2. Tate
Tate
Holy fucking fuck, I actually did it.
The six-five slab of Russian muscle broke, just for a moment, and I got away.
I swore I was about to die.
The death threats I’ve been getting don’t actually seem believable, but when I looked up into that motherfucker’s face, I knew he could kill me if he wanted to.
He’s not my stalker, though… I don’t think.
Did seem pretty interested in me, though.
I push my way through the party, holding my bloody hand against my chest. It hurts so bad. Like a bitch, still stinging every time I move it. I get a few sideways looks, but the deeper I get into the crowd, students are too busy dancing, drinking, and making out to notice me making my way through.
Blood doesn’t show against my black tank top, either.
Lucky me.
When I reach the kitchen, I grab a wad of paper towels and wrap them around my palm, pressing them tight against the gashes on my hand.
“Jesus Christ,” I mutter under my breath, my words inaudible in the reverberating music.
My vision darts across the available bottles of liquor.
I grab a random handle from the long rows of bottles laid out on the countertop, pour some brown liquid into a red plastic cup, and take it like a big shot.
Some sort of sweetened whiskey hits my tongue. A little gross, but it does the job.
I take another gulp, looking up at the giant wooden beams that line the tall ceilings in the kitchen. Even in here, this place looks like a Victorian mansion from a goddamn movie.
It’s gorgeous.
Old.
Entirely different from everywhere I used to party in New York City.
It still feels like some cosmic joke that I’m actually here, at some private college in the middle of the forest… all because I was such a problem that I needed to get shipped away.
The girl who brought me here said this was Onyx House.
I met her on the steps of my dorm, asked her about parties, and we became friendly fast.
When we got here, she called this place a “secret society,” and I laughed.
I didn’t believe her.
When I walked in, it was like any other house party I’ve been to, other than the fact that the place looks like one of those haunted mansions you scream at the characters for being stupid enough to go inside.
But we went inside.
Which was a mistake.
Then she dragged me to a corner and started pawing at my groin, which was a worse mistake.
Because she was only touching me for a grand total of ten seconds before some random prick in the corner tried to take pictures of me.
I’m used to people wanting to take my picture, because growing up with Landrey as a last name means that you have all eyes on you since the day you’re born, but what I’m not okay with is catching a frat bro trying to take stealthy pics of me while an innocent girl squeezes my dick through the front of my pants.
Then I overheard him calling her a slut.
The prick.
I wasn’t actually going to cut his throat.
Just wanted to suggest that I could.
My dad always said that I was born ready to befriend the whole world. I don’t get in fights. I don’t have a violent bone in my body.
But I couldn’t let that guy sell those pictures.
I’ve already screwed shit up for my brother and my parents enough, so ruining a random girl’s life isn’t on the menu.
One photo with Tate Landrey would definitely be enough to get guys calling her a slut or gold-digger for the rest of college, and no one deserves that.
Not everyone can tank negative attention like I can.
My name is Tate Landrey, and yes, fucking sue me, I want people to talk to me.
Like me.
Touch me.
Even when it causes me to fuck up my life.
I push open the doors to the backyard and head outside.
The yard is huge. Lined with tall trees and rose shrubs.
A stone path leads out to the pool, and other than a few guys playing poker on the patio, it’s calmer out here than it was inside.
This whole house looks like something out of a movie set from a period drama in England, and the giant yard is no different.
I loop around the edge of the house and avoid any sideways glances from people on the patio.
I get to the side where it’s just rose bushes and rows of thick green hedges, and I’m finally alone.
I lean against the wall on the side of the house and breathe deep, wincing at the pain on my palm.
The leaves on the stone walkway nearby rustle in the breeze.
And I think of home.
The city.
Football season is starting up, and I’m not playing for the first time.
A deep flood of bitter disappointment surges through me.
Everything I’ve ever known is so far away… so how am I already fucking up my life here, too?
My whisper reaches no one, harsh and broken. “Fuck, fuck, fuck—”
I turn fast and slam my bloodied fist into the stone wall.
My knuckles scream with pain, and when I feel a fat, wet tear break off from the corner of my eye, I reach back and throw the next punch against the wall harder.
Stop it.
Just fucking stop.
I know I’m right on the edge of breaking my own knuckles.
I clutch my fist hard again under the throbbing pain, feeling the slashes on my palm sear with heat as I hit the wall again.
It’s only been hours since I left the city. I could have said no, when my brother suggested coming here, because I’m nineteen and for some arbitrary reason that means I’m well into being an independent adult. But… I knew Luke was right.
I had to leave.
To start over.
I turn and lean the side of my body against the cool wall, holding my fucked-up hand against my body like it’s a bird with a broken wing.
It hurts so much.
I hiss as I move the paper towels on my hand, which are now bloomed with more red than white. I didn’t grab enough of them for how bad the cut on my palm is.
My stomach plummets when I see movement nearby.
I hear footsteps on the gravel, coming around the corner of the house.
And then he appears again.
The last fucking person on Earth I want to see.
Roman Petrov, whoever the fuck he is, followed me out here.
I don’t usually feel that short being five foot ten, but… when I was against his body, I did.
“Don’t run,” Roman says in a low tone.
I glance to one side.
There’s a gap between two rose bushes at the side of the yard. I could exit quickly if I needed to. Get out around the side of the house and take off onto the street.
He steps into the low light of the lantern on the side of the house. He’s carrying something in his hands.
Out here, I catch more glimpses of thick-lined tattoos from beneath his sleeves.
He’s deeply fucking handsome, without question.
Even though his chiseled face seems to be set in a permanent smoldering scowl, his jawline and prominent Adam’s apple make him look like a statue of a young god.
His brown hair is freshly cut, short above his ears but with more length on the top. His lips are plush and ruddy, and I’d tell him he looks like a great kisser if I wasn’t a little bit afraid of him.
“Looking for a round two?” I toss back at him.
I already got him with my fist once, and I could do it again.
His gaze dances downward, and he catches the fresh gashes on my knuckles.
“You hurt yourself,” he murmurs, immediately reaching out his palm to cradle my wrist. “Why did you do this?”
For a moment, his touch isn’t aggressive at all.
He holds me, examining the wounds with a sad, almost sympathetic look on his face.
“Because I wanted to feel something different.”
He hums, his lashes flicking upward, looking from my hand to my eyes again. “You can feel things without doing this.”
“I’m not afraid of pain.”
“If you are looking for pain,” he says, stroking the underside of my arm, “there are better ways to find it.”
“Yeah? Got any suggestions?”
“Give me those,” he says, gesturing toward the bloody towels.
“I’m not going to do that.”
“Give.”
He reaches out, gripping my forearm and tugging it forward, his authoritative edge coming right back again. His fingers are strong and he gets complete control of my arm again quickly, trying to pry open my fist.
I yank my arm backward a moment later, trying to catch him by surprise by twisting it to the side.
His grip strengthens and he catches me again before I can break free. But when I quickly step forward and bring my arm in the opposite direction, I finally get the jump on him.
My arm breaks loose of his grasp and I feel a smile spread over my lips.
“Try harder next time.”
I spin to make my exit, a rush of adrenaline hits my blood. I take off over the gravel path that cuts between the hedges and roses, and while I know I’m not as strong as Roman, I can fucking run.
Years of football, baby.
I was a natural wide receiver, and I will outrun you any day.
But there’s an iron gate just beyond the hedges.
I falter, coming to a stop.
And it’s already too late when I realize the gate is open, just by a crack, and I could have pushed through if I didn’t fucking hesitate.
Roman’s hand comes down heavy on my shoulder.
I freeze, spinning back around. His other arm lands on my waist, controlling my movement, and if I tried to break free now I know I couldn’t.
He hauls me around and shoves my body up against the wall.
My back slams against the cool stone, knocking the breath out of me.
He pins my injured arm above my head, then keeps the other arm low at my side. The bulk of his body is enough to keep me there.
He’s so much fucking bigger than me.
I’m at eye level with the space where his neck meets the top of the button-up blue shirt he’s wearing beneath his jacket. I can see the edges of tattoos past his open collar, and I can smell the scent of his clean laundry and a hint of something sweet and alcoholic on his breath.
The look on his face is completely calm.
Focused.
Like he’s barely even trying.
Have you done this before, you fucking brute?
“Stay,” he says, his eyes flicking down to meet mine. “Give me the towels. Stop trying to escape.”
“Damn,” I say under my breath, cocking my head to one side. “You’re pretty close for someone I just met. You actually going to fuck me this time, Roman?”
The controlled calm on his face doesn’t budge at all. He doesn’t acknowledge my joke.