“Not a porcelain doll, you fucking bitch.”
Whap!
Another hit.
He flashes that smug “fight-me” expression I’ve seen him use on the ice. But I won’t. If I punched Ace like he was punching me, he’d be out cold.
I’ll never do that to him.
“You haven’t done a damn thing that scares me.”
“Because I stop myself.”
His arm pulls back, ready to swing again, but this time I catch it, flipping him so fast he barely has time to brace, his brain doesn’t have time to register that I’ve taken the upper hand. He doesn’t have time to notice that Daddy’s left the room. I let the danger in, consuming it, becoming one with it until it’s mine to wield.
There’s no more warmth, no softness.
I pin him, one hand around his throat, breathing heavily. Ace freezes, not afraid, just alert. Like an animal that knows it’s been hunted. Because he senses it—senses he’s provoked something deep. I feel like I’m watching him through a mask. Like it’s not my hand around his throat or my still dripping cock pressed into his abs. Distantly, my jaw aches with imprints from his knuckles.
“I want every single piece of you, princess,” I purr. “I want to make you cry and lick your tears, I want to spank your ass until it’s bruised and fuck your throat raw.”
“Yes. I want that, Luke,” he rasps. “Give me all of you.”
His breath saws out of him, ragged, and aroused. He’s … turned on. Maybe more fucking turned on than I’ve seen him yet—which is a statement. But it’s not the first time he’s told me he wants what I want.
What I am.
It’s just the first time I’m starting to believe it.
My hand’s still wrapped around his throat. His chest rises beneath me, ribs flexing. He licks his lips. Waiting. Holding stock still.
That’s when it slams into me. Like a cracked whip across my mind, sharp and sudden. The weight of control returns, brutal and uninvited, snapping me in half with it. The haze fractures, and I see us.
Ace, pinned. Me, hovering over him like a goddamn storm.
I drop his throat like it’s on fire.
My pulse roars in my ears, drowning out whatever sound I make when I stumble off him. The air feels thick. My skin too tight.
What the fuck did I just do?
Solid arms catch me from behind, pulling me back to the bed.Ace. It’s Ace. He’s still here.There’s a fumbling of limbs until I’ve got him held against me, haphazardly strewn across the bed, predator wrapped around his prey.
Yeah, he’s still here, and I don’t plan on letting him go. I want to give him what he wants—he won’t allow it to be any other way.
So, I’ve got to figure my shit out.
My gear bag lands with a heavy thud, in stark contrast to the silence of the empty gym. It smells like sweaty hockey player in here, but otherwise, there’s no evidence of their existence. Do they keep their frat house as clean as they do their sacred conditioning grounds?
I wrap my hands methodically, a ritual I learned from my first instructor. It kept me grounded on the nights I didn’t want to fight and on the nights I did. Once they’re wrapped, I flex and extend my fingers, checking them for durability. They’ve taken a beating since I’ve arrived at this school, and they’re about to take another.
Thwack!
The heavy bag jolts under my fist, already swinging back to me, shaking the whole gym. And it begins.
The chain creaks, sweat burns my eyes, and pain so hot it burns laces through what’s left of the nerve endings in my knuckles. I hope I bleed. I want to bleed.
This is my meditation. And like with all meditation, things come to me. Visions, feelings, awakenings.
