Secret Obsession: A Dark Hockey Romance (Hockey Gods)

The front entrance to the house has been fixed—but not locked. My landlord’s door is closed, and I move past it silently. Someone’s cleaned up the bits of framing that littered the floor with the break-in. The stairs look recently swept, too.

I can only imagine the mess the police made. And us, too.

My foot hurts. The pain meds I popped a few hours ago are wearing off, and I’m probably due for a bandage change. It’s a good lesson to watch where I step, I guess.

On the second floor, my apartment door has been closed to the best of its ability. It’s very obviously not locked, and I only push on the door with a few fingers to get it to swing inward.

Part of me was expecting yellow crime scene tape or something, but there’s nothing. I just… stroll right in.

That feels wrong.

I shake off my foreboding and crunch over more glass and ceramic. I wince, my gaze dropping to the floor. From then on out, I’m more careful. I avoid the big chunks and make my way toward the back of my tiny apartment.

Really, for such a small space, it’s astounding how much stuff this burglar seemed to break. My plants are lost beyond repair, the soil still strewn about. The stuffing of my couch cushions has been pulled out through giant slits in the fabric.

The sun has set, and darkness is quickly taking over the room.

I make it to my bedroom and flick on the light.

Horror washes over me, and I cover my mouth with my hand. The words of the detective come back to me. About particular aggression in the bedroom. This feels aggressive. The room has been completely violated.

I’m surprised Miles was able to salvage any of my clothes.

My dresser is in pieces. Someone didn’t just tear out my clothes and the drawers—it looks like they took a hammer to the actual furniture, smashing it to bits. Same with the armchair that used to hold worn-once clothes. They didn’t just cut it up, the back and arms are separated, ripped apart.

And my bed…

Feathers from my pillows, the quality ones Mom insisted I’d sleep better on, are everywhere. On the floor, smashed into the carpet, coating the comforter. I step inside, and my nose wrinkles. The foul, bitter stench of gasoline hits me, and I almost choke.

It’s everywhere. Soaked into the carpet, the clothes still hanging in my closet, the bed. This place is a tinderbox waiting to go up in flames.

The hairs on the back of my neck rise.

I need to get out of here.

This—they were going to set the place on fire? Did Miles and I interrupt the burglar? Is the person responsible even a burglar if they meant to harm me?

I shudder and back up.

A hand wraps around my mouth a split second before I bump into someone.

I scream.

The sound is muffled, but it rings in my ears nonetheless. I’m lifted off my feet and bodily carried out of my apartment. Downstairs. All the way to the car, where my assailant drops me and shoves me against the hood.

I barely catch myself in time, and I whirl around.

Miles stands in front of me, madder than I’ve ever seen him.

“Are you fucking crazy?” he yells.

I stare at him.

“You could’ve—you cannot come back here alone. Do you understand me?” He’s still yelling. His eyes are wild, his damp hair messier than usual.

Usual.

He grabs my hand and pulls me into him, and he catches the back of my neck. It’s not really a hug, but maybe it’s an embrace. His hands on me do something to me, and I hate it as much as I want it. Like his touch is something to crave.

It’s not. But still, his fingers digging into my neck, over the bandage hiding Amanda’s claw marks, sends tingles down my spine. It’s not entirely unpleasant, all things considered. All things being that I thought I was going to die just a moment ago. Or be kidnapped. Or—

“Well?”

I raise my eyebrow and try to dispel the butterflies suddenly running rampant in my chest. I tip my head back. Catching my breath is out of the question, especially looking up at Miles like this. “Well, what?”

“Are you sorry?”

I squeeze his wrist with my free hand and slowly shake my head. “No.”

He releases me just as fast as he grabbed me. He yanks open the passenger door and leaves it, circling to the driver’s seat. He has the keys to his car. I don’t know how—they were in my pocket. But as I pat my jacket down, it becomes obvious that he stole them back while I was distracted.

I shiver.

The light in my bedroom is still on. Sometime between then and now, the sun has set completely, and it’s dark enough that the streetlights are beginning to flicker on. We’re in the shadows between two posts, which is exactly where I don’t want to linger. The light can stay on. Maybe it’ll act as a fuck you to the person who destroyed it.

I slip into the car and slam the door behind me. Then, after a moment of consideration, flip the lock.

Miles drives us back to his house without saying anything. He doesn’t even look in my direction. And that’s fair enough, I suppose, but the longer I sit, the more I fidget.

I should’ve stayed with my friends and gone dancing. I put on the dress and everything. Let them do my makeup, my hair.

Tears fill my eyes, and I turn my gaze to the ceiling. The car stops, but the burning behind my eyes doesn’t lessen. The cracks in my mask are pushing through, my guard failing me completely. Miles gets out of the car. It’s only insanity keeping me frozen in place while I try to pull myself together.

“Come on.” He’s got my door unlocked and open, and he takes my hand.

I hadn’t even buckled my seat belt. Was the alarm dinging the whole way over?

He leads me out onto the street, and music catches my attention. It’s only then that I register where we are. Certainly not on the quiet residential street his home is on. We’re downtown. Parked near Prime, which seems to be busy even for a Sunday.

“Dancing,” Miles says with a frown. “Greyson said I had to bring you.”

I smile. No doubt Violet led that charge. I stride forward, and Miles catches up to me fast. His hand grips my hip, then slides down and cups my ass. I jump, but he just chuckles.

“Bet that’s still bruised,” he muses. “And it’s going to be worse tomorrow morning.”

My gaze cuts toward him.

He leaves his hand on my ass and smirks. I… let him. Fuck it. We head into the nightclub without even pausing to show our IDs to the bouncer. He and Miles do this weird head nod exchange. And then we’re going to the VIP section, past another bouncer.

Violet and Greyson are at a booth. Violet shoots up when she sees me and rushes forward. She’s tipsy, I think, because her smile is wider and looser than I would’ve expected. Since I basically ditched them for an hour…

“You’re here!” She pushes at my jacket, sliding it off my shoulders.

Miles peels the rest of it away. I look at him over my shoulder, and his gaze crashes into mine. I don’t know what he’s thinking or why he agreed to bring me here. Or what he has planned for later. But I do know that his eyes are captivating, and with another few drinks I could be convinced to do something stupid.

With him.

The enemy of my heart.

“Dancing,” Violet interrupts. “It’s just what the doctor ordered.” She practically drags me back downstairs, into the throng of people.

It’s a Sunday night—it shouldn’t be busy. But this is Crown Point, and half of the population when school is in session is college students. Kids who don’t give a fuck what day of the week it is. Sure, it isn’t as full as a Friday or Saturday night. But it seems like there’s a new DJ who’s playing different stuff than usual.

Whatever. It has a beat.

“I need a drink,” I say in her ear.

She nods and shoots off a text. “Aspen will grab you one. They went to the bar.”

We dance until Aspen and Thalia re-emerge. I hug both of them, the guilt of abandoning them when they tried to cheer me up hitting hard. But they all wave me off, and Aspen pushes a drink in my hand and a shot into my other one.

We cheers and do the shots. Tequila, unsurprisingly. People gravitate toward that for shots for some reason. The guys join us—Miles and Steele and Greyson. I eye Miles, although he doesn’t immediately latch on to me like the other two do with their girls. I grab Thalia’s hand and spin her until we’re both giggling. We’ve each got drinks in our hands, not that it really matters. I don’t even care when it sloshes over the rim and drips down my hand.

Miles keeps eyeing me from across our circle of friends.

The back of my neck is hot, and I lift my hair up with my free hand. It doesn’t have far to go, with it being so fucking short nowadays. My throat is dry, and I fight to hold Miles’ gaze. It’s like a challenge.

Another sip—but only ice touches my lips.

Damn.

“Next round’s on me,” Thalia calls, her drink also done. “I already said.”

I nod. With my dance partner gone, I find myself drifting across our little circle toward Miles. I should want to stay as far away from him as possible. After all, he’s hurt me more than once. This morning, forcing himself into me. Onto me. I can’t forget the violation.

And I won’t.

But there’s something else.

The way he pays attention. The way his eyes feel like lasers burning into me.

The way he danced with me a few nights ago…

My arms loop around his shoulders. His hands find my waist, then drift lower. And suddenly the song changes, and I falter. It’s probably wishful thinking that he’s just as clueless about this as I am. About what to do. Or what the point even is.

But he doesn’t stop, doesn’t so much as hesitate.

The next song is slower. Miles pulls me close and spins me around, grinding my ass against his groin. It reminds me of the last time we were at the club together. Not together-together. But… dancing. Like this.

“Relax,” he says in my ear.

Hard to, when the last time ended in murder.

Fuck.

I squeeze my eyes shut and try to focus on the music. But his hands are getting to me. They haven’t so much as moved from my sides, but his hot palms are burning my skin.

“Drinks,” Thalia calls. She’s managed to hold on to four of them. “Next round is on you, if you wanted to partake.”

I nod and take a glass from her fingers. Whatever she got, it seems to be an orange or pink color. The lighting makes it hard to know a hundred percent. But there’s no ice in it.

Drink it slow. I didn’t think to bring my wallet on this crusade. It’s still in my bag, which is most likely in Violet’s bedroom. The bartender might still have one of my credit cards, actually. I don’t remember getting it the last time… although I don’t remember if I had even started a tab.

The drink is inches from my lips when Miles plucks it from my hand. I follow it, craning around in time to watch him swallow the whole thing like a freaking shot.

He makes a face. “It was fruity.”

My mouth drops open. “It was mine.”

“I’ll buy you another one.”

He shifts me into the circle, closer to Thalia, and disappears. I watch him go, and my stomach swoops. Thalia grabs my hand. And then Aspen takes my other one. Violet is suddenly in front of me, and I tear my attention away from the path Miles cut through the dancing people.

Fuck him anyway.

We dance and dance until my hair is stuck to my face with sweat and my throat is dry again. Miles reappears just in time, and he hands me a shot glass. He has one, too. I sniff it, pleasantly surprised at the sharp vodka scent.

We cheers, and I down it. He smirks at me, then disappears again.

Whatever.

More dancing. More spinning. The room is wobbling a bit, not that it matters. I like this floating feeling, because for once, nothing seems sad.

I’m not sad.

“Here.” Miles steps up behind me and winding his arm around me.

He holds a larger glass, and I freaking sniff it again. Vodka. Easy. I take a sip and grimace. Then another, and another. It gets easier to drink it down.

“Are you drugging me?” I ask, leaning back on him.

“No.” His voice curls in my ear, followed a split second later by his lips. “No, Willow, I wouldn’t resort to drugging you to fuck you. Haven’t I proved that already?”

I shiver.

He lifts the now-empty glass from my hand and shoves it into a passerby’s chest. He spins me away from my friends. Toward the bathrooms, and the shadows.

I dig my heels in. “Where are we going?”

“Easy, wild one.”

He still propels me forward, ignoring the way my shoes slide across the floor. Until we’re in an alcove all of our own, hidden nearly out of sight. His hands run up my legs, dragging my dress higher, and suddenly there’s air on my ass.

I suck in a breath and glance over my shoulder.

Miles meets my gaze, then goes to his knees.

Slowly.

“Wh—”

“Just checking.” He pulls at the neon-green thong and snaps it against my hip.

“Checking—”

“Shh.” His fingers brush my ass.

That shuts me up.

It kind of tickles, the way he runs his nails lightly over my ass cheek. He’s level with it, his face right there, and I resist the urge to jump away from him. There’s only a wall in front of me. A wall which seems okay to brace against, so I do.

“Are you turned on?” he asks me.

My mind isn’t working.

And it certainly isn’t connected to my body.

He hums.

And then there’s a sharp pain on my ass cheek—but not a hand. And not the side he spanked before.

A low groan slips out of my mouth when I realize what he’s doing. When it registers that he just bit me. And now his tongue is soothing it, only a second before he bites again.

I shudder. Goosebumps rise everywhere.

“Stop,” I tell him.

He snaps my thong again, and the sting of it makes me stand up straighter.

I turn around in his hold and push at his face. My fingers slide into his hair automatically, fisting, and I drag his head back. His eyes burn into mine at the same time that his finger thrusts into me.

Inside me.

“Miles.” Fuck, why does that feel good? “Don’t.”

My dress is hiked around my hips, and my thong is little more than string. It’s no protectant from him. And he’s still on his knees in front of me. His head and shoulders shield my lower body from the dancing crowd beyond our alcove.

But that doesn’t mean I want him touching me.

Or do I?

My head is so screwed up, I don’t know what I want. But I don’t think it’s to be finger-fucked by a Whiteshaw in public.

“Dancing,” I murmur, stepping away from him. I pull my dress back down and clear my throat, ignoring the burning in my cheeks. “They’re probably wondering where we are…”

He rises slowly, and I do what I do best: I run away.