“Cas,” I acknowledge carefully.
“Your seat's not up there anymore, Terror.” His smirk widens into something cruel. “Didn't Xaden tell you? You belong to him now. That means you sit where he tells you to sit.”
Heat floods my face, half humiliation, half rage. “I don't belong to anyone?—”
“Xaden!” Cas calls out, ignoring me completely.
No. God, please no.
Xaden skates over to the boards, and the intensity in his eyes as they lock onto mine. He says something to one of the guys, then disappears into the tunnel.
Two minutes later, he emerges and stalks toward me with a purpose that makes my pulse spike with equal parts fear and something far more dangerous.
“What are you doing here?” His voice is low, lethal.
I lift my chin defiantly even though my hands are shaking. “I came to watch the game.”
“In the stands?” He steps closer, invading my space, his presence overwhelming. “I don't think so, Tink.”
“I'll sit wherever I want?—”
“You'll sit where I tell you to sit.” His hand shoots out, gripping my chin and forcing me to meet his eyes. “And right now, I'm telling you that you're sitting rink-side. In my section. Where everyone can see exactly who you belong to.”
“I don't belong to you,” I hiss, but my voice wavers.
His smile is cruel and beautiful and absolutely devastating. “Don't you?”
Before I can respond, he releases my chin and pulls off his practice jersey in one smooth motion. My breath catches as his bare chest is revealed, all hard muscle and ink, the evidence of our violence written across his skin.
Then he holds out a different jersey.
His game jersey.
Number 5.
“Put it on,” he commands.
“No.”
“Put. It. On.” Each word is punctuated with barely controlled rage. “Unless you want me to do it for you. And trust me, Tink, I won't be gentle about it.”
Harper grabs my arm. “Tor, just?—”
“Listen to your friend,” Xaden says, his eyes never leaving mine. “Be a good girl and put on my jersey so everyone in this fucking rink knows exactly who you're here for.”
Shame and fury war inside me, but I'm trapped. If I refuse, he'll make a scene. And after everything with the video, with Meekan's blackmail, I can't afford any more attention.
With shaking hands, I take the jersey from him and pull it on over my shirt. It's too big, hanging off my frame, and it smells like him, that intoxicating mix of cologne, sweat and something uniquely Xaden that makes my head spin.
Just to spite him, I tug the elastic from my hair and let it cascade around me, then gather the front of the jersey and usethe elastic to tie the front. When I don’t get a reaction from him, it pisses me off but I don’t let it show.
“Good girl,” he purrs, and the praise makes me hate myself for the way my body responds.
“Well,” he says, his voice dripping with satisfaction. “Now that we've got that settled, my team has a game to win.” He looks down at me, his eyes burning with something I can't name. “And you're going to watch. You're going to sit rink-side, wearing my jersey and cheer for me while I destroy your brother's dreams. Understood?”
I should fight back. Should refuse.
But all I can do is nod.
