Just a sea of gray asphyxiating the blue with no spark.
No life.
No story to tell.
It’s destabilizing.
“Leave my players alone, Armstrong. This is my first and final warning.”
I tilt my head, a small, satisfied curl forming at my mouth as I whisper, “Or what?”
He pauses, staring at me, and for a heartbeat, something shifts—flickers—before he murmurs, “Or you’ll regret it.”
“Are you threatening me with a good time, rat?”
“Careful, princeling.” His voice comes out rough-edged, the kind of rasp that could strip skin if I listened too long. “Don’t want to chip your manicure.”
“Aw, thanks for the concern, but don’t worry. I keep them sharp for cutting throats.”
He laughs, the sound low and throaty, but it carries condescension instead of anything resembling amusement.
“Will you be coming aftermythroat?”
I don’t like his tone. There’s something dark and strange there I can’t quite pinpoint.
“If you get in the way, maybe.” I lift a shoulder, subtly disengaging from him.
Because fuck this shit, being near him is intense.
Not “I’m gonna get beat up to feel pain” intense or “I’m gonna fuck until I pass out” intense, but something more uncomfortable.
It’s because I don’t like people touching me out of the blue, or at all, really. That’s why I always tie the girls up during sex. If they don’t like that, we’re not compatible.Get home safe, beautiful.
But here’s the thing that’s slightly—ormajorly,depending on how you look at it—disturbing. I seemed to have momentarily forgotten about that tiny, pesky inconvenience just now.
If anything, I didn’t notice he was touching me for a while.
Fuck me sideways.
“What should we do?” He feigns concern, his voice grating on my last damn nerve. Or maybe it’s the way he speaks, so nonchalant and blasé and entirely fucking irritating.
I’m the only one who gets to speak that way.
“I plan to get in the way,” he says, circling me once, before he stops in front of me again, standing so close, I have to look up.
Okay, being circled is actually a no-no—almost there with waking up and finding myself in a place I don’t remember sleeping in.
It’s so grating, I want to bash his head on the ice and watch his blood paint the white red. It would be an impressive painting to collect, in my humble opinion.
“Good luck with that.” I start to bypass him, because he’s so not fucking fun. I prefer Dicky and his friends, who get red at the merest shit I say.
Osborn is an anomaly I’d rather not deal with.
He subtly shifts in front of me, blocking my path, and just when I’m about to shove him away, he lifts my chin with his gloved index finger, tilting my head back so I’m staring up at him.
For the first time, the look in his eyes changes, light slipping through.
No, it’s not light.
