Brutal Obsession (85)

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.”