10. RYAN
RYAN
Mid-October
Iam an idiot.
A grade-A clown.
After the best sex of my life, with the man who laid out exactly how he would like to own me in exchange for his help, I cried in his fucking arms. That is so not what we are to each other. I could tell he was uncomfortable.
I don’t know why Tate wants to marry me, but I know what it’s not—it’s not love.
It’s not even like. It’s pure ownership like the way someone owns a car.
I’m not sure if Tate can feel for someone.
Obsession might be all he has to give. He tracks my heartbeats like a goddamn predator for fuck’s sake.
Because he is a predator, Ryan.
The cold and calculated voice he used when he said he’d kill anyone I slept with—he meant it. You can’t cage energy like that.
Those are just a few of the many reasons I was planning on walking away from him, while I still could.
I wasn’t just leaving when I got off the bed; I was leaving him.
But it’s like he could sense it. His energy drew me back to his metaphorical lair.
Demanded I tell him about me so he could help.
And there was something in his voice when he said please …
Of course, in hindsight, I know I had to have imagined it, but it sounded like he gave a fuck. Apparently, that’s all I need, one fuck given, and I spill. I’d never survive torture.
I didn’t tell him everything. I did something worse.
I agreed to talk to my father about something I know he’ll laugh in my face for.
But I don’t know how to make Tate understand without telling him everything.
And giving the psychopath even more that he can use to manipulate me with isn’t the move.
Right now, he’s under the impression that I’ve got a strict father who’s committed to legacy.
Not unusual for any of the families in our circle.
Anyway, the crying went over so badly that Tate did his robot version of a there, there, gave me a restrained kiss, said he’d better get going, and hopped out the window with the cold precision of a wildcat. A dull ending to our lava-hot fuck session.
Then, because the universe likes to rub salt into my wounds, McKinnon was in the right place to witness my walk of shame from his room. And, by the way, he did open the door. No way Tate didn’t hear that shit with the way he can track my heartbeat-to-breath ratio.
So, he’s a liar, too. Untrustworthy. Fuck him.
It’s Monday, a week and a bit after that lovely little interaction.
Hockey practice was a fucking torture session, as usual.
Then formation. Then breakfast, where I could see Griff, but not talk to or look at him.
Now classes. Classes are a relief from my fucking life.
One bright side, Rowan’s still out with his knee injury.
He showed up to practice to observe, of course, but I don’t have to put up with him on the ice.
Small blessings.
I check my phone for the fortieth time since I woke up this morning, and nope, nothing new from Tate. He’s been texting me all week, but it’s shit I don’t want to deal with.
Tate
Have you asked him yet?
What’s the hold up?
We’re running out of time.
Yeah, so I left him on read. It’s a tad amusing to imagine that vein in his forehead throbbing while he attempts to gently nudge me.
I don’t think gentle’s a word in Tate’s vocabulary, but he’s waiting for an answer from me and forced to play nice.
I get a sick sort of pleasure in it. He’s the monster who bows to no one—but me.
Kinda.
Okay, that’s not totally accurate, but I doubt he goes around wiping away just anyone’s tears.
Ugh. Or maybe I’m seeing what I want to see, so I’ll feel better about this whole thing.
Convince myself that marrying Tate’s a good idea.
He’s probably reformulating his plan. Organizing his dungeon.
Getting the chains ready for me. Instead of luring me into the cage with promises of safety, he’ll drug me and drag me in.
He doesn’t want a real husband; he wants something pretty to show off. To play with.
A doll.
At least I’m pretty again. I lick over the nice new “tooth” I finally have after putting up with that stupid crown.
My torturous thoughts are drowned out by the obnoxious rain pounding on the windows, rattling the halls of this old building. Maybe it will finally collapse on me before my life does. I’m about to put my phone back in my locker when it rings. I jump, and so does my heart rate.
Is it him? Please say he’s finally fucking calling me.
But I already know it’s not. Tate only texts me.
That doesn’t stop the tidal wave of disappointment when I see Father flash across the screen.
The electric bolt of lightning is next, setting off wave after wave of anxiety.
Father never calls on a Monday unless there’s something.
Taking a breath, I answer. “Sir?”
“Ryan. I’ll be there to pick you up after classes today.”
“What? Did something happen, sir?” I’m not sure that I succeed in keeping my voice steady. I knew I was eventually going to pay for telling him to go fuck himself, but I thought that would happen at Thanksgiving. He’s never retrieved me from school like this.
“We’ll talk when I see you. Your TAC officer knows. You’ll be given homework for the days you’re gone.”
“Days? Sir, can you just—”
“See you later, Ryan.”
He hangs up, and for some reason, I have the unbearable itch to call Tate. What the fuck is wrong with me? Do I expect him to show up on an armored horse? More likely with him, it’d be an unmarked van.
Slamming my back into the lockers, I lean my head back and close my eyes.
I need more strength. Mine’s running thin.
I’ve all but lost Griffon, and every day, I lose just a bit more autonomy to people who’d rather see me under lock and key.
Whatever Father has in store for me, it’s not going to be a holiday.
I peel myself away from my locker, taking a last scroll through my messages. What could Tate do anyway? He’s the King of the Underworld, but up here, it’s men like my father running things. I’m too tightly held in Henry Savage’s iron fist.
My imagination came up with a lot of shit yesterday, distracting me from classes, ending with Gideon and Torin cornering me in the fucking restroom. They wouldn’t let me out until I told them that my father was coming to get me.
They exchanged a serious look and promised to keep their eyes on Griff. They also offered to “break the news to Kane.” Their words.
If only they could see me now, in the middle of some kind of weird-ass Take Your Kid to Work Day, if it could be called that. Father doesn’t work in the standard sense. We come from too much old money. He makes deals, networks, invests, and manages our stronghold within filthy-rich society.
Father and I are dressed in what are considered the Savage Family colors—navy blue suit, black dress shirt underneath, gold tie—on our way to a conference governance meeting.
A Savage has been on the board as a major financial investor and advisor since North Point was founded in 1810, was involved in founding the hockey team in 1903, and so naturally, found themselves a place on the Pacific Conference Board when it emerged in the fifties.
And so, I guess that means I’m next up. Carry on our grand legacy and all that.
I’m just a guest today. An observer. I’ve been instructed to keep my mouth shut.
Why did Father decide today of all days was the day?
No fucking clue. He won’t answer my questions other than to inform me that I can expect to return to school by Thursday.
That means two days. I can survive two days of whatever bullshit I’m in store for.
If I survive all this monotone first. Everything in this room is a muted color.
Beige high-backed leather chairs, deep chestnut boardroom table, and there are even wood panels on the walls with inlaid lighting.
If not for that lighting, everything would blend together, consumed by the monochrome.
If only I were wearing beige. It could absorb me, too.
“That’s the commissioner,” Father leans over to whisper in my ear. He’s a tall man with amber hair. It’s hard to guess his age, but I’d say he’s close to Father’s age, forty-five. He’s broad-shouldered and fills out his suit like he trains a lot. He’s nowhere near the size of Tate, though.
I have to stop thinking about fucking Tate.
Every chair is filled with neatly dressed men and women, save the one across from me.
I should know more about each of them, things like who the fuck they are and what they do.
But I’ve never cared about all this bureaucratic bullshit, so I don’t.
Father didn’t see fit to introduce me, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to be excused from learning all their names and roles.
So, I at least try to pay attention, but I want to leave.
The commissioner clears his throat. “Five more minutes to give our Coach Advisory Rep time. He said he’d just—ah! There he is.”
I spin the direction of the commissioner’s gaze and freeze.
Fuck me. It’s Tate VanCourt, because of course it is. He’s somehow gotten even more handsome since I last saw him. My heart skips a fucking beat. Did his predator-level senses pick that up? I blink and then remember that my father’s right next to me.
Oh my god, my father’s right next to me. And Tate’s going to be right in front of me.
Tate doesn’t spare me a glance, taking his seat. “My apologies, commissioner. We do dryland training on Tuesdays. It was hard to get away from the team.”
Get away from the team, my ass. No way he gives that much of a shit about his team.
“No need for apologies, we all know how dedicated you are, VanCourt.”