“Hmm. I’m drawing a blank. Can I get a hint?”
He’s smirking and I want to punch it off his face, but that would make me look like a barbarian while he’s just treating this like a joke.
Two can play this game.
“Not sure. It could have something to do with the way you appeared in my town.”
“Yourtown?”
“It’s certainly not the rat-infested town you come from.”
“I come from here, too, you know.”
“No, you don’t.” I tighten my grip on his throat. “You and I don’t run in the same circles, Osborn. Don’t delude yourself into thinking you can belong here just because of your last name.”
Something flashes in his eyes, it’s brief and barely discernible, but I see the hint of uncontainable rage that simmers under the surface. Marcus has always had that energy on the ice. Many people compare him to Jude and Kane—he possesses Jude’s brutal violence and Kane’s knack for strategizing.
But I think that’s not quite it.
Because, unlike Jude or Kane, he’s completely unreadable, and he always seems to be bottling up something so far and deep, it’s impossible to find his true motives, even if you delve into him.
That’s why I’ve never managed to get inside his head.
And my competitive streak with a dash of self-destructiveness is demanding that I do.
By whatever means necessary.
Marcus grabs my wrist and twists, forcing me to release him as pain explodes across my arm. Then he slams me against the opposite wall.
“Why can’t I belong here?” His voice is calm, unnaturally so, and the smirk is gone, leaving only a blank expression that betrays nothing.
“Let go!” I try to kick him, but he twists my arm farther in the opposite direction, just like Kane did to his earlier, threatening to break it.
“I asked you a question, Preston. Why can’t I belong here, hmm?” He leans closer to my face, still twisting my arm, and I refuse to fucking beg for him to release me even as my joints scream in pain.
I know that if I make one wrong movement, if he applies just a little more pressure, my dominant arm will be in a fucking cast, and this goddamn asshole will be dead.
“If you don’t let me go right now, I’ll castrate you, Marcus.”
“No, you won’t. My dick is one of the few things you like about me.”
“I don’t?—”
“Shh. Shut your mouth.”
“You fucking?—”
“I said shut it, Preston. Don’t change the subject.” He’s speaking so close to my face, I can see the dark flecks in his eyes, which have gone so dark, so devoid of feeling, I might as well be facing a monster. One who matches me so well, it’s pulling at the strings of the side of me that I keep tucked close to my heart.
The side full of bad decisions and impulsive actions that I’ll regret come morning, and then I’ll be beaten to near death by Lenin.
“Tell me why I can’t be here.” Marcus’s voice is terrifyingly monotone, emptied of anything human. I’ve never heard someone speak like they’re missing the entire concept of feeling. “Is it because people like you made the rules and decided that people like me can’t belong in this grotesque, power-hungry game you all seem to love playing? Or maybe it’s because you think we’re mere pawns to be used and discarded as you wish?”
I let out a long, humorless laugh. “A pawn? Don’t overestimate yourself. A pawn is to be cherished and used correctly so that it’s only sacrificed at an opportune moment, whereas you’re worth less than a fly. You can buzz round and round and round…” I snap my fingers in his face. “…but one hit and I could silence you forever.”
“Could you now?” His voice has darkened, his grip tightening, and it takes everything in me to keep the groan of pain buried deep.
Maybe it’s not the greatest idea to provoke him when my literal dominant arm is at risk of being crippled, but if he thinks that will stop me from putting him in his place, then he doesn’t know who the fuck he’s messing with.
