Page 96 of Lords of Ruin: Owned
I suck in a shuddering breath, desperate to calm the storm raging in my chest. This girl is everything I've ever wanted, and she's right in front of me, tauntingly perfect. Right now, she could break me or make me whole, and I'm powerless to stop her.
"Is that what you want?" I hiss, my voice barely above a whisper. "You want me to make it hurt?"
She takes another step forward, her eyes never leaving mine as she shudders. She bites her lip again, a small gesture that makes my heart pound in my chest.
"Yes," she says softly, her voice barely audible over the sound of my own heartbeat.
"Go get your skates on," I growl.
"Boo," she pouts, standing right on the other side of the barrier, her eyes sparkling with want. "Such a tease."
I can see the hunger in her eyes as she stands just inches away from me, separated by a thin barrier.
Temptation courses through my veins, and I slam my fist against the glass, causing her to jump back. Her eyes are wide in fear, but the rise and fall of her chest reveals an underlying desire. The flush on her cheeks betray her arousal, showing that she wants me just as much as she may fear me, or maybe she wants that too, to push me until I make her quiver in fear, in want, in need.
"I won't be teasing for much longer. Move it, Richards," I snarl, my patience wearing thin.
“Yes, coach.” She nods, turning on her heels towards the lockers.
I hold my breath until I can no longer hear the click of her heels fade into the distance. My pulse thunders in my ears, but it's not from exertion—it’s from her. Fucking hell, what is this girl doing to me? She’s all I think about. All I see. I’m chasing her around campus like some lovesick idiot, screaming at her in the rink like a madman, watching her every damn move during practice like she's the only thing on this ice that matters.
And maybe she is.
I try to shake the thought, but it lingers, gnawing at me. I’ve never been consumed like this, not by hockey, fame, or anything. It’s her. Always her. JosiefuckingRichards. I grind my teeth, pacing the empty rink like a caged animal. She’s beneath my skin, lodged in my veins. It’s more than desire now—a sickness, a craving. Something I can’t control, and I hate it. I fucking hate it.
I move deeper onto the rink, trying to put as much space between us as humanly possible, but it doesn't feel like enough. She isn't even within ten feet of me, and I smell her all around me - vanilla and fresh snow.
I stare at the ice as I rub at the fresh tattoo on my chest. It's only been a few weeks, but I can feel her stitched into my skin even deeper than her name already is.
Her routines play on repeat in my head. Every spin, every jump, every damn smile she throws at those idiots who think they have a shot with her. I can’t stand the thought of anyone else looking at her like I do. Touching her. They don’t get to—they haven’t earned that right.
Only I get to look at her like that. Only I?—
My spiraling thoughts screech to a halt when I hear the soft shuffle of footsteps. My body tenses, and I inhale sharply, my heart thudding in my chest.
The familiar sound of her skates hitting the ice fills the rink. She’s wearing them. The faint slide of blades on cold, smooth ice sends a chill through me, grounding me in the moment.
I don’t turn around, don’t let her see how twisted up I am inside, how I’ve been unraveling since the second she walked out of here. I let the silence hang between us, heavy, suffocating, until her voice—small, hesitant, but with that edge of defiance—breaks through the tension.
“Where do you want me?”
On my face.Is the first thing I think but I choke it down.
I turn slowly, my gaze as cold as the ice beneath us.
“On the ice,” I say, my voice icy and distant, betraying n
