Brutal Obsession, page 6
Not Jack, not the dance team, and certainly not ballet.
My muscles ache for it.
And that just makes me angrier.
Greyson spots me coming. He’s running his own version of court, Knox and him acting like royalty around a gaggle of impressed underclassmen. His lips keep moving, something about their upcoming game against the Pac North Wolves. He sips a beer between sentences.
I stop at the periphery of his circle.
“Violet,” he calls.
They part for me, suddenly realizing I’m there. Some girls, some guys. Seems no one is safe from the Devereux charm.
I scowl at him and step forward. “I know you did it,” I accuse.
His lip curls. “You’re going to have to be more specific.”
I make my way closer, determined not to show him fear. I’m not afraid of him. I just need to remind myself of that… “The video,” I hiss. “And my room.”
He leans in. “Listen, gimp. Only in your wildest dreams would I be anywhere near your room. Is that what you want? Someone to fuck your mouth? Maybe a bit better than Jackie boy did, hmm?”
Gimp. That stings.
The people around us laugh, and that fuels him. I force myself to lift my chin and face him head-on. No use shrinking now, even though I’m woefully unprepared. I didn’t expect the barbs to come out so soon, so viciously. After all, I left this bar, drunk, with Jack, and blew him. It’s not a secret, thanks to him.
“How about this? You can go back to your seat with your little friend over there and drink your cheap margarita, and you fantasize about what I’d do to you… if you were worth my time. Or better yet? Just get out of my fucking sight.” He sneers. “You gave up your spot on the dance team. You’re essentially useless to this school, aren’t you? No more accolades, no more recognition. Soon enough, you’ll be invisible.”
I flinch.
His eyes light up, like he’s finally found something that scares me.
“Poor little gimp.” His voice is low and cruel. He’s found a wound and he’s going to press on it, drawing out the pain. “Can’t make it as a dancer, probably won’t get a job in whatever fucking career path you chose as a plan B. You’ll go back to living on your mommy’s couch and working twelve-hour shifts at a gas station until you rot of old age.”
“No.” I’m shaking. Trembling with anger. How dare he talk to me like that? “No, I’m going to succeed. And your demons are going to drag you back to Hell where you belong.”
He smiles. “If I belong in Hell, so do you.”
He takes his drink and sips it, then extends his arm. I watch his hand, watch the glass. Watch it happen in slow motion, but I can’t fucking do anything as he tips it over my head.
Beer hits me. It drenches my hair in an instant, soaks my shirt, and makes it stick to my chest. I take a quick step back, then another. The people part for me, not wanting to get splashed. It’s cold. My skin pricks, every part of me on fire at the humiliation. And the echoing laughs. There’s a whooshing sound in my ears that muffles everything.
I brush my hair out of my eyes, trying to hide my tremors. “This isn’t over.”
He nods slowly. “I hope not.”
I turn around and head back to Willow, then stop short. Knox is on my stool, giving her all his attention. There’s a chance she completely missed what just happened… and I don’t want to ruin her night. I’ve been doing that a lot lately. Ruining things.
The beer has traveled to my jeans, dampening the waistband. My skin is sticky, my hair gross. I want to scream. That verbal spar didn’t go as planned. Didn’t happen the way I wanted it to at all. And if I want to retaliate, I’m going to need to take another look at that fucking nondisclosure agreement.
For the first time, I feel utterly silenced. I feel small. Unable to respond in the way I want to, knowing that if I insinuate anything about the accident, he could take everything from me.
I spin on my heel and march right past Greyson and his cronies, heading for the exit.
7
VIOLET
I make it halfway home when someone grabs me. Their hands wrap around my mouth and waist, yanking me backwards. They pinch my nose closed. I suddenly can’t take a breath.
I thrash and kick wildly, but my attacker doesn’t care.
On some level, I know it’s Greyson. The neighborhood on this side of the university has always been quiet, almost sleepy at night. Willow and I have been living here for three years without incident.
My chest aches the longer I go without oxygen. My throat screams. Black spots flicker in my peripherals, and it only takes another few seconds for my vision to dim.
It’s only when I sag that he releases my face.
I suck in a deep, hiccupping breath.
He spins me around and puts me against the wall. The rough brick of the apartment building rubs into my back, catching on my hair. He has his hood pulled up, and there’s a wild look in his eye.
Without warning, he covers my mouth and nose again. His other hand presses down on my chest, keeping me pinned. Tears burn my eyes. My body is on fire, and all I want to do is fight my way out of this.
I scratch his skin. Pull at his wrists. For the first time, I am afraid of what he’ll do. And he sees it the moment it registers in my eyes.
He releases my nose, keeping my mouth covered, and leans in close. I suck in as much air as I can get. His lips touch his knuckles, the only barrier between us. His fingers dig into my cheek. His gaze moves all over my face.
“This is what I want,” he breathes. “I didn’t know it until just now. But your fear is better than any drug. I thought I wanted to torment you. But now I just want this. Over and over again.”
I shudder.
He’s a fucking lunatic.
And then his hand on my chest inches lower. He cups my breast through my wet shirt, squeezing roughly before moving down.
I swallow, and he catches the movement.
He’s breathing heavy, too.
When his fingers slide under the waistband of my pants, a new fight emerges. I buck and jerk my head to the side. I need to dislodge him.
“Do you fight me and make this worse for you?” he muses. “Or better?”
A rhetorical question, seeing as how I haven’t been able to get him to release my mouth.
“One day I’ll want your fight,” he decides. “Right now, I want your silence.”
He pushes past the hem of my panties, and I close my eyes. I have to fight my own groan. No one’s touched me there in months. I haven’t wanted anyone near me after the crash—especially not Jack. Evident by the sloppy blow job I gave him without asking for anything in return.
Greyson doesn’t have that problem. And even if I were able to voice my opinion—that he should get the fuck away from me—I have a feeling he wouldn’t listen.
He runs his finger down, and my eyes flutter open again. He pins me against the wall better, his leg keeping mine open. And when his finger moves across my clit, I can’t hold back my groan.
“Fascinating,” he murmurs.
I don’t want to know what he means.
His finger dips inside me, and he exhales harshly. I let out a low moan. It feels good, even when it really shouldn’t. He strokes me until I squirm, then keeps going. I fight it, my eyes narrowing. I clench my abs and ignore the intense feeling at my center.
I will not come because of him.
But it seems he won’t take no for an answer. He shifts, pressing against my clit with his thumb and pushing two fingers inside me. He finger-fucks me and watches my face. His tongue darts out, licking his lips, and he readjusts his grip on my mouth.
It’s a good thing, too, because his palm catches the obscene noise that bubbles out of me.
The orgasm crashes through me out of nowhere, and I’m suddenly grateful for the wall to keep me standing. He absorbs it all. My cunt clenches around his fingers. His hand slides out, and he brings his wet fingers up to his mouth.
He tastes me, and I freeze. I don’t know what to make of this—any of it. My skin is feverish, my core still tingling in the aftermath. And he licks his fingers, cleaning them and seeming to enjoy it. He finally releases my mouth and steps back.
“I take what I want, Violet. Remember that.”
8
GREYSON
I skate out onto the ice, contemplating my next move with Violet.
My obsession with her is getting worse. I can’t stop thinking about her. Bloody. Bruised. Brutalized. I want to push my limits, yes, but I want to push her limits. See how far I can take things until we both crumble.
Part of me looks forward to that.
I had a phone call with my father this morning. He wanted to know how Crown Point is treating me.
The two months leading up to the start of my junior year were volatile. Both in how my father and I reacted to what happened, but also in Rose Hill. Our attorney, Josh Black, was by almost every day to advise us on the best legal action with Violet Reece. The civil suit haunted us through August, until she dropped the charges.
I wonder about that now as I pass the puck across the ice to Erik.
Why did she drop it?
We never saw each other in court. Never had to face each other in person. Except for the night of the crash, we didn’t interact. It was run through our lawyers. Everything from Mr. Black escorting me out of the police station a few hours after I was arrested, all the way up to the news of Violet’s personal injury suit being dropped.
Now, my father is the sort of man who will do anything to get his way. What lengths did he have to go to in order to manipulate Violet?
And a better question: how can I exploit that?
Where is the weak point?
Her leg. Her dance career.
Finances, family, her future.
Take your pick. She seemed well-rounded. Friendly. Happy.
I want to press on her bruises. I want her to squirm under me until she can’t breathe. Because taking her breath away has been the most exciting thing to happen to either of us all year—I can feel it. I can sense it. She let her fear in for a second, and then it was gone. The tears in her eyes were a show.
She’s just as angry as me, but she won’t let it out.
Come play with me, Violet.
She doesn’t want to. She wants to remain safe. She wants everything to go back to how it was. The dance team, school, friends. It’s not possible for her, and I doubt it’s possible for me either.
How many ways can a person break before they can be reshaped into something new?
“Devereux! You’re skating like your blades are coated in molasses.”
I heave a sigh and move faster, trying to anticipate the pass from Knox. Erik and I skate up opposite sides, racing toward Miles in the goal. He taps his stick against the ice, his face a mask of concentration.
Knox passes to me. The puck glides across the ice, and I cradle it. One of our younger players, a defensemen who just started this year, comes out to intercept me.
I dart around him, leaping over his stick as it swipes at me. If we had the wrong ref, we’d get shot down for him trying to trip another player. No matter, though. It doesn’t stop me. I aim for the top corner of the net.
Miles catches it. Barely.
Erik and I pass each other behind the net, and he gives me the finger. “Better luck next time.”
I growl and keep moving. Miles sends the puck back out, and another trio takes their turn charging for the goal. I skid to a stop beside our bench and snag my water bottle. I squirt it through the cage of my mask and toss it back.
Coach comes over and slaps my shoulder. “You’re off today.”
I look out toward where Miles and Knox are facing off. “Sorry, Coach.”
He makes a noise of disgust. “I expect my starting line to bring their A game. You’ve got eight hours to pull yourself together.”
I scowl. I always play best under the stadium lights, with a crowd screaming in the stands. With strangers staring at me like they’re going to eat me for lunch, only to be surprised when we outskate them at every turn.
My team is agile. We race each other just for the hell of it, working on our footwork and maneuvers. It gives us a slight edge, but we can’t rely on it. The plays Coach has been drilling into us all month are next level.
We had a slight break from games, and he took full advantage.
“Get back out there.”
I nod and shove off. I’m happier when I’m focusing on what I can control. How fast I move, the way my skates cut into the ice. The stick in my hand, the puck. It all blends into a harmony unlike any other.
“Watch it!” someone yells.
Someone bulldozes into me from the side, and we both go down in a tangle of limbs. He lands on top of me, and it only takes his disgusting grunts for me to realize it’s Erik. Fucking twat. I shove him off and push up, then circle him.
“What the fuck was that?”
He clamors to his feet, leering at me. “You should really watch where you’re fucking going.”
I brush off ice shavings. “You could’ve avoided me. You hunting for a fight, Smith? You want me to beat some sense back into you?”
“Okay, okay,” Coach hollers. He reaches us and looks between the two of us. He seems to be contemplating who was at fault and what to do about it. It only takes him a moment to decide. “Erik, get out of my fucking sight.”
“Coach—”
“OUT,” he roars. “And come back when you know how to skate.”
I wink at him on his way past. He rams his shoulder into mine, but I shake it off. He can be as disgruntled as he wants—for now, he’s gone.
Coach just shakes his head at me. “Sometimes you’re more trouble than you’re worth.”
I shrug at him and retrieve my stick. “Sorry, Coach.”
The rest of practice passes relatively quickly. We shower off and grab a bite to eat back on campus, then all stomp to the library. I’ve got a test coming up in environmental economics. That class is kicking my ass. As much as I enjoy making Violet uncomfortable, I really need to get a better handle on it.
So we bury our heads in our textbooks for the next few hours. Erik comes in with some of his buddies and takes a seat at a far table.
Someone catches my attention. Just a flash of blonde out of the corner of my eye.
Violet.
She’s been wearing the strangest outfits lately. Baggy sweatshirts with Crown Point University across the front, or the dance team t-shirts that must be free. Black leggings and boots or sneakers. Nothing crazy or outrageous. Nothing that shows off her shape. Just like the pink sweater the first night I saw her at Haven, or the shirt she wore when I dumped beer over her head and then chased her out of the bar like a lunatic.
I don’t regret what happened after I caught her, though…
I shift in my seat.
“Be right back,” Knox says. He pushes back and goes over to where Willow and Violet are sitting. He joins them with an ease that picks at my jealous nature.
That has to do with my upbringing, no doubt.
Raised to have the best things, immediately, I don’t quite understand the mechanics of getting something I can’t have.
Like Violet.
No, brain. I don’t want Violet.
I grit my teeth and turn away abruptly. It’s either that or go and rip her book to shreds—and there are more subtle ways to undermine her. And lead her in my direction…
Knox comes back and falls into his chair. He winks at me. “Girls are coming to the game tonight. In case you were wondering.”
“I wasn’t.”
He shrugs. “Okay.”
Something else catches my eye. Jack, coming into the library and joining Violet and Willow. He leans into Violet, whispering something to her. I clench my teeth so hard, my jaw aches. Why the fuck is he still talking to her? I thought that was over and done with.
Apparently not enough.
Still, I force myself to ignore it. There’s nothing between Violet and me. No spark, no attraction. Animosity, sure. Anger, yes.
I need more than that.
I stand abruptly and cross the room. I ignore Jack completely and grab Violet’s arm. She lets out a squeak of protest, but I don’t give her much choice. She can either stand and come with me or she can be dragged.
Lucky for her, she chooses to come—albeit not as quietly as a library would usually dictate. I pull her down one of the aisles, between the stacks, and find an abandoned corner. I box her against the shelves and brace my hands on either side of her.
“What do you want?” she snaps.
So fearless… until she’s not.
“I’m craving another taste of your pussy,” I tell her.
Not particularly true, but whatever. Now that I think about it, blood rushes to my cock. I don’t have a public sex kink. But by the way Violet’s gaze drops to my pants, then back up, I think this girl might be darker than she lets on.
Interesting.
I add that to my mental file about her.
“Or maybe I just wanted to see what you’d do if I interrupted you and what’s his face.”
“Jack,” she replies hotly. “Which, if you’ll excuse me…”
I tsk, not moving. “Not how this works.”
“How does it work?”
I look her up and down, frowning. “I want to see it.”
“See what?”
“What I did to you. The damage.” The reason she limps.
Her gaze goes frigid. “So you admit it?”
I lift one shoulder. “Admit what?”
“That you hit me.” She’s too pale. “And then will you admit that you snuck into my room?”
This is the second time she’s mentioned it, and I haven’t gone near her fucking room. It’s on my to-do list to find out where she lives, but I’ve been a little preoccupied trying not to obsess over her. Clearly, my plan is going so well.
