16. RYAN #3
I’m scrambling without purchase, flailing, waiting for an impact that never comes. I need Tate to be my anchor.
For now, rage is something I can latch onto. I let it consume me before the darkness can. Because it’s dark in this head without Tate, who has somehow become a source of light at the end of my miserable tunnel. Isn’t that fucking ironic?
When I exit the office, I’m ready to charge at the first thing I see.
People have collected. Staff. But as they are, clustered from the door to the end of the hallway, they’re like moths to Tate’s flame.
Jaws tight, shoulders too high, gazes flicking in different directions, never staying on one thing for too long.
Waiting.
“Where is fucking medical?” I demand. A thin woman puts her hand up. “Somebody get in there, now, and remove the glass from his goddamn hands. And you.” I point to one of the men in black fatigues. I think I’ve seen him with Ethan before. “The boss’s office needs a sweep.”
It needs a remodel, but a sweep’ll have to do.
“But, sir, I’m a guard.”
“I don’t care who the fuck you are. Either get someone on it or grab a broom.” I look around. “Where’s Ethan?”
Down the hall, near the stairs, Ethan peels himself away from the wall, uncrossing his arms. His droopy eyes force themselves open.
He yawns. Doesn’t the man get any sleep?
Probably not, working for Tate. But things are going to change around here.
If I’m going to be Tate’s husband, then I’m going to be Tate’s husband.
Starting now. I’ll bend for Tate, but not for anyone else, including Ethan.
And I’m still a Savage; I didn’t go through all that bullshit training hell with my father for nothing.
“You, come with me.” It’s a nice little Uno reverse from earlier.
“Yeah, yeah. I need to find a new line of work,” he mutters.
“Tell me what happened from the time Tate arrived until the moment you came to get me,” I say, unlacing my skates. We’re in the dressing room. It’s empty except for some scattered clothes and loose gear. Stale air chokes the place like a siege. There’s the steady whir of a fan.
“Are you going to get undressed? Because he will melon ball my eyes out of my skull if I see you naked. He’s still got that fucking ax—tell me you saw the fucking ax.”
“Yeah, I saw the ax. I’ll make sure you don’t see anything. Now, talk.”
“I knew he was coming. I got a text from him saying he was jamming out on his brother early. He mentioned something about his brother wanting to meet up with his boyfriend anyway, but you should know he was looking forward to seeing you.” His tone’s sharp.
That extra bit of information at the end wasn’t to soothe me.
And it doesn’t. I’m all too aware that he won’t be looking forward anymore. I’m here to help him; he’s here to help me. And—
Nope, not gonna think about that. Focus, Ryan. Do stuff. Keep busy. Don’t fall apart.
With skates off, I drop my hockey pants.
“Jesus,” Ethan says, covering his eyes.
“Relax, I’ve got long johns on.”
“They don’t leave much to the imagination.”
“Then turn the fuck around.” I work on my socks and shin pads.
Ethan twists his lips, raising a brow, but he continues without turning around.
“He ordered his usual to his seats, but he didn’t get to enjoy any of it.
It didn’t take him long to know it was you—which is super fucking sweet for him.
You don’t know how unusual that is, but I do. You don’t deserve him.”
All of his words are intended as barbs.
“Be careful, Ethan, or I’m gonna think you want to fuck my husband. He’s not the only one capable of scooping out eyes.”
“I’m not paid enough for this. Anyway, it took five guards to stop him from heading down to the ice.
He wanted to end every single person who got near you.
I got him into his office by convincing him that it would be safest for you.
He could take his anger out on inanimate objects.
He wouldn’t say or do anything he’d regret later.
Still wasn’t easy, because he was insistent that he’d never hurt you. ”
I slide into a pair of shower sandals and remove my upper body pads, but I leave the long-sleeved shirt underneath. “Were you the one who gave him the ax?”
He pauses. “Not at first.”
“So, yes.”
“He demanded it. I said absolutely fucking not. But that was how I eventually lured him upstairs—promise of an ax.” Ethan shakes his head. “He’s gonna be so mad about that desk tomorrow. It was his uncle’s.”
Why would Tate give a fuck about anything from that asshole?
“Did he say anything while he was, uh, playing Wreck-It Ralph?”
“Just a lot of ‘Bring his fucking ass up here now, Ethan, before I cut Tyler’s dick off’.”
“Oddly specific.”
“Tyler’s a guard I’m fucking. Tyler Jones?” he says like a question as if it will ring a bell. It doesn’t.
He looks around, then he approaches me at the speed of a squirrel racing up a tree. Actually fucking laying his hand on my chest.
“Listen to me, you little Gen-Z taco,” he hisses. I have no fucking clue what a Gen-Z taco is, but he’s got my attention. “I bet your brain’s filled with all kinds of bullshit about what set Tate off, but it’s just you. You,” he underlines, poking me hard in the chest.
“I know. I—”
“Nuh-uh. I’m talking. I’ve had a lot of reservations about Tate keeping you. He’s slipping in every facet of his life. I’ve had to do more mop-up jobs since he met you than the whole time I’ve known him.”
I have a thousand questions, but Ethan might actually eviscerate me, so I keep my mouth shut.
“It’s you. You’re the wild card, the thing he can’t control. It’s itching at his brain that you won’t marry him, that he can’t make you marry him without losing your good favor, and then you do the one fucking thing he asked you not to do.”
Ethan seethes, breathing heavy, his fingers raring to strangle me. “Was it really so hard? Or are you too thick to learn anything about him? Either way, you’re shit for it. You’re his personal grenade. If I didn’t know for certain the old bastard was dead, I’d think Jasper sent you to destroy him.”
“What? No. That can’t be true. Tate’s the epitome of perfect control.”
“He was. I’ve never agreed with Jasper’s approach, but watching him spiral because of your ass, I’m beginning to think there was at least some method to his madness.”
What? Fuck that. Does he know everything that fucker did to him? He can’t. I push his hand away from me. Tate’s not the only protective one in our relationship. I will bust his teeth if he actually means that shit.
But the other stuff. Have I really been—unintentionally—chipping away at Tate’s self-control?
“Jasper never let him keep the things he obsessed over. He entertained them for a while, because he liked how dangerous they made him, but Jasper claimed there was a threshold. He would’ve made Tate put a bullet in your head by now.”
“Is that what you’re going to do? Put a bullet in my head?”
He huffs, taking a step back, shoes scuffing across the rubber floor. “No. I’m not Jasper and thank fuck for that. Like an idiot, I’m rooting for you to be the one he actually cares about. You have the power to drive him off a cliff, but you also have the power to pacify him.”
“I do not control Tate if that’s what you’re saying.”
“No. Definitely not. Even Jasper couldn’t, not entirely. The best he could do was leash him until that leash snapped, find a stronger leash, use that one till it snapped, repeat. But you influence his tidal wave. He’s the storm, you’re the wind.”
I grab a towel, but don’t leave for the showers yet. “So what does Tate going off that cliff look like? Are we talking murder spree?”
“I don’t know for sure. Jasper never let it get too far, but from what I’ve seen, it’s him getting increasingly possessive of you, doing more and more to protect you from what he perceives as harm. Murder isn’t off the table.”
Tate’s doll comes to mind. The one his uncle made him burn.
“Anyway, you’re screwed now, so find a way to make this work.” He stands, straightening his jacket, running a hand through his sweaty hair, nose turned down, still totally disgusted with me.
What the fuck do I do? It sounds like Tate and I are already bound together for better or for worse, and we aren’t even married yet. If I even tried to leave him, that would destroy him. If Ethan’s interpretations are correct, he’d become a mindless Ryan-seeking puppet, and Tate gets what he wants.
But what does any of that matter when I’d never leave him anyway?
Even if he goes crazy.
Even if there was no deal, I’m locked in because … because fuck.
Fuck my fucking life.
I fell for him. For no good reason either. Because I’m as fucked up as he is, and what he is ensnared my heart.
Broken meets broken.
I’d rather go on living as his possession than live without him.
“I’m going to shower,” I say. “Oh, and by the way, you’re marrying us tonight.”
“Joy,” he says. Yeah, I’m sure he’s real excited about that. “Anything else?”
“Yeah. What’s a Gen-Z taco?”