14. TATE #2
A tremor moves through my pinky. It travels up my wrist. Then my arm. I contract the muscles all the way up to my shoulder, setting my jaw, gritting my teeth. The only way to reroute my faulty wiring is through dominance.
My gaze zeros in on Kline.
He pales, which is a feat considering he hasn’t seen the sun for weeks. “J-J-Just kidding, VanCourt. I didn’t mean it. It was the equivalent of a schoolyard taunt. Here, let me tell you another story. I could tell you more about Henry—”
I’m fast, swinging around him, gripping under his chin from behind. The chains tug his tired shoulder joints. He screams a fucking awesome sound that hits all the right places inside me, amplified by the crisp acoustics of this room.
“I’m going to tell you a story, you fucking worm.
Your life belongs to me now. That’s the payment for touching my man.
I can torture you or kill you or both. Whatever I want.
You like being pretty, Kline. Maybe I maim this gorgeous face of yours, feed it to the pigs, and make you live the rest of your life looking like the monster you are on the inside. ”
“No. No, please,” he sobs.
The knife pierces his skin, the serrated blade tearing a jagged line, the edges of his flesh ripping like paper. Blood oozes. More screams, but this time the deep, guttural sound of raw pain. I carve from his jawline to the outer tip of his eye.
“That’s deep. You’ll need stitches, Kline,” I say, letting go of his worthless neck. He’s shaking, breathing erratically.
Sheathing my knife, I finally release him. He’s still chained, but he’s no longer hanging, face bleeding, crimson seeping into my nice stone floor.
So much for no blood.
I stare for a minute, watching the slow rise and fall of his chest. He’s already asleep, despite the pain he must be in. We’ve been pushing him, and he’s been trying to show us that he’s not human.
That was close. I almost lost the game.
Fuck.
Maybe I already did.
I don’t mean with Kline. After I have him stitched up, his room’s about to get cold. Kline’s going to be miserable. He’ll learn not to say stupid shit.
But … Ryan. Unfortunately, Kline’s right. I can’t cage something I can’t control. Whatever I’m not in control of can get control of me.
I was under Uncle Jasper’s thumb, literally. I’d find ways to break free from time to time, only to be caught again. I made it my mission never to let someone have that kind of power over me ever again.
Am I going to wake up in another cage?
I laugh out loud as I walk down the hallway and up the steps that will lead me to the hockey rink and then the main part of the brewery.
Fuck that. I’ll never end up in another cage.
That’s an impossibility. So maybe I’ve come to give a few fucks about Ryan.
Enough that I’m actually waiting for him to say yes.
I care about all my things to some degree.
Like Pearl.
I give her a wink as I pass through the armory. My precious girl. I keep her cleaned and protected in her case until I use her. I’ve just never had this kind of obsession for a human before. I have to adjust my methods.
Something bores at my skull. Another burrowing screwworm, but this one’s got fangs. Ryan’s never tried to lock me up; he’s never even hinted he wants control. If a cage is being built—and I’m not saying there is—it’s not one Ryan’s constructed.
It’s a cage of my own making.
Ihave a shower. Change clothes. But the feeling doesn’t leave me. It’s an old one that lives under my skin. Something choking, drowning, flailing.
Destabilizing.
I need to feel that strong and steady thump of his heartbeat under my hand as his chest rises and falls.
This is all fucking Kline’s fault.
Before I know what’s happening, I’m walking past Ethan’s office, and it’s the one time he’s not playing his favorite game: turning some poor sucker into a simp for him. Chair wheels roll across the floor, and he leans his head out the door.
“Where you going, boss?” he asks, brow raised as if he has some kind of sixth sense telling him that I’m about to do something drastic.
“None of your fucking business.”
He’s up my ass and on my tail. “Tate. Tate!”
Spinning fast, I round on him, and he jumps back, finally remembering who the fuck I am. He breathes carefully, studying me, but not willing to say something or make another move.
“Leave it, Ethan.”
I carry on to my car, Ethan standing in the parking lot, the rain drenching him, nostrils flaring.
I tear out of the lot.
Even the roaring rain against the exterior of my Lambo doesn’t drown out the feeling—the past colliding with present in a way I never expected.
My foot slams on the gas, tires sliding as I turn a wet corner too fast, driving like I have a death wish, even though that couldn’t be further from the truth.
My survival instincts could rival a cockroach’s.
Instead of heading back to Shadowridge like I should be, I take the turn off for North Point, my heart racing the whole way. I just need to see him, touch him … yeah. No. I need his heartbeat, his breaths. Him.
I get a text from Ethan.
What the fuck are you doing, Tate?
Dammit. Right. He has my location, which is important for so many reasons, like if he has to pull me out of a ditch. He’s not supposed to use it to spy on me. I ignore Ethan, who needs to mind his own fucking business, and keep driving.
I park on the road, the large stone North Point towers taunting me with their size.
There’s a wrought iron gate that stands between Ryan and me.
He’s in there—locked inside. That’s how they do things at North Point.
Sure, they say it’s because they want to keep their students safe, but it’s all bullshit.
I know how North Point works. It’s built for producing guys like Henry Savage and Gregory Kline.
For conditioning and control of the next generation of elite society.
I text Ryan.
Me
Come outside
Dollface
Wish I could, but there’s no way I’m getting out of drill practice without divine intervention.
Me
Say you’re sick.
Dollface
As if they give a fuck if I’m sick. Gotta go before I’m late. xx
Are those x’s kisses? My racing heart does a flip, and my stomach fucking swoops. I must be coming down with something.
My gaze locks in on those fucking towers, laughing in my face. Whatever. I’m getting in there.
Another text. My chest thuds—is it Ryan? No. Ethan.
You’re fucking welcome, dumbass.
He’s going to pay for talking to me like that.
Lightning crackles around me as I storm the gate. Okay, not really, but it should. It would serve as a warning, tell everyone to stay the fuck away from me, and let me in. I shouldn’t have to go through all this red tape to see Ryan.
He’s mine.
When I approach, the gate opens for me. Huh, maybe they can see the lightning? The tall guard at his post nods.
“Coach, VanCourt. We were told to expect you.”
They were told to …? Ah, that’s what Ethan’s text meant.
I would have been fine without his interference, but I guess I have to admit that it helps.
I’m accosted by their sorry excuse for a coach, Bruce, by the time I hit Student Services.
He’s the typical military build, stocky, tall, trying to emulate that he eats nails for breakfast.
“Coach VanCourt, this is a surprise.”
“Yes. I’ll be conducting many impromptu audits. I need your office and your hockey captain.”
He stills, licking his lips. Cool eyes try to assess what I’m up to. He’ll never figure me out. Maybe he’ll be suspicious, but he won’t have proof. Coach Bruce is like me, though. We share threads of darkness.
“He’s in drills right now.”
“I don’t fucking care. Get him. Now.”
He nods, jaw firm. “The dean wants to speak with you first, if you don’t mind.”
Except I do mind. Unfortunately, I have to play nice. “Lead the way.”
Kazimir Soloyov isn’t just any dean. There’s a reason he’s earned his position with one of the most revered schools in the Pacific Northwest. North Point is a complicated situation.
A mix of students sent here by parents richer than God to control them, and students with less affluent parents, though still well off enough to pay North Point’s ridiculous tuition fees.
To some, it’s a college for focus, discipline, and the confidence to succeed in any scenario.
Joining the military isn’t a requirement, but many do.
To others, it’s a beautiful prison.
Kazimir balances all of that, making sure the twain never meet, but he doesn’t do it alone. He’s got his officers and the parents of the ultra-rich like Henry Savage, but he makes the decisions and greases the cogs.
He’s an officer, of course, with a standard military fade and a longer patch of hair on top, but he’s in the black sweats he wore for his workout, and a black T-shirt with North Point’s logo on the front.
Before Ryan, he would have been my type. I used to have a thing for cool and calculated. Now, Ryan’s my only type.
“Thank you for coming, Coach,” he says with a hint of a Russian accent. “Have a seat and tell me what you’re doing at my college.”
As a rule, I never let on whether I’m the smartest person in the room or the stupidest. Something Uncle Jasper taught me.
Right now, I could be the latter. It’s hard to tell.
But I want this over with as quickly as fucking possible, so I can get to Ryan.
This isn’t the best time for me to talk to someone like Kazimir, but refusing to talk to him would have made him suspicious.
“I think you’ve formed your own opinion, Kazimir. Why don’t you tell me what you think I’m doing here?” I make myself comfortable in the black leather chair—this man likes black.
“The commissioner has never liked North Point’s style. He’s soft. He’d rather see us leave the Pacific Conference, but we’re a founding college, so he’s forced to put up with us.”
I shrug. “Commissioners come and go. North Point’s survived a lot of them.”