Chapter 11
CHAPTER ELEVEN
SHILOH
I’ve been texting with Donovan all week.
Well… that’s not exactly right.
Donovan has been texting me, and I’ve been replying while I stalk him from a distance when I’m not in class.
For someone who can notice such a tiny little puck flying toward his goal, he’s not that observant.
He is observant enough that he’s asked me once or twice if I’m going to give him his key back… and observant enough to point out when I avoid the question.
But he still asked me if I’m coming to his next game. When I don’t answer, he tells me he’s going to leave me another ticket at the front desk.
And then he sends me a picture of his breakfast. I spend entirely too long looking at it—not because of the food, but because his long, elegant fingers are holding the edge of his plate.
I shove my phone into my pocket and go to class, and I don’t respond for a few hours. When I finally do, it’s to show him the painting I’m doing for an art theory assignment.
That’s amazing.
I frown at his text. It’s really not. It’s… simple. The colors are bright, the shadows are where they should be… but…
I can do better.
And then I put my phone down again, because I want to show him better. I’ve been questioning what’s happening since the other night when I touched myself… since I got that text from him thanking me for his helmet. None of this makes sense. Not for me, not for the life I live.
Donovan is light. He’s a shape that was never meant to fit around me unless I cut him down to pieces… but somehow with a warm smile and his baffling ability to ignore the fact that I’m obviously up to no good… he’s wrapping around me like wet clay and forcing a new space made just for him.
I don’t know if I like it.
That doesn’t stop me from flipping through a few of the paintings I have up for sale and sending him a picture of one I’m actually proud of.
Red and black, a swirl. A figure draped in shadows and reaching out. I remember exactly whose blood I used to paint it—it’s not like I kill people very often. Just when the paint runs dry. Not enough to be noticed… but…
So you’re really talented then, huh?
I have no idea why the compliment makes my stomach clench, or what demon possesses me when I walk to my desk and snap a picture of the sketch I did of him—the one covered in blood and cum.
I stare at it for a long time before deleting it and texting him back.
It’s enough to pay the bills.
He types and deletes something… types and deletes something before finally responding.
As long as you’re comfortable, that’s what matters.
I tilt my head, frowning at the screen. What was he typing before that? Donovan is such a mystery.
I turn and take another picture—this time it’s of the enormous television mounted to my wall. I don’t watch things very often, but it came with the apartment.
I think I do okay.
I need to come to your place to watch movies. Holy shit.
The thought makes my stomach flip as my eyes dart to my studio, to the art I have drying, the pieces I have hanging up that I didn’t sell… to the mess of papers and sketches scattered everywhere. This place is me—unfiltered and real.
I don’t want him to see that.
I think I like your place better.
“California, right?” The woman at the booth gives me a sweet smile. I don’t really like hearing anyone else say that silly nickname, but I nod.
“That’s right.”
“You must be someone special.” She leans forward with a laminated pass in her hand as she says it, and I frown. I’d like to think that I’m something to Donovan, but I have no idea what that is.
My eyes fall to the pass as I take it.
ALL ACCESS.
My eyes flick back up to the woman in front of me, like I’m not sure if she’s handed me the right thing.
She’s just smiling.
Someone special.
Hm.
I slide the pass around my neck and thank her, making my way into the arena and following the winding line of people until I can get to my seat down by the glass.
My fingers are cold when I pull my phone out, flicking through the texts we sent each other earlier.
Is he going to look for me?
Will he be wearing the helmet?
I’m surprised at the way I’m clutching my phone tight enough that my knuckles are nearly white… but I want this.
I want to see him.
A sudden burst of music makes me startle in my seat a few seconds before the lights dim and then jump to life.
I’m quick to stuff my phone back into my pocket so I can pay attention to what’s happening in front of me.
My eyes instantly fixate on the players as they erupt onto the ice, though I have to wait until the last of them spills out before my eyes catch on Donovan.
He’s a dance of elegant movements and a burst of color.
My colors.
He is wearing the helmet.
I don’t expect the blossom of heat that starts somewhere in the center of my chest and slowly stokes to a full-blown inferno as he drops into a crouch and starts warming up with the other players.
It’s there, though, consuming me from the inside out until it’s hard to focus on what’s happening, on anything other than the way he looks.
He’s wearing my art.
My blood.
Everyone in this room is watching him, and no one but me knows that he’s claimed.
“Fuck.” I lean forward like it will let me see his expression behind the mask easier. Is he thinking of me? Is he looking for me?
“I know, right? Warmups are my favorite part.” The girl beside me chirps the reply to my own, personal curse like I was talking to her. I turn, ready to pluck her eyes out of her head if she’s staring at Donovan, but she’s watching one of the other players as they glide around on the ice.
Lucky.
“Hm.” I give her the most noncommittal answer I can and turn my gaze back to the ice. My eyes stay focused on him as he finally springs up from whatever weird, crouched warmup he was doing and makes his way over to the net.
I wonder if he’ll be offended to realize that I can barely pay attention to the game. I don’t watch the other players. I don’t watch the puck, or the way the people move and crash against the boards, though the violence of it all should be exciting to me.
My eyes are all for Donovan, for the way he moves so gracefully, the way he dives across the net and throws himself onto the ice when someone tries to score.
From the way the people around me cheer, it’s obvious that he did something amazing. From the way he throws his arm up in the air, I can tell that he feels it too.
But his head swivels when he does it… scanning.
Looking.
Maybe looking for me.
Fuck…
I spend the entire game watching Donovan and feeling that heat inside me escalate until my skin feels like it’s boiling. As soon as the game ends, I stand, my fingers running over the pass I was handed earlier.
I might as well take advantage of it.
I wonder if he’s going to realize that I’m leaving. I wonder if he’s going to think that I did it without saying goodbye.
Does Donovan even notice that I’m in the stands? Can he feel my eyes on him—the way I can’t seem to stop drinking down the movements of his body, living art on ice…
Does he realize he’s in real danger, and I’m not sure what kind it is anymore?
At least I’ve been here before, so I understand where I need to go. I need to see him.
Up close. With his helmet—wearing my art. I want to see the sweat on his skin, the way his hair is probably slicked with it.
I want to see him wearing my blood.
It’s almost painful to wait for the crowd to filter out of the stands after the game ends, but I know Donovan isn’t going to get off the ice until everything is over. At least I know enough to know that I can turn to the right while everyone else moves toward the exit.
My eyes roll up to the sign that says AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY.
My fingers slide across the smooth plastic of the pass Donovan left for me as I make my way down, and when I hold it up to the security guard posted at the entryway and he waves me through, something inside me sparks.
He wanted me to be here.
He wanted me to be able to find him.
And I know exactly where the locker room is. I wonder if I can pull him to the side, if I could get him alone…
I wonder if…
I hear his laughter above the noise coming down the hallway as his team makes their way toward me. It’s strange, the way I’d know that sound anywhere—the way I can pick it out above all the rest of the chatter and amusement.
It’s just…
Donovan.
He’s surrounded by people, which isn’t exactly what I wanted… or…
Is it? I don’t know anymore. I don’t know why I’m here. I just know that my fingers are itching to reach out and brush against his skin the same way they did against my sketch. It’s not logical. It doesn’t make sense.
I don’t want people… but I want him.
And when his head swivels in my direction, I have less than a second to make a decision.
I can slip back and not let him see me—I’ve already shown him entirely too much of myself.
He knows I break into his apartment. He knows my art.
And as I stand still and tilt my head when his eyes meet mine, I realize I’m going to let him know this too.
I flick the pass he gave me between two fingers with an arched brow.
I’m watching him. Stalking him… and he gave me the fucking keys to the kingdom.
And like the perfect victim, Donovan says something to the people around him and heads in my direction.
He yanks his gloves free as he approaches me, and I watch those long, slender fingers carefully pull the helmet from his head.
I want to ask him if he liked it—I want to ask him if he knows what I used for paint.
I want a lot of things, but Donovan apparently has something else on his mind.
I don’t have time to think when his big hand carefully slides around my waist and he half drags, half pulls me further down the hall. We turn a corner before he stops, and though I can still hear the echo of footsteps, there’s no one around us.
I open my mouth and then shut it just as quick—I’m not sure what to say.
I want to tell him what he’s wearing. I want to tell him to run.
I want to warn him that I don’t have to know him to know that he’s something I want to keep, and that might be more dangerous for him than if I’d just killed him in that alley where I first found him.
I don’t say any of it, and he meets my restraint with silence. It gives me a chance to crane my neck to look up at him. His eyes were so wide, so full of…
Confusion.
And heat. A spark of anger or pain. I don’t know. I just know that he slips his hand around the back of my neck—those warm fucking fingers—and I have to come up on tiptoe when he pulls me forward and crashes his lips against mine in a kiss that might just damn us both.