Brutal Obsession: A Dark Hockey Romance (Hockey Gods)

The more I ignore Greyson, the more angry he becomes. Maybe not angry, but more like a toddler throwing a tantrum.

A toddler holding a grenade, but still.

February slips into March. The hockey team win their final game of the season, and they qualify for the national tournament. There are two away games—they win both—and next week is a home game. The whole school is buzzing.

It’s also the weekend that kicks off spring break.

To keep myself sane, I’ve been sneaking into the dance studio at night. Better than the gym, I reason. I got my MRI late one afternoon a few weeks ago, and Dr. Michaels cleared me for aquatic therapy soon after. There was only a little guilt winding through my bones when I mailed the bill to Senator Devereux’s office.

Did I call the clinic every day for a week to check on the balance?

Yes.

And who was more surprised than me to find that they did pay for it?

The aquatic therapy feels ridiculous at first, and I pull at my one-piece swimsuit self-consciously. The woman who guides me through stretches and exercises is patient and calm. She has one of those voices that brings down my adrenaline and relaxes my muscles.

It’s been helping. So much so that I’ve started taking dance lessons again, too. Slowly getting back into shape, teaching my body how to move again. The instructor yells at me often, but I feel the improvement in my sore muscles.

Willow’s not quite in agreement with me on the dancing front. She thinks I’m pushing myself too fast. On the Greyson front, however, she’s fully on my side. In solidarity, she’s quit seeing Knox. She said she didn’t need to be over at their house every night, rubbing it in Greyson’s face. I think she’d just rather not see the parade of women he probably has coming and going.

Paris has restarted her attempts to woo him. She sits next to him in the dining hall, casting furtive glances my way. As if she’s going to catch me caring. Maybe she thinks she’ll spot me weeping into my soup bowl.

Unlikely .

Besides the pull toward the dark cloud that is Greyson Devereux, I’m finally feeling… happy . And somewhat back to normal. Even the news about the press release has died down. Jack disappeared into the background noise, nursing his broken leg.

I do my best to put him and that night out of my mind, although my trust in men has officially broken. Either way, I’m moving on.

But, as always, good things have to come to an end.

Greyson finally reaches his limit.

I don’t know what it is that sets him off, but it happens after our last class of the week together. For a month, I’ve sat as far from him as possible. I’ve studiously concentrated on my textbook, my notebook, the professor. Anything but the burning glares he sent my way.

Part of me has been eager for him to break. He’s not used to things not going his way. I wait with bated breath for the grenade to go off. But for so long, all he does is glower from afar.

Unfortunately for both of us, his father is more used to getting his way—and that’s exactly what’s happening. Greyson just doesn’t know it.

For the record, I’m minding my own business. As always. My new friend, Stacy, and I have been debating topics for our final projects in environmental economics—one of the classes I share with Greyson. Willow, Jess, and Amanda have a dance class. At least Paris isn’t around because of it, too.

Part of my mission over the last month has been to make friends outside of the dance team, for no other reason than they’re getting increasingly busy—and I don’t want to eat alone every evening. The dance team is gearing up for a big competition that takes place over spring break.

Stacy’s eyes widen, and then the chair beside me is yanked out. I know it’s him. He has a certain feel to him, like he’s projecting raw energy. He sits so he faces me, his knees pressing into my thigh.

I still ignore him.

“Violet.”

Nope. This isn’t happening.

He grabs my chin and forces my head around. I let out a little gasp at the connection and the way his eyes burn up close. His gaze drops to my lips, then lower. My throat, my heaving chest. Then back up. He smirks when our eyes collide again.

He doesn’t seem too worse for wear. There’s new stubble on his cheeks. He doesn’t bark at my new friend to leave. He doesn’t really do anything except stare into my eyes. Does he think that I owe him something?

I don’t. I’m grateful, but that’s as far as it goes.

His nails dig into my cheek. His thumb swipes across my lip.

So much anger.

His life is going just fine. He’s back at the top of his game. Amanda gave me the highlights from the last few games. Greyson has been on fire, leaving everything on the ice. He’s been interviewed for the local paper a few times. There’s been a feature in the New York Times , along with a smiling photo of him and his father, who attended one of them.

“You’re not leaving me any choice,” he mutters.

My eyebrows hike up, and I open my mouth to retort. He holds my chin fast, his thumb pressing harder on my lips.

“Don’t give me your excuses. You’re going to get up and come with me. You’re going to sit next to me, and you’re going to fix your expression so you don’t look so shell-shocked.”

“I am shell-shocked,” I say against his thumb. “I don’t want anything to do with you.”

He laughs. It’s low and throaty and it does something to me.

It’s been a long month.

“You know what, Violet?” He leans even closer. “I don’t fucking believe you.”

I don’t answer. Can’t.

I hardly believe myself.

“Threats work best on you, I suppose.” His expression turns contemplative. “Okay, how about this? You come with me, or I’ll spread you out on this table and make you come, and then no one will fucking doubt that you’re mine.”

The blood drains from my face. I can totally see him doing that. I squeeze my thighs together, because… fucking hell . He’s twisting me. A small part of me wants him to do it. I’m turned on by the thought.

And if I didn’t know most of the students—maybe not their names but definitely their faces—I don’t even think I’d give a shit.

What does that say about me?

“Dirty girl. You like that?” His gaze drops to my legs, then back up. “Mmm, you do. Tell you what. We’ll live out that fantasy one day, if you do what I say. Otherwise, it’s happening right now.”

I rise. His hand slips from my face, and he quickly stands, too. He follows me so close, he’s practically my shadow.

If shadows were hulking, hot, dangerous hockey players.

We arrive at his table. The one I’ve been avoiding for the last month, give or take. Steele, Knox, Jacob, Miles, Erik. They’re all chatting, eating, like nothing is wrong. To them, nothing is.

Paris and Madison are here, too. I suppose their dance class has concluded.

Greyson pulls out a chair for me.

I sit, and he sets my plate in front of me. He scoots his chair so close, his thigh presses against mine again. His arm comes around behind me, on the back of my chair.

“Your expression,” he reminds me.

I press my lips together and quickly scan the table. Of the people here, I’m pretty sure Steele, Paris, and Madison don’t give a shit about me. Knox probably hates my guts because of Willow. And the rest are neutral. Still, there are a lot of people here. It’s peak dining time.

Which is why I shouldn’t be surprised when Willow and Amanda come into the dining hall. They’re wearing exercise clothes, same as Paris and Madison.

Paris looks at me, and I smile at her. Maybe it isn’t so much a smile as a shit-eating grin, but Greyson should really take what he can get. I can’t magically rearrange my face any more than he can.

I lean back, bumping his arm, and the heat emanating from him feels… nice. It shouldn’t but does.

Another fucked-up thing between us.

“When did you get here, Violet?” Paris asks.

I tilt my head. “What?”

“When. Did. You. Get. Here?”

Greyson snorts. “She’s more welcome than you.”

You know… when I want him to stick it to her, he doesn’t. He lets her climb all over him and sit close and flirt and fawn. And when I’d rather be anywhere but here, he tells her to shove it.

Lovely.

“Grey,” she tries.

Oh, hell no. “You did not just call him that.”

Her expression darkens. “Why, did you lay claim to that nickname?”

I cross my arms. “As a matter of fact, I did.”

Jesus. Who would’ve thought I’d be arguing about a nickname… this whole night is a mind-fuck. And in the back of my head, I have Senator Devereux’s secretary reminding me of my agreement with them. The fact that my aquatic therapy costs hundreds of dollars that I don’t have to spare, and they’ve been footing the bill.

“You’re nothing special,” Paris snaps at me, flipping her hair over her shoulder.

I roll my eyes. I’m sick of her attitude, but I don’t have the energy to deal with it today. “Neither are you, Paris. Pretty sure you’ve never had an original thought in your head.”

She stares at me, then stands. She grabs her drink and marches over.

Absolutely not. I’m not getting another drink dumped over my head.

I start to rise, but Greyson beats me to it. He snatches it out of her hand and slams it on the table, then sinks back into his seat.

“You’re an embarrassment,” he says to her. “Get the fuck away from us.”

Paris freezes.

This would be so fucking gratifying if I wasn’t pissed at myself for coming over here.

Then she glitches. That’s the only way I can describe it. Her mouth opens and shuts, her eyes twitch. She’s motionless in front of us. If she was a computer, she’d be the spinning wheel of death, just thinking over and over.

So I do the only thing I can think of to make her meltdown even worse.

I turn and grab the front of Greyson’s shirt, pulling him into me.

Our lips touch.

He lets out a huff of surprise, and then his hands wind around my back. Smugness radiates through him. Whatever element of surprise I had, of control, is quickly lost. He leans into me, bending me into the back of my chair, and pries my mouth open with his tongue. He tastes me and conquers my mouth. I feel thoroughly claimed by the time he’s done.

And when he is, when I finally straighten, Paris is gone.

Madison, too.

I just kissed Greyson.

Something I shouldn’t have done.

I lean back. “Maybe I wasn’t clear before.”

He cocks his head.

“We’re done.” I stand, and he mirrors me. He follows when I back away. “There’s no us. There’s no you and I together at a table, or kissing, or—or looking at each other.”

He watches me.

It’s not enough to tell him we’re done.

I need to go bigger.

He steps forward, and suddenly it becomes a game in his mind. I must give him something. A flash in my eye, a twitch. Something that reminds him that he has the power to put fear into me—and he likes it.

“You don’t call the shots, Vi.”

I turn and walk briskly away. I make it all the way out of the dining hall before he catches me. He’s civil in public—barely. Can’t have another defamatory article calling him an abuser, probably. Although Daddy Dearest would get that removed in a flash—and probably sue the paper to boot.

Nothing sticks to Greyson Devereux.

He drags me up the stairs, to a lounge area, and backs me into a corner. There’s no one up here. Everyone’s downstairs, heading into or out of the dining hall.

That’s probably why he picked here. Right on the edge of being discovered.

He pushes me to my knees and unbuttons his pants.

I rock back on my heels and glare up at him. “Grey—”

“Don’t.” His hands fall away. “Take my cock out and suck it, Violet.”

I look away. Shame fills me. If I make a noise, we’ll be caught. If anyone decides to come up here and check this shadowed corner, we’ll be caught.

A shiver races up my spine.

“Maybe I’ll take a video of this and post it on the school’s main page again? Two guys, one semester, one filthy mouth.” He grabs my jaw again and forces his thumb into my mouth. He opens it, pressing the pad down on my tongue. “Just say the word. Or…”

I shudder and lower his zipper. I pull his boxers and pants down just far enough to free his cock. It bobs, hardening by the second, at eye level. I reach out and slide my hand down his shaft.

He releases my jaw and winds his fingers in my hair. My control is nonexistent… in that Greyson has me right where he wants me. A fly in his web. He moves my head forward, and I open my mouth wide. He tastes familiar, but he doesn’t give me a moment to adjust. His hips rock forward, and the tip hits the back of my throat—then slides farther down.

I gag around him, choking when my breath is cut off.

I forgot he enjoys that aspect. He likes to watch my face redden, my eyes fill with tears. He pulls out, and I suck in a deep breath through my nose before I lose the ability again. I hold his thighs as he fucks my face, one hand on the back of my head and the other braced on the wall behind me.

Someone gasps behind him. Fire erupts through me, shame and embarrassment turning my whole body into an inferno.

We’re caught.

“Get out of here,” Greyson growls over his shoulder.

I don’t know if they listen. I keep my eyes half-closed until he jerks my head back. I lift my gaze to his and hold it. It’s blurry through my tears. My nose runs, too, and I can’t do anything about the saliva.

He moves faster, taking and taking and taking.

“You. Don’t. Leave. Me.”

I hope my eyes translate my thoughts.

Get fucked, Greyson .

His fingers tighten in my hair. The pinpricks of pain have my jaw tensing. My teeth skim his cock, and he shudders. And then he comes. He groans and fills my throat so deep, I don’t have a choice but to swallow. His head bows forward, his eyes drinking in my face. I can’t breathe like this, and an alarm blares through my system. The need to get free. To take in oxygen.

“How would it feel to die like this?” he asks, reading my mind. “Suffocating on my cock.”

He waits another second. Then he pulls out, and I fall backward. Except, now isn’t the time for pity or staying huddled in a mess of tears on the floor. I stand quickly, wiping my face with the bottom of my shirt. The hate comes next—that he feels free to use me like this.

You’re nothing special . Paris said as much.

So why have I been plucked out of the crowd? Because of one night?

“Would you have done this to Paris if I didn’t come along?”

He lifts one shoulder. I don’t think his gaze has left me once, and I need to know what he sees in me.

“No. She’s the kind of slut who begs for my cock. And if not mine, Knox or Miles or anyone who knows how to play a sport. You’re my goal, Violent. You’re the one who doesn’t let anyone in. Even your bastard ex-boyfriend never got to see the real you.” He runs his finger under my eye. “The real you craves this. The real you is fucked up in the head, just like me. Isn’t that right?”

I jerk away. Even if he’s right, I’m never going to admit it.

“Even if you hadn’t come along , as you said…” He gets even closer. “Even then, we were destined to find each other.”

“All we do is hurt each other.” I incline my chin and turn my back on him. I need to retrieve my bag and get away from here.

Get away from him—as if that’s even a possibility.

He lets me go for now, and once I have my things, I hurry away from campus. He’s got evening hockey practice coming up soon. That may be the only thing stopping him from following me.

My pointe shoes are burning a hole in my bag, and I’m itching to put my muscles to good use. Instead, my feet lead me to the sidewalk outside Greyson’s house.

I check my watch. It should be empty.

Against my better judgment, I walk right up to the front door and try the handle.

It opens easily under my hand.

They don’t lock it? They probably think they’re invincible—if Knox hadn’t already infused that in his starters, I would’ve been sure Greyson brought it with him. The aura that accompanies people who are used to getting their way.

I hesitate in the doorway and listen. They left the lights on. It smells faintly of booze in here, the aftermath of too many celebrations. When only silence greets me, I close the door and hurry to the stairs.

Greyson’s door is closed but not locked either. Not that I would’ve anticipated it… that would’ve thrown a wrench in my plans.

His room is as neat as I remember, if a little more lived-in. There’s a hamper in the corner that’s overflowing with clothes, but that’s the only sign that he might be losing it.

My fault?

I run my finger along the edge of his desk and rifle through his papers. There’s a printed copy of the research paper due for one of our shared classes, environmental economics. I am actually liking that class a lot more, now that I’m paying better attention.

Turns out, I don’t have much of a social life when I take away dance.

I fold up the stapled pages and tuck it in my jacket pocket. Then I head for the true prize.

It sits on the bookcase, slightly pulled out like he’s recently looked at it. The photo album he practically begged me not to touch.

This is how I strike back and get Greyson to abandon me once and for all.

I almost feel guilty zipping my jacket around it, keeping it hidden and protected from the elements. It could’ve gone in my bag, still looped over my shoulder, or I could’ve kept it tucked in my arms. But part of me wants to treat it as well as Greyson has.

The book is thin and easy to conceal. I can examine it later, but for now I just hurry back to the street. My skin prickles, and I glance around. The street is dark, with illuminated circles from the spread-apart street lamps.

I can’t pinpoint why I feel the hair raise on the back of my neck, so I bolt. I shouldn’t run—I’m still trying to get my leg back into better condition, after all—but I can’t stop myself. I fly along the sidewalk for a block, then another. The book rubs against my skin. My bag bangs my hip with every step.

Finally, I slow and take a breath.

Back safe in my apartment, I pull it out. Leather-bound, with Devereux stamped into it. I want to know more about where it came from and who chose the photos that fill it. I only saw a few, and I have the urge to scan the rest of them.

I can’t.

I search the apartment for a hiding place and eventually find one.

Once it’s safe, I go back out. To the studio.

To dance my adrenaline away… and prepare for Greyson’s next move.