16. RYAN
RYAN
Everything about Tate says he’s guarded—the tightness around his eyes, the careful way he’s moving.
As if he thinks he disrupted the force. Not good for someone who needs immaculate control of every situation.
He told me how his uncle broke him. Tate thinks he’s heartless, sounds like his uncle made sure of that, too, but he’s been through hell to protect his brother.
That takes at least a little heart. Can’t he see that?
“The months following were hell. At least I can tolerate touch now, but you don’t realize how many innocuous touches happen in a day until it triggers a violent reaction.
Jasper showed me many ways he could control me, but none was as final or as caging as that one. He showed me I could be powerless.”
“I understand,” I say slowly. “My grandfather was diabolical. I wish I knew what happened to him to make him so fucking evil.”
He tilts his head. “Is that how you think it works? Something made him evil?”
Tate’s hand slides against my cheek. It’s warm and heavy. I grip it, covering the knuckles with my palm.
“Isn’t that what happened to you?”
The devil arrives on his face as if the past several minutes didn’t happen. “All that did was short-circuit my neuropathways, baby. I was always this way.”
Why is that hot? Fuck me. I bite my lip until it breaks, and copper bursts over my taste buds. He swoops in to kiss me, tasting my blood.
“But, my grandfather, he built inventions. He said they were to train future Savages. I’ve managed to keep Griff away from them, but my father—”
His hand slips to the nape of my neck, fingers digging in. “But he fucking uses them on you.”
“I—”
“Pack your shit, Ryan. No, forget about your shit. I’ll buy you new shit. Just wait until I get my hands on him. He can join Kline. They can fight over the scraps of food I give them.”
Using all my strength, I grip the lapels of his jacket. “Tate. I can’t leave. Griff. Remember Griff?” I’m fucking lucky Griff’s still here. Father hasn’t made good on his threats—yet.
Tate doesn’t speak, but it’s clear from his growl that he doesn’t care about what happens to Griff so long as I’m out of danger. He knows he can’t say that to my face.
His fingers dig into my hair, wreaking havoc on the roots. “You don’t go home, dollface. You don’t go anywhere with him, do you understand?”
“Ow, motherfucker. Okay.”
He eases off. “I’m going to give him the Braveheart treatment and pull his innards out inch by inch while he screams for a crowd.”
Fuck. This is going nowhere. He’s still a bit cagey, like he was when he got here. Tate needs to be led away from this topic.
“Did Clarence fuck with the records?” I ask. “Back then, to get you in trouble with your uncle?”
“Most likely. I could never prove it, and it wouldn’t have mattered. My uncle would have sided with him over me every time. Even if he knew Clarence was lying. That fucking worm.”
“He’s a worm,” I agree, but my distraction’s not working. There’s murderous rage in his eyes and something else.
“I hate that I can’t save you from what he’s already done to you, dollface.”
“Don’t you dare fucking pity me, Tate. I’m a hockey player. I’m built for this shit.”
“Oh, yeah? How old were you when he started using your grandfather’s inventions?”
I grit my teeth. Okay, point him. I wasn’t a roughened hockey player when Father started his fucked-up conditioning camp.
“How old were you?” I counter.
Our stare-off is a dare. He breaks first.
“Let’s agree we were too young for what happened to either of us.”
“We were too young,” I agree.
I descend on his lips before he has the chance to do it first. We’re so messed up.
Two broken souls, twisted together. I pull back, trying to get a read on him.
He’s in a volatile frame of mind. He wouldn’t hurt me, but he’s unhinged enough to act on some of his darker designs. I wish I could stay with him.
“I should call the others in,” he says. “We’ve been alone for too long—which is a fucking ridiculous concept. You should be with me for as long as I want you to be.”
I kiss his lips one more time. Maybe it will calm him a little. Doubtful.
“Kane King, Rhys Beckett, Gideon Thorne, and Torin Ackerman. That’s who you want to speak to next. Call them in, they’ll help us out.”
Mid-Late November
We have a home game this weekend, the last before Thanksgiving break, except it’s not a break for the five of us. We’ll be playing in Tate’s special league.
Which, ah, he doesn’t exactly know about yet.
After what I found out about him, the smart thing to do would be to tell my friends I’m out.
But I can’t do that to them. They need me.
Tate’s just going to have to understand.
I’m going to have to ask for forgiveness instead of permission on this one.
He wouldn’t just say no; he might actually chain me to him.
Tate
You still haven’t answered me. What the fuck is wrong with your cousin? How are you related?
I smile at the text. I’m not supposed to have my phone out during mealtimes, not even supposed to have it in the mess hall, but I … fuck. Tate texts me now. He’s been texting me regularly since the day of his impromptu visit and having him in my pocket feels like having him with me.
Yeah, I can hear the voices of reason, don’t fall for the borderline psychopath, Ryan. But I won’t, okay? I’m just getting to know my future husband. That’s strategic.
And he’s talking about Kane. How does one begin to explain Kane to another person?
Me
That’s because I don’t know. No one knows.
He interviewed each of my friends that day under the guise of doing hockey player safety audits, but all he did was ask them about me.
I did not swoon.
Okay, maybe I did a bit.
Rhys kicks me under the table, the universal alert for there’s an officer approaching. I shove my phone in my pocket and then proceed to stuff my gob. Practice was killer, and we’re all more haggard than usual.
Griff’s at a table with some of the other plebes in his year.
At least there’s no fucking Rowan in sight.
He hasn’t been at practice or games either.
I hope that means he was transferred or decided to move to the jungle.
Griff’s got his head down, forcing food into his mouth.
I crane my head, probably not too inconspicuous, but I need to see if …
yeah, it’s there. The mask. It’s next to his tray for when he’s done eating.
My heart does a fucking somersault dive into a vat of ice. I’d march straight over there if I didn’t think it would make things worse for him.
I should look away, but I can’t, hoping he can feel how much I love him from all the way over here. And I take a mental picture of his joyless face. When things get hard for me, I’m going to remember that face. This is why I’m doing everything I’m doing.
Two guys approach his table fresh from the food line-up—Wren and Scout. They’re … are they wearing masks over their mouths? They are. Like the kind doctors wear, but a black cloth version. One of them sits beside Griff, the other across from him.
Solidarity.
Griff smiles.
My forever-coiled muscles relax just a little bit.
These motherfuckers.
My skates glide through the splotches of blood on the ice as I race with the puck, adrenaline sizzling through my veins. These guys are big, as big as we are, and I can’t help feeling like we’ve played them before. But like us, they’re masked, identities hidden.
Wham!
I’m slammed into the boards with the force of a battering ram. The puck’s knocked loose, and just because he can, buddy throws an uppercut that connects with the underside of my jaw. I shove, knocking him off his skates, sending him flying into a blood-filled pit, otherwise known as the ice.
Skating into the defensive zone, I fight to recover the puck with a nice heavy check into the boards.
The puck slips from his stick, but I get mine on it, sending it behind me, straight to Gideon’s blade.
He passes up to Kane, who skates around their defense like they’re nothing but pylons on drill day.
King shoots … he scores!
We skate through the battlefield, celebrating the goal with a group smash hug as half the crowd cheers with us and the other boos us from the depths of their soul.
My eyes travel over our group—jerseys torn, red smeared, but buoyant in a way I haven’t seen us in a long time.
We needed this. North Point sucks the joy out of hockey to the point that murder hockey is more fun.
Dia-fucking-bolical.
“Where is he?” Ethan shouts, charging into the dressing room during the second period intermission.
Shit.
I’m allowed into the brewery and even the dressing room to help coach the team.
Hell, I’m even permitted on the bench, just not allowed on the ice.
But it’s chaos down here, we’re masked, and well, to some degree, trust played a factor.
Ethan was the only one I was worried about, and unless he was keeping a close eye, which he wasn’t, it was pretty easy to get out there.
I should have gotten away with it for the entire game.
Ethan down here can only mean one thing—Tate’s here. I shiver.
“Where’s who?” Becks tries, removing his mask, stepping between Ethan and me, and flashing his dark eyes at him. That usually works on everyone. It does shit all right now.
“Step aside,” he says with enough bite that he might have Becks believing he’s actually a supernatural creature.
I remove my mask. “It’s okay, guys. I’ll go with him.”
Kane shrugs, patting me on the shoulder. “Was nice knowing you, Cap. We’re not in any trouble, though, are we, Mr. Vampire? I didn’t know it was him either.”
Ethan ignores him. “Come with me.”
“Can I take my skates off?”
“Move, or I’ll get Jane and her team in here.”