn’t mean her. The other one, in the brown top.”
He squints for a second. She’s not looking in our direction anymore, but she’s still captivating in profile: eyes closed, chin tilted up to expose the smooth curve of her throat. Her arms, curved high above her head, ripple in the low light. The other girls are showing off, but she doesn’t have to. Effortless, lustrous perfection.
“Brown top… oh, that little thing? Dunno. Think her name’s Morgan something.”
I wait for more, and am rewarded only with the inelegant sound of him snorting up his line.
“That’s it?”
“Probably another rich little snob who came here ’cause she wanted bragging rights.” He chuckles. “She’s pretty fuckin’ fine, though, isn’t she? I bet I could give her a time worth remembering?—”
A growl stirs my throat. Causing his lips to part and eyes to widen in surprise.
“If you wanted her, all you had to do was say.”
“I shouldn’t have to say anything.” I snarl, my eyes staring daggers at him as he raises his hands up slightly as if to say he isn’t stopping me. Not that he could. He knows damn well I’d beat him within an inch of his pathetic fucking life.
“I could look into her for you,” he adds quickly, a slight shake to his voice as he clears his throat. “It might be worth it to get a better look at her first, though. See if she’s still as pretty up close as she is from here. A lot of them aren’t.”
His last sentence falls into the relative silence between songs.
As the bass starts up again, my heart pumps away alongside it, hot blood coursing through my body. Fucking hell, I’m half-hard just looking at her. I?—
“See anything you like?” a velvety voice croons in my ear.
I grimace and pull away, but the girl who approached me is already trailing her fingers along my thigh, trying to slink her way on top of my lap, disrupting my view of the dancing girl. I elbow her aside, not bothering to be gentle, and get to my feet.
“Oh, come on, don’t you want to?—”
“Don’t fucking touch me.” I scowl at her, barely bothering to take in her looks. Over done makeup and underdressed—maybe she thinks that triple D cups are enough to compel me, but she’s pathetically mistaken. Must be either a freshman or blackout drunk—or both—if she dares to approach me uninvited. I could put her in her place—but she’s lucky.
I have other concerns right now.
I leave Dixon to his coke and make for the periphery of the lounge, catching sight once more of the blonde girl. Her dancing is bolder than ever; she bends back far enough for her shirt to hike up, exposing a stretch of sweat-beaded skin above her waistline. Fuck. I need to get closer.
People murmur as I walk by, their eyes unwilling to meet my gaze as they shuffle out of my way, parting like the red sea. Everyone at this piece of shit school knows who I am. They know I’m the one in charge, that I’m the fucking king. And what I say goes.
Because if they defy me… it will be the last thing they ever do.
However, as the beat picks up once again it’s like the people around me seem to forget their place. A few of them obscure my view of her causing disproportionate irritation to coil within my stomach.
I don’t know what this is—I don’t allow girls to get under my skin. This sudden pull is a new feeling, and I’m not sure if I like it.
There she is. Off to the side now, cradling a red Solo cup in both hands, chatting with the girl that Dixon called white trash. She’s calm, but not quite at ease. I can tell from the way she plays with her hair, twirling it around a fingertip, tucking it behind her ear. I don’t think she even realizes that she’s doing it.
I want her to look at me.
Go on. I know you can feel me staring. Show me those eyes again.
“Hey, Ryker!”
Vodka-slurred or not, I’d know that voice anywhere.
“Who the fuck said you could address me?” I drag my eyes away from the girl and force them towards the much less pleasant sight of Marissa Alexander, who has all too obviously been taking advantage of the party’s refreshments. Her cheeks glow pink, framed by a wealth of blonde curls that, a couple of hours ago, may have been immaculate. Now, they’re a disaster.
“You’re no fun.” She prods at my shoulder. “Come on. For old time’s sake?”
“I have no interest in entertaining trash.” I dart a glance back towards the other girl. She’s gone again. Shit.
She pouts. Marissa’s always been skilled at pouting. More so than she is at most things. “Come on, Ryker. I know you think I’m a slut. So why don’t you treat me like one?” She leans in a bit closer, teetering slightly. “I’d let you.”
Disgusting.
“I’ll pass.” She’s more messed up than I realized. A few hookups when bored and now the damn girl won’t leave me the fuck alone.
“You’re so boring. Let me suck you off, at least. You know I’m good at it.”
She’s not. And I don’t want puke on my cock any more than I want it on my clothes.
“Drink some water. Take a walk. Or go embarrass yourself with someone else. That’s another thing you’re good at.”
“No, you—you listen to me,” she says, snatching at my wrist.
Big mistake. My instincts spring to life, and I catch myself before I strike out at her—barely. She’s not trying to hurt me. She’s drunk, and maybe a little heartbroken. Far from a threat. Keep it together, Ryker.
“You’re pathetic. You shouldn’t even be here.” I don’t want to look her in the eye, but I do anyway; it’s the only way I can get her to pay attention to my words. She’s not crying. Not yet. That doesn’t do much to make me feel better.
“I’m a goddamn VP. I can be wherever I fucking want.”
“Go fuck yourself, Mar.”
“Don’t call me that… you’re not fair.”
She wilts, swaying towards me. I grasp her shoulders and hold her at arm’s length.
“Ryker,” she murmurs again.
The sound of my name in her voice repulses me. She has no reason to consider me a friend, let alone a lover. I tighten my grip until she lets out a weak gasp.
“You’re nothing to me. You never have been. Now get out of my fucking face before you make an even bigger idiot of yourself.”
There’s nothing left to be said. I release her shoulders, ignore her weak whimper of protest, and walk away.
She tries to follow me, but it isn’t hard to lose her in the crowd. I don’t feel bad. If she can’t get it through her head that I couldn’t give less of a fuck about her and her idiotic infatuation, that sure as hell isn’t my problem.
Though, come to think of it…
I think she worked registration this year. Shit. It’s a crazy stretch, but maybe she knows the dancing girl’s name. Not that she’d give it over willingly. Maybe if I offered a trade…
Christ, what am I thinking? I’m not the type of pathetic guy to use sex as a bargaining chip. I don’t need some desperate slut to get me what I want, nor do I need a pathetic cokehead like Dixon. I’m Ryker fucking Pendragon. I don’t ask for information. I demand it.
It doesn’t take long for me to catch sight of the girl again. She’s back among the dancers, and the effect of her last drink is already visible in her broader, bolder movements. She bends back in a motion that would send a less skilled girl toppling over, and her shirt rides up again, this time revealing not only her slender waist, but the rich, bronzy curves of her hips?—
Fuck. Fuck. Does she have any idea what she’s doing, putting herself on display for every hungry pair of eyes in the room? If she keeps this up, if another man approaches her… tonight will have an ugly fucking end for everyone involved.
I won’t let that happen. It doesn’t matter who she is. I’m staking my claim. Now.
Other students stumble over themselves to get out of my way as I approach her. She’s the only one who doesn’t see me, her eyes closed once more as she spins and dips, gyrates and sways. My own movements are bolder, blunter. I can feel the hard muscles of my shoulders rippling as I stalk my way around her. Closer. Closer… until I could reach out and grasp her by the throat if I so desired.
Not yet. Half the fun is in the chase. I won’t panic her. She’ll fear me on my own conditions.
Behind her now. My hands slip forward, grazing across the perfect swell of her hips.
I can’t hear her gasp over the music, but I can feel it. A delicate shudder through her whole body. She’s soft and warm beneath my touch, and while I can’t deny the ferocity of my desire, there’s something else, too. Something about the way she moves against me that brings a pleasure in and of itself, not quite salacious, but not quite innocent, either.
She whirls around to face me, staring with wide hazel eyes, her lush lips parted to make way for staggered, shaking breaths?—
And my world stops.
The light, the heat, the music—all reduced to a distant mirage. She’s not just looking at me; she’s seeing me. Like I’ve never been seen before.
She lifts a hand, and I find that I can’t draw away as she grazes it against my cheek, tracing a delicate line from my jaw to my temple. Faintly electric.
A growl rises in my throat.
Who the hell is this girl—and how the fuck is she doing this? Stripping me of the defenses that I’ve constructed so carefully over the bitter course of my life?
Glass shatters.
Shit.
I force my eyes away from her, towards the direction of the sound. The connection severs, leaving me cold and uneasy—and, rightfully, fucking pissed.
It only takes a second to locate the commotion: a tussle by the bar, some scruffy freshman caught in a headlock from one of my boys—and in front of him, hefting the broken neck of a bottle with gleeful abandon, Freddie.
Fuck.
You’ve got to be fucking kidding me right now.
I know the look on his face. He’ll kill the kid. Kill anyone who tries to stop him, too. Anyone but me. I have to move—now.
“Graves!” I bellow, wrenching myself away from the girl. The heat of her skin still burns, a tingling imprint of where I touched her, and it compounds the fury already simmering inside me as I storm across the room. “Cut it the fuck out!”
Somebody turns the music off. A sea of murmurs lapses to nothing.
The kid stuck in the headlock whimpers. He’s burly, hard-browed. Probably came here from high school under the delusion that he’s some sort of tough guy. There are always a few of those fucking idiots.
Freddie’s stone-gray eyes flicker from me to the freshman and back again. “C’mon, Ryker,” he says, the words distorted through a wild grin. “Just a little something. A little present to put this sorry bastard in his place.”
I could let him do it. The kid’s ugly face might look better with a good scar or two.
But not like this. Not with everyone watching. I’ve already told Freddie to stop. And even my closest friend knows better than to defy me.
His arm lowers by degrees. I take a step closer.
“There’s plenty of fun to be had,” I remind him. “Later.”
His smile twists into a grimace. With a growling huff of disappointment, he hurls the bottle aside; it shatters against the wall behind the bar, eliciting several gasps from the crowd.
“You got it, boss,” he mutters.
“And you.” I turn my attention to the waxy-faced freshman. When I give a slight nod, the GOD restraining him lets go, and he spills onto his knees at my feet, heaving for air.
“‘M sorry,” he wheezes. “I didn’t mean—I didn’t think…”
I let him grovel. The longer he goes on, the more of a fool he’ll make of himself. I could give him something to remember me by—a broken nose, a fractured rib—but this piece of blubbering trash isn’t worth my time. He’s not worth my fucking spit.
“Get out of my fucking frat house,” I tell him. “And if you or any of your little friends so much as make eye contact with me or my brothers in the future, you won’t be so fucking lucky. Go.”
He scrambles to his feet, tripping over himself—when he slips sideways and bangs his temple against the bar, Freddie throws back his head and cackles like a hyena. A couple of the other GODs chuckle and jeer in appreciation as the freshman hurries past them, headed straight for the front door.
So all of them are in fucking good humor, huh? I ought to shut them up like I shut up the kid. They don’t know how lucky they are that I have something more important on my mind.
But when the music starts up again—when I look back at the dance floor, briefly quieted desire simmering back to the surface of my skin…
She’s gone.
Fuck.
Her white trash friend has vanished, too—along with some more younger students, judging by the thinned crowd. I should have fucking known. Girls get squeamish so easily. They probably ran for it as soon as they saw the broken bottle in Freddie’s hand.
I wish I’d kept that ugly kid around a bit longer. I’m aching to break somebody’s fucking face.
Fresh fucking air might do me some good.
I hear my name a couple of times as I wade through the crowd, but I ignore it. Anybody who so much as tries to speak to me right now will regret it. I’m goddamn angry—frustrated by my own frustration—and if anyone gets on my nerves right now, I’m liable to snap.
The majority of the party is concentrated in the sitting room, which lends the main foyer a distinct purpose—that is, the horny couple haven. A dozen or so frantic bodies brace and arch against the walls, illuminated in red from the ridiculous string lights that Freddie put up. Most of them are making out, some of them taking it farther, all seemingly unaware of one another’s presence—or of any part of the world outside of their partner, for that matter.
I don’t look at them too hard. Don’t want to. But I can’t deny the relief that flares in me when I note that none of the girls are blonde.
The fresh air on the other side of the door soothes my senses. Late summer warmth still lingers during the daytime; now, in the darkness, the world is pleasantly cool. I take a few steps towards the sports field. Behind me, the frat house blares with music and drunken laughter; ahead of me, a broad expanse of silver-dewed grass ripples silently in the breeze.
I need to find that girl. Not tonight, but soon. By whatever means necessary. I need to understand what she did to me, how her hazel stare pierced straight to a heart that I barely even realized I possessed.
Unbidden, my father’s words thunder through my mind:
She will not be one of your little toys.
No. Fuck no. The way the blonde girl intrigues me is nothing like my father’s revolting fixation on the Lombardi princess. I am nothing like him, period.
Still, the meeting on Friday keeps nudging the back of my mind, rearing into prominence whenever I look in the mirror. My eye’s in pretty bad shape. Most of the other guys bought it when I said it came from a fight, but I think Freddie knows the truth.
I haven’t seen anyone who resembles the woman my father called Linda Lombardi. Haven’t been looking too hard, but still.
Part of me doesn’t want to find her. I know he’ll use her for his pleasure. The thought of enabling that sickens me.
But I have to keep waiting.
Two more years.
How many women will he want me to entrap in that span? How many more lives will he want me to threaten, to take? And above all else, how am I supposed to keep justifying it all to myself?
No. I have to remember that this isn’t just for me. This is for the greater good. I know that the Order used to be something worthy of respect, before my father cut and cheated his way to the top. What is it now? A virus. A deformed parasite clinging to the swollen and bleeding underbelly of Crimson Elite University and Carnadon City. None of this is sustainable, and the sooner my father is brought to justice, the more people will be spared.
Not that there is any real justice for a monster like him.
I’d make him hurt if I could. In a heartbeat. I’d take a razor to his flesh, not leaving a solitary inch of skin unscathed, and then I’d salt the wounds. I’d rip off his ball sack and feed it to him raw. And that would just be the beginning. The scars on my back, still prominent beneath the skull tattoo inked from shoulder to shoulder, are enough to inspire an eternity of torment. The burns and the flogging, every single thing he inflicted on me—I’d return it to him tenfold. I wouldn’t kill him—he doesn’t deserve the mercy—but I damn sure would kill everything he ever loved, if such a thing exists at all.
Maybe it does. The Lombardi girl—I sensed something in the way he spoke about her. Something different, though I’m not sure how. Doesn’t make any sense to me that he’d care about some Mafia sweetling. He’s at least half insane, though, so maybe it’s pointless trying to apply logic to his actions. They’re nothing that any rational person could comprehend, myself included.
Never mind the fact that the blonde on the dance floor made me feel as if I’d started to go crazy, as well.
I loop around to the back of the frat house, where the more raucous partiers have spilled out. One of the guys has got a bonfire going, painting the curves of booze-loosened bodies with deep orange glimmers. Beyond the outskirts of the crowd, the tree line of the adjacent forest looms dark and silent, as stoic as the party is passionate. Even in the daytime, it’s almost impossible to see past the first row of silver-barked trunks. Now, the shadows of the deeper woods are utterly impenetrable.
The folding chairs arranged in a ring around the bonfire are all occupied. Not a problem for me—as soon as I approach one, its occupant quickly rises and stands back, inclining his head towards me. I don’t return the gesture, just drop into the seat and scowl into the blazing heart of the fire in front of me.
The flames move the same way she did. Wild yet elegant, infernally hot and ethereally delicate all at once.
Innocence. Is that what it was? Her earnest dancing, unspoiled by any attempt at seduction. The movement of her body—not the means to an end, but a pleasure in and of itself. To be untethered like that… I can’t imagine how it feels. How she feels—how she might move beneath a stronger, bolder touch.
A touch that will own and claim her until she’s pleading for a release.
A release that only I can give her.
One that mixes pain with pleasure.