Total pages in book: 160
Estimated words: 163089 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 815(@200wpm)___ 652(@250wpm)___ 544(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 163089 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 815(@200wpm)___ 652(@250wpm)___ 544(@300wpm)
It’s a blur of commotion—blue, orange, sweat, and too much testosterone—and right in the middle of it stands Marcus Osborn. Wolves’ captain. Stantonville’s pride and joy. And the guy I’ve decided to crush until there’s nothing left.
I’ll skin him alive and eat his goddamn heart.
He doesn’t seem to be aware of my macabre cannibalistic plans, because his full attention remains on me.
In the midst of the mess, as someone at his side talks to him and he straps his helmet back on, his creepy eyes never look away from me.
He skates backward to the center of the rink, looking at me the entire time, then he does a beckoning motion with his index finger.
Water slides down my throat as I crush the bottle in my fingers.
The puck drops again, and I’m not out there, I’m here, trapped in a fucking box, my chest heaving, my blood hot enough to melt the ice.
Kane wins the face-off, and I stand up, cheering them on. “Go, go, go!”
Before Kane can manage to score, that motherfucker Osborn steals the puck and leads a flash counterattack and scores.
The goal is clean and brutal, and the buzzer echoes in the air as the orange section in the crowd goes wild.
“Motherfucker!” I slam my stick against the glass, losing my cool in epic proportions.
It’s not like me.
At all.
I’ve perfected the art of being the league’s prince. And the league’s prince doesn’t lose his cool over a nobody.
And this particular Osborn is a fucking nobody.
He’s so far below nobody, he’s not even on the goddamn map.
Osborn skates lazily to the center, pointing his stick at me as I leave the box.
The moment we have the puck, I ask Kane for a pass, and when it’s in my possession, it’s not Dicky who comes to intercept me, no.
It’s the useless slab of muscle who’s wearing that infuriating smirk that he crafted just to get under my skin. “We meet again, fairy prince.”
I say nothing, because, listen, I invented this game, and I will not be provoked into making another mistake.
With a deep breath, I speed past him, but the motherfucker blocks me again, lowering his head so we’re eye to eye.
“Aw, you’re ignoring me? I’m hurt.”
“Drop dead.”
“Not when I can see you so worked up. That look on your face is giving me a hard-on.”
I’m momentarily stunned, but I recover fast enough to pass the puck to Kane, who scores.
“Boo.” He starts to skate backward. “Stop using Davenport and Callahan as proxies and face me head-on. Unless…you’re scared of me.”
“You’re the one who should be scared of me, rat.”
“Oh no, Mommy, come pick me up. There’s this big, bad prince who wants to do unspeakable things to me.”
My spine jerks upright, and there’s a long buzzing sound in my ears as the scent of peppery musk and burnt cigarettes clogs my throat and floods my mouth.
How the fuck does he…
No. No one knows. It’s impossible.
And yet as Osborn glides across the ice, hyping up their crowd with his mere presence, my stomach heaves, bile pressing at the back of my throat.
I’m itching to run my thumb along my lip, bite down until blood pours out.
The rest of the game continues in a blur.
I don’t even register half of it, and my head is so not in it, I don’t remember what the fuck Coach Slater and Kane yap about.
I can only focus on one thing.
Osborn.
He makes me his fucking target. Whether on defense or offense—he’s there like a goddamn shadow I can’t shake off.
As they’re attacking, he says, “You sure you don’t want to give my cock a go?”
And I lose it. There are no thoughts in my head as I slam him against the boards, which break into pieces.
He laughs as I’m sent to the box for the full five minutes.
For the first time in my hockey career.
I may have done the occasional two minutes, but never five.
And during those five fucking minutes, I have to watch the prick.
There’s something I notice. Osborn moves like he’s been skating since birth. Every glide is measured, economical, like he’s figured out how to waste nothing—not breath, not energy, not attention.
And I’m wasting all three on him.
Because, you see, I wasn’t kidding. I’ll kill the bastard.
Torture him first, make his life hell, then skin him alive and drink his blood vampire style.
No one gets to know about that.
No one.
I’m practically useless for the rest of the game. When the buzzer cuts through, announcing the Wolves’ win, I slam my stick against the boards as Jude wraps an arm around my shoulders.
“You okay?”
I hate that tone. The worry, the way he’s watching me as if I’m made of glass.
Or I’ll collapse any second.
“Never been better,” I grunt.
“Don’t lie to me.”
“Don’t annoy me.” I elbow him in the side, ignoring his furrowed brow and the fuck ton of questions he’ll ask me once we’re out of here.