Page 12 of Ruthless Game

But I’d find a way out of this. No matter what, I wouldn’t let Lawson control me. I wasn’t that doormat anymore, and he’d learn that soon enough.

4

Lawson

I’d miscalculated.

It’d been so long since I’d seen Emma face-to-face, I hadn’t braced for the impact of just how beautiful she’d become. And now I had to hide that I was reeling from the sight of her, the smell of her, the feel of the air she displaced as she walked silently next to me, anxiously glancing at me like I was a viper ready to strike at any moment.

I’d arrived at Oxford in the morning, exhausted from the overnight flight but determined to find her and set my plan in motion. Jack’s older brother, Micah, was a hacker. He’d sent me Emma’s course schedule. I’d left yellow Starbursts at her door and then followed her from class to class, always at a distance, always watching her from behind. Even though her hair was shorter now, I’d recognize the shape of those straw-blonde curls anywhere. Hell, she could’ve shaved her head, and my body would still recognize her body. Something tied us together, and I would do anything to sever it, no matter how much it hurt her.

No matter how much it hurt both of us.

When I’d entered the bar and caught her gaze, it was like being doused with cold water. No, worse: like drowning under the ice all over again. My breathing stuttered to a halt. Her eyes were as big and dark blue as they’d always been, the color of Lake Gehenom on a stormy day. Just as beautiful, and just as terrifying.

I thought I’d overcome my addiction to Emma, when the reality was the addiction had gone nowhere. It was just that the substance had been out of reach.

Discomfort rose in my throat like bile. What the fuck was I doing? Being near her was a trap; I’d get sucked back into her sweet undertow. I almost turned to go, when Coach’s warning and Asher’s demands came back to me. So I straightened instead, because I had a plan here:

Torture and torment her so I could get my power back.

Fuck her treacherous pussy so I could finally move on.

Banish her from my mind forever, so I could be the hockey player I needed to be.

And be done with her for good.

I refused to deviate. I was not the boy I’d been. I was a man in charge of my own goddamn life.

Ice cold hands on my body, on my zipper, cupping my cock and making the alcohol I’d drank slosh around in my insides as words tried to rise in my throat …

Real men can’t be taken advantage of.

I shoved the faulty memory away, forcing myself to smirk at her, cold, callous, and completely in control.

Emma Schwartz wouldn’t have a hold on me for much longer.

As if to prove it to myself, I headed over to the table, scared away her pathetic douchebag of a date, and laid out the general gist of my demands. And like I’d figured, Emma would do anything for her selfish dick of a brother. He’d been the only point of contention in our relationship. I didn’t trust the fucker. Something about the way he talked to and looked at Emma never sat right with me but she’d always dismissed my concerns, saying it was the hockey rivalry between the two of us.

So of course she agreed to my terms. She’d do anything to protect Jeffrey. She didn’t know the details of our deal yet, but I figured this was like a pretty frog in a pot of boiling water kind of situation, where if I laid out everything she’d be doing with me immediately, she’d balk. No, I had to get her home and then I could have everything I wanted. Needed.

I contemplated this on the walk back to her apartment. Or “flat,” whatever. She was also lost in her thoughts as she walked beside me, continuing to glance at me out of the corner of her eye like I’d strike with more poison at any moment.

God, poisoning her would be the sweetest revenge.

I was so lost in my thoughts, I almost missed the bus headed toward me as I entered the sidewalk.

“Max!”

Emma grabbed my arm, tugging me out of the way just in time.

I stared at her, shocked that she’d save me. Wouldn’t it be easier for me to be hit by a bus? That would solve her problems.

“Why’d you do that?” I asked.

She scoffed. “Muscle memory, I guess.”

Her accent had changed slightly, still a little upstate New York, but with a slight difference I’d call British if I knew anything about linguistics. Isaac (Jones) Silver, our former center, had been a linguistics major. He would probably know.