Chapter 19
Helping Remy through the door isn’t easy when she’s tipsy. She stumbles over her own feet, giggling like she’s just heard the funniest joke in the world.
“Zane, stop holding me like a baby,” she slurs, swatting at my chest.
I bite back a laugh. “You’d fall flat on your ass if I let you go.”
“I’m fiiine,” she sings, stretching out the word.
“Uh-huh,” I mutter, steering her toward the bed.
One thing I’ve learned about Remy when she’s like this? She gets handsy. And her mouth? Foul as hell.
She stops short, turns, and presses her hands against my chest. “You’re hot.”
“Thanks,” I say, deadpan. “Now sit down before you break something.”
She ignores me, tilting her head up and pulling me into a kiss. It’s sloppy and eager, all tongue and no finesse, but damn if it doesn’t get to me.
Her lips leave mine, and then— what the hell?— her tongue is on my neck, dragging over my skin.
“Baby,” I say, catching her by the hips, “you need to sleep.”
“I’m not tired,” she pouts, trying to step back.
She sways. Hard.
“Yeah, you’re not tired,” I mock, grabbing her before she crashes into the nightstand.
She glares at me like it’s my fault her legs aren’t working. “Put me down.”
“You’re not even off the ground.”
She grumbles something I don’t catch as I sit her on the edge of the bed and crouch down to untie her boots. She watches me, her eyes heavy-lidded, lips parted.
“You’re staring,” I say without looking up.
“You’re sexy,” she replies, her voice low.
I snort, tugging her boots off and tossing them to the side. “Flattery’s not going to get you what you want. You’re going to bed, sweetheart.”
When I stand, she grabs my shirt and pulls me close. “Take my clothes off.”
Jesus Christ.
“Remy—”
“Please,” she whispers, her hands already fumbling with the hem of her shirt.
I sigh, giving in because there’s no arguing with her like this. Gently, I pull her shirt over her head, then reach for her jeans, easing them down her legs. My gaze catches on the marks I left on her earlier, faint bruises on her thighs and hips.
“Fuck,” I mutter under my breath.
“What?” she asks, her voice soft now.
I shake my head. “I was rough with you.”
She grins, lazy and unapologetic. “I like it rough.”
I kiss her, soft and slow this time, because she’s half-drunk and vulnerable, and I don’t know what the hell I’m doing with her.
When I pull back, she grabs my hand and presses it between her thighs.
“I’m wet,” she says, matter of fact, like she’s telling me the sky is blue.
I groan, feeling the heat of her through her panties. “Baby…”
“Just one organism,” she says, her voice a little too loud.
I blink. “What?”
“An organism,” she repeats, nodding like she’s nailed it.
I stare at her. “Do you mean orgasm?”
She pauses, then grins. “Yeah. That.”
I laugh, the sound loud and sharp in the quiet room. “You’re so fucking drunk.”
Her smile fades, replaced by something softer, needier. “Please, Zane.”
I shake my head. “I can’t fuck you like this. You’re drunk.”
“I’m not that drunk,” she argues, but her words are slower now, slurred at the edges.
“Remy.”
She doesn’t listen. Instead, she turns, bending over the bed, her ass in the air, looking over her shoulder at me with a smirk.
“Fuck,” I mutter, scrubbing a hand down my face.
She’s gonna be the death of me.
I strip out of my jeans, leaving just my boxers on, and move behind her. Grabbing her hips, I pull her upright and turn her to face me.
“What’re you—”
“You wanna get off?” I cut her off, sitting on the edge of the bed. “Then climb up.”
Her brows knit together, confused.
“My thigh,” I clarify, patting it. “You can rub against me, but I’m not touching you when you’re like this.”
Her eyes widen slightly, then darken, the tipsy haze making her bold.
“Fine,” she whispers, crawling into my lap.
She straddles my thigh, her hands gripping my shoulders as she grinds against me.
“Fuck, Remy,” I breathe, watching the way her head tilts back, her mouth falling open.
She’s a goddamn mess, and I can’t look away.
“Zane,” she whines, her movements growing frantic. “It’s not—”
She cuts herself off with a frustrated groan.
“What’s wrong?” I ask, my voice low.
“I’m not coming like this ,” she blurts, her cheeks flushed.
I bite back a laugh. “That’s ‘cause you’re doing it wrong.”
Her eyes snap to mine, glaring. “Help me.”
I hesitate for half a second before I flip her onto her back, spreading her legs and dropping to my knees.
“You want help?” I say, my voice rough. “I’ve got you.”
She gasps as I tug her panties down and lean in, my mouth on her before she can argue.
“Holy shit,” she moans, her hands fisting in the sheets. Her voice turns high pitched as she tries to crawl away from me. I tug her back to my mouth as she pants.
I take my time, teasing her until she’s writhing, her thighs trembling against my shoulders.
“Zane,” she cries out, her voice breaking.
“Come on, baby,” I murmur, my tongue flicking against her clit.
She arches off the bed, her whole body shuddering as she falls apart, her cries echoing in the small room.
When it’s over, she collapses, her chest rising and falling, her eyes barely open.
“I think I love you,” she whispers, her voice soft and slurred.
I freeze.
Her eyes flutter shut, and within seconds, she’s out cold.
I sit back, staring at her like she’s just dropped a bomb in the middle of the room.
She loves me?
What the fuck do I do with that?
I don’t sleep.
She’s sprawled out on her bed, her hair a mess, face relaxed, completely oblivious. She said she loves me.
Loves me.
The word keeps bouncing around my head like a fucking puck in an overtime shootout, and I can’t stop it.
No one’s ever said that to me. Well, meant it, anyway.
The way she said it, soft and slurred, like it wasn’t something she meant to say— it’s got me twisted.
I watch her, just lying there. Her chest rises and falls, her lips parted as she sleeps. My hands are on my knees, clenched into fists because I’m trying to hold myself together, and I don’t know what the hell to do with what’s unraveling inside me.
This isn’t me. I don’t do this. I don’t sit around playing nursemaid or overthink shit.
But she’s Remy. I’ve been fucking obsessed from the second I laid eyes on her. And now I’m wrecked.
She stirs, groaning, and then it starts.
“Oh, fuck,” she mutters, bolting upright, a hand to her mouth.
“Bathroom,” I say, already on my feet, pulling her with me.
She stumbles, her face pale, and I scoop her up before she can hit the floor.
She doesn’t argue, just clings to me as I carry her to the bathroom.
“Zane—”
“I’ve got you, baby.”
She barely makes it to the toilet before she’s throwing up. I crouch behind her, holding her hair back, my free hand rubbing her back.
“Jesus,” she gasps between heaves. “Kill me.”
“Not on my watch.”
She groans, leaning her forehead against her arm on the toilet. “You’re supposed to be my fun drunk night, not my babysitter.”
“Guess I’m multi-talented.”
She glares at me, or tries to. It’s half-hearted at best. “You’re a dick.”
“And you’re done puking. Sit back.”
She doesn’t argue, letting me help her up and guide her to the sink. She rinses her mouth and splashes water on her face while I grab Tylenol from her nightstand.
“Take these.”
She stares at the pills in my hand like I’ve offered her cyanide.
“Remy,” I warn.
“Fine,” she grumbles, taking them with the glass of water I hand her.
“Good girl,” I mutter, earning myself a half-hearted swat.
“Don’t patronize me.”
“Don’t be a brat.”
Her lips twitch like she wants to smile, but she’s too exhausted.
I steer her back to bed, tucking her in.
“You’re staying,” she mumbles, her eyes already closing.
“Yeah, yeah,” I say, brushing her hair back. “Sleep.”
When she’s out again, I sit on the edge of the bed, staring at her like an idiot.
She loves me?
The thought won’t leave me alone. It’s like a loop, playing over and over in my head.
I stay there until the sun starts creeping through her blinds, my head a mess, my chest tight. When her alarm goes off, I shut it off before it can wake her.
She needs to sleep, not deal with this mess.
But I need air. Space.
I write her a note, leaving it on her nightstand.
I set your alarm. Don’t miss class.
And then I’m gone.
The second I’m home, my phone’s ringing.
“Yeah?” I answer, not even looking at the caller ID.
“Zane,” my dad’s voice booms through the line. “I’ve got a meeting in Thailand. Missing this week’s game.”
“Okay.”
“Coach will record it, and I expect you to play your ass off. Got it?”
“Yeah, sure thing.”
He hangs up without another word. Typical.
I toss my phone on the counter and grab a water, trying to focus.
Practice starts in an hour, but my head’s not in it. All I can think about is her.
At practice, it’s a fucking disaster.
“Zane!” Coach yells. “Get your head outta your ass!”
“Got it, Coach,” I snap back, skating to the next drill.
But I don’t got it. I keep screwing up plays, missing passes, and pissing off my teammates.
Noah skates up beside me, his brows furrowed. “You good?”
“Yeah.”
“Bullshit.”
“Drop it.”
He gives me a look but doesn’t push.
I’m a fucking mess. My body’s here, but my head’s somewhere else. Somewhere with her.
Her laugh. Her touch. Her goddamn words.
She loves me.
What the hell do I do with that?
Practice is over, and I’m fucking beat. Not because I pushed myself hard but because my head’s been a wreck all day.
I toss my bag over my shoulder, heading for my car. My mind’s everywhere except where it should be— Remy, her stupid smile, her stupid laugh, and those stupid words she said that won’t leave me the hell alone.
“Zane!”
Her voice stops me dead.
I turn, and there she is. Remy, standing there like she doesn’t own every thought I’ve had in the last 24 hours.
She’s wearing some loose sweatshirt that’s slipping off one shoulder and those tiny-ass shorts that show off her legs. Her glasses are perched on her forehead like she forgot she put them there. Her hair’s up, messy like she didn’t bother trying to fix it, but of course, she still looks like a fucking dream.
“Hey,” she says, smiling.
“Hey.”
Before I can blink, she’s throwing her arms around me, hugging me tight.
And it wrecks me. Right there in the parking lot, with everyone still around.
I hug her back, but it’s cautious. My hands stay on her back like I’m afraid if I touch her any more than that, I’ll shatter.
“How was class?” I ask, trying to keep my voice steady.
“Ugh.” She pulls back, but her hands linger on my arms. “We had a pop test. Completely unprepared and hungover, thanks to you.”
I snort. “You blaming me?”
“Absolutely,” she says, grinning. “But I think I nailed it anyway. I’m so smart, even half-dead.”
“Good.” I nod. “That’s good.”
Her smile falters, and she tilts her head, looking up at me. “You okay?”
I want to say yes. I want to brush it off, but the truth is, I’m not. Not even close.
“I’ve gotta head to the brotherhood. You know, the Reapers,” I say instead, my voice tight. “Something came up. Can I see you at the game?”
“Of course.”
Her smile’s back, softer now, and I hate how much it guts me.
“Okay.” I lean in and kiss her cheek, quick and light, before I lose my nerve.
“Zane—”
“I’ll see you there,” I say, already turning away.
By the time I get home, I’m nauseous.
This was supposed to be fun. Just something to blow off steam, something I could control. But now?
Now it’s not just fun. Now she’s in my head, in my chest, and I can’t fucking stand it.
So I throw myself into practice.
“Caleb!” I bark the next morning, already on the ice before anyone else.
Caleb skates over, looking half-asleep. “What’s up?”
“Drills,” I snap. “You and me. Let’s go.”
“For what? Practice isn’t for another two hours.”
“Don’t care.”
He groans but doesn’t argue. That’s why Caleb’s my go-to— he gets it.
For the next three days, it’s nonstop. Drills, sprints, scrimmages. Anything to keep my body busy and my mind blank.
Game day.
The stands packed. Coach’s voice is a constant buzz in the background, but I don’t need it. I’m locked in.
This is what I’m good at. This is where I’m in control.
The first hit rattles my cage, but I shake it off. The second one sends me sliding into the boards, but I’m up before the whistle blows.
It’s brutal. It’s ruthless.
And it’s perfect.
When the buzzer sounds, we’ve won, and the adrenaline’s coursing through me like a drug. I throw my stick down, screaming with the guys, fists pumping, helmets clashing.
But then I look up.
And there she is.
She’s in the stands, watching me. Her hands are cupped around her mouth, yelling something I can’t hear. Her smile’s so big, it’s like she doesn’t care who sees her.
And it hits me like another goddamn puck to the chest.
I might love her too.
She’s waiting for me outside the locker room when I finally make it out.
“Hey,” she says, walking up to me. “You okay? You took a bad hit out there.”
“Yeah.” I wave it off, not wanting to get into it.
“You sure? I feel like I’ve barely seen you lately. You’ve been... I don’t know. Distant?”
Her voice is softer now, and I hate that it’s laced with concern.
“Remy—”
“Are you avoiding me?” she asks, cutting me off.
Fuck.
“Can we go somewhere?” I ask instead.
She blinks, surprised, but nods. “Of course.”
I take her hand without thinking, leading her away from the crowd.
I don’t know what I’m doing, but I know I need to figure it out. Fast.
I take her hand and lead her through the campus, toward the hidden part where the Reapers holds its meetings. The place is quiet, almost eerie, but it’s all too familiar to me. This is where I come to get away from the bullshit, to feel like I’m in control.
I stop in front of a run-down building, the one we always use when things need to stay off the radar. I look at her, her eyes wide but not scared. She’s following me, trusting me, even after everything she knows.
“This is it,” I say, voice rougher than I intend.
Her lips part like she’s about to ask something, but I don’t want to hear the questions right now. I open the door, and we step inside. The air is thick with the kind of tension I’m used to. Inside, the walls are covered with old flags, plaques, and the lingering scent of cigar smoke from past meetings. I move toward the back, pulling her along with me, toward the private area where we can talk without anyone overhearing.
She doesn’t speak, but her eyes scan the room, catching on everything— except me.
I can’t let it go any longer.
“This is where it all starts,” I mutter, standing across from her, leaning against a dusty table. I run a hand through my hair, pushing it back. My head’s not right. Not with her here, not with the pull I feel when she’s near.
“What do you mean?” she asks, finally meeting my gaze.
“The Reapers. It’s not what you think. It’s not just some frat for rich assholes.” I step closer, watching her as she processes my words. “It’s power. Control. The kind of shit that shapes your life.”
She steps back, but I don’t let her get away. I grab her wrist, holding it lightly but firm, pulling her back toward me. “You want to know what the initiation is? What it really means to be a part of this?”
She doesn’t answer right away, but I see the curiosity in her eyes. She’s not afraid— not yet.
“It’s simple,” I continue. “You pledge to do something unthinkable. Then a new member has to sleep with a virgin. Someone pure, someone untouched. It’s a way to mark their place. Show they own something.” I let the words sink in, watching her face for any kind of reaction. “And that’s the shit I’m part of, Remy. Shit, I can’t even say because you’re too good for me. That’s what I’ve been doing. I’m not a good guy. I’m not the kind of person you think I am.”
She stares at me, her expression unreadable. “Why are you telling me this?” she asks, her voice quiet but sharp.
I’m not sure how to explain it, but I say it anyway. “Because I’m trying to keep you from getting caught up in this mess.”
“Why?” she asks, her voice soft but insistent.
“Because I’m catching feelings for you,” I admit, the words coming out like I’m confessing to some kind of crime. And I fucking am. “And I don’t want you in this world. I don’t want to pull you into this. I can’t give you what you deserve, not when I’m this fucking broken.”
She doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t flinch. She just looks at me, her face softening, like she gets it.
“Zane, I’m not scared of you,” she says, and it makes my chest tighten in ways I don’t want. She steps closer, her hand reaching up to touch my chest. “You don’t scare me. I want you. And I think you want me too.”
My breath hitches. I’m not supposed to want this, but I want her so bad it’s eating me alive.
“I’m not good for you, Remy. I’m not what you think. The shit I’ve been hiding from you. I guess it kind of stopped once you came in the picture, but all of the shit before you came along. It’s bad.”
She shakes her head, the movement slow. “You don’t get it, do you?”
I furrow my brow, confused. “Get what?”
She pulls back, lifting her wrist up to me, and I stare at it, my eyes tracing the delicate ink on her skin. A small, simple “Z” etched inside a heart.
“For you,” she says softly, her voice almost a whisper. “I got this because I’m in this too. I want this, Zane. I want you .”
I don’t know what the fuck to say to that. I don’t know how to respond to someone who’s willing to step into my mess, to want me even though I’m nothing but a fucking disaster.
My chest is tight, and I can’t breathe. All I can think about is how much I want her. How much I’ve wanted her since the moment I laid eyes on her.
And then I can’t stop myself.
I move, and my lips crash into hers. I don’t care about anything else anymore. I don’t care about the Reapers, or my messed-up life, or the fact that I’m not good enough for her.
I kiss her like it’s the last thing I’ll ever do, and maybe it fucking is.
She responds immediately, her lips parting, her hands coming up to grab at my shirt, pulling me closer. It’s raw, it’s desperate, and it’s everything I’ve wanted.
I back her against the wall, my hands roaming down her body. She moans softly as I grab her hips, pulling her against me. I can feel the heat between us, the fucking chemistry, and it’s like I can’t get close enough.
I pull away for a second, breathing hard, and look at her, the need in my eyes reflected in hers.
“You sure about this?” I growl, the words barely making it past my lips.
She nods, biting her lip, her hands gripping the back of my neck. “I’m sure.”
I don’t need to hear anything else.
I pull her back into me, my lips claiming hers again, but this time, it’s not just a kiss. It’s possession. It’s me marking her, showing her that she belongs to me. She’s mine.
She gasps as I push her shorts down, my hands sliding between her legs. I’m not giving her a chance to change her mind.
And she doesn’t. She meets me every step of the way, letting me take control. Letting me show her that she’s mine.
I move fast, not giving her time to think, and when I push inside her, her breath catches. But she doesn’t pull away. She pulls me closer, like she needs me just as much as I need her.
I kiss her neck, biting gently, marking her like she marked me. This is it. This is the moment I’ve been waiting for.
And I’m not letting go.
“Tell me you want me,” I mutter against her skin, my voice rough with need.
“I want you,” she whispers, and that’s all I need to hear.
I lose control. I give in completely, claiming her, claiming this moment, this space where nothing else matters.
She’s mine. And I’m fucking never letting go.