Sinful Obsession (Sinful Spartans of SCU #1)

Chapter 1

Ramsey

The first time I saw Reese St. Pierre, I knew I’d ruin her.

Not today. Not tomorrow. But eventually.

Every day I try and resist the urge to claim her.

To kill her little experiment of a boyfriend.

I can still taste the watermelon lip gloss from three years ago as I claimed her first kiss.

I’ve been chasing that high ever since, which is why I’m currently at the gym right off campus beating the fucking shit out of this heavy bag.

I slam my fist into the bag again, my knuckles screaming beneath the wraps.

I imagine it's Justin's face, his little fucking side snaggletooth shattering under my hand. The fantasy sends another surge of adrenaline through me, and I hit harder as I keep control of my breath. She belongs to me and only me. Always has and always will. No matter whose in her fucking orbit. It’s always gonna be her and I.

Sweat pours down my back, my tank top clinging to my skin like a second layer. I’ve been here for two hours, and I'm nowhere near done. The place is almost empty now, just a few dedicated fuckers scattered around the weight racks. None of them dare come near me.

The way the bag swings reminds me of how Reese's hips switch when she walks. How they swayed today when I saw her at the campus coffee shop in between classes, laughing at something one of her dance bitch friends said as they left. She didn’t see me.

I didn’t want her to but it’s always so easy to know where she’s at.

I left after class and pulled up her location.

Just to watch her, look at her stunning face and the way it lights up.

"Jesus fucking Christ, Ghost. You trying to kill the bag or just maim it?"

I don't need to turn around to know it's Copeland. His voice cuts through the haze of my rage like it always does. He’s got a cold, clinical tone that somehow manages to sound both bored and dangerous at the same time. Using that stupid fucking nickname he gave me our freshman year. Something about how I’d appear from nowhere on the ice to steal the puck.

"Fuck off, Cope," I grunt, landing another combo that makes the bag swing wildly.

He steps into view, all six-foot-four of tattooed muscle.

His black hair's still damp from a shower, and his ice-blue eyes watching me with a predatory focus that makes most people shit themselves. Not me, though. We're cut from the same fucked-up cloth. Objectively I can say he’s attractive. We look like we could be related and I’m fucking hot. Let’s not make it weirder.

"You've been here for hours," he says, leaning against the wall. "This about your little dancer again?"

My only answer is another brutal combination, the impact vibrating up my arms.

"I'll take that as a yes." He smirks, crossing his arms over his chest. "You know, there are easier ways to deal with this. Like just fucking her already."

I whip around, glaring at him. "Watch your fucking mouth."

He holds up his hands, but the amusement in his eyes only deepens. "Touchy, touchy. I forgot she's special." The way he says special makes it sound like a disease.

I turn back to the bag, trying to ignore him. The problem with Copeland is that he never takes a hint. It's what makes him such a good captain. He doesn't give a fuck about boundaries or feelings or any of that shit.

"Come on," he says, moving closer. "Let's spar. You can beat on someone who's gonna beat back."

I pause, considering it. My muscles are screaming, but the rage is still there, bubbling under the surface. The bag isn't cutting it anymore.

"Fine," I mutter, unwrapping my hands. "But I'm not holding back tonight."

His grin is all teeth, like a shark that's scented blood. He backs up to the ring, his eyes almost screaming that he’s been waiting for this all day. If it wasn’t me, it would have been someone else.

I follow him, rolling my shoulders as we step onto the mats. A few of the remaining gym rats look up, their interest piqued. They know what's about to happen. Copeland and I aren't exactly known for our gentle approach to fighting.

"Rules?" I ask, though I already know the answer.

"Don't fuck anything up that can't heal by practice on Monday," he says, bouncing on the balls of his feet.

I nod, dropping into my stance. "Sounds good. I’m gonna make you hurt, Reaper."

We circle each other, neither rushing in. The gym has gone quiet except for the distant clanking of weights and the squeak of our shoes against the mat.

"So," Cope says, feinting left, "when are you gonna stop being such a little bitch about that girl?"

I don't take the bait. Not yet at least. "When are you gonna stop riding my dick about it?"

"When you either fuck her or kill her boyfriend. This in-between shit is boring as fuck."

I lunge forward with a jab that he barely slips. "Some of us have self-control."

He laughs, a harsh sound that echoes through the gym. "Is that what you call it? Because from where I'm standing, it looks like torture."

This time when I come in, he's ready. We exchange a flurry of blows, most blocked or deflected, but I catch him with a hook to the ribs that makes him grunt.

"Fuck you," I spit out, already circling again.

"No thanks, not my type. Though your little dancer—"

I don't let him finish. I charge him, throwing caution to the wind, and connect with a solid right that snaps his head back. The taste of victory is short-lived as he retaliates with a brutal body shot that forces the air from my lungs.

"Too easy," he taunts, wiping blood from his lip. "You're so fucking predictable when it comes to her."

By now, we've drawn a small crowd. Six or seven guys have stopped their workouts to watch, forming a loose circle around the mats. I hear someone whisper, "Holy shit, is that Blackwood and Astor?" but I tune it out, focusing only on Copeland's movements.

"At least I'm not fucking everything that moves just to feel something because your stepsister fucked you up," I counter, ducking under a wild swing and landing a shot to his kidney.

He hisses through his teeth but grins through the pain. "But I am feeling something, Ghost. That's the difference between us. I embrace what I am."

"And I don't give a fuck what you think," I growl, landing another hit that makes him stumble back a step. "Your opinion on this means jack shit to me."

We're both breathing hard now, sweat mingling with blood as we continue to circle each other.

The crowd's grown bigger, people pulling out their phones to record two of SCU's hockey stars beating the shit out of each other.

Tomorrow it'll be all over campus, but right now I couldn't care less. If it gets to Coach, he’s going to lecture us again.

He might as well just record it and play it and save his breath.

Cope spits blood onto the mat. "You think she's so fucking innocent? That pretty little dancer probably spreads her legs for that—"

I see red. Pure fucking rage floods my system as I launch myself at him, tackling him to the ground. We roll across the mat, trading blows, neither of us willing to back down. I slam my elbow into his jaw and feel a sick satisfaction when he grunts in pain.

"Enough!" A booming voice cuts through the haze of my fury.

Declan Reed, the gym manager and former SCU legend, pushes through the crowd of spectators. He's got at least five years on us, but he's still built like a fucking tank. His buzzed head and stern expression make him look like a drill sergeant about to tear us new assholes.

"Break it up now," he orders, stepping onto the mat.

Neither of us moves immediately. I've got Cope pinned, my forearm across his throat, and he's got his fist pulled back ready to slam into my kidney.

"I said now, motherfuckers," Declan growls, grabbing my shoulder and physically hauling me off Copeland.

I stumble back, chest heaving, as Cope rolls to his feet with a shit-eating grin on his face despite the blood trickling from his split lip.

"Just a friendly sparring session, Reed," Cope says, wiping blood from his chin. "No harm done."

Declan looks between us, his expression making it clear he's not buying that bullshit for a second. "You two are gonna get yourselves suspended before the season even starts."

I roll my shoulders, feeling the ache setting in. Tomorrow's gonna be a bitch, but right now the pain feels good.

"Blackwood," Declan says, turning to me. "Your girl called up here for you. Said you're not answering your phone."

My heart fucking stops. "What?"

"Yeah, about twenty minutes ago. Halsey took the call at the front desk.

" He runs a hand over his buzzed head. "She said not to worry about picking her up from the dance studio.

She's going out with Brian or Brant or some shit.

I don't know, Halsey told me the shit and I'm just fucking relaying the message. "

"Brett," I correct automatically, my blood turning to ice in my veins. "His name is Brett."

Copeland snorts, wiping blood from his split lip. "How many boyfriends she got? Damn, Woodsy, you're losing your touch."

I ignore him, already moving toward my gym bag. My phone's buried at the bottom, screen showing three missed calls from Reese and a text message I haven't read.

"Fuck," I mutter, swiping it open.

North Star

Hey where are you? I'm done with class early. Brett asked if I wanted to grab dinner with some of his friends. I said yes since you're MIA. Don't worry about picking me up! See you later? <3

The little heart at the end does nothing to calm the storm building inside me. Brett. Fucking theater Brett with his stupid fucking scarves and his pretentious coffee orders. The guy's been sniffing around Reese since he became a TA for her contemporary dance class.

"Problem?" Copeland asks, coming up behind me.

"Nothing I can't handle," I say, already shoving my shit into my bag.

Declan crosses his arms. "You two aren't done cleaning up your blood from my mats."