Page 35 of Cracked Ice (The F*cked Up Players #1)

thirteen

Present

“ L ucien, stop!” Sydney screams, her cry an arrow through my psyche.

I pause, then turn.

It’s a slow, calculated movement that I don’t even feel myself making. My vision’s still red, and my rage urges me to set the whole world aflame. But when I look up, I’m met with wet blue eyes that pierce through the haze and freeze me to the spot.

“Please. That’s enough, Lucien,” she pleads.

Her voice a bell in the quiet air. Sydney’s steps are cautious as she approaches, her hands out to show she poses no threat.

I know she’s not a threat. I’ve known it from the day she initiated contact, but it doesn’t stop me from tensing the closer she gets.

She must see the tick in my jaw because she slows her advance even further.

“It’s okay. You can stop now.”

I look down at my foot, poised above one of the assholes head before bringing my face back up to hers.

Her pupils are blown wide but they’re on me. No one else.

I yield the moment I feel her touch again, melting into the warmth of her skin when her soft hands cup my face, and she swipes the blood of my victims off my cheek.

The three idiots are discarded at our feet, with varying degrees of damage but she doesn’t even spare them a second glance.

She doesn’t yell at me or freak out; she just stands here with me in the silence and stares into my soul until everything stops looking red.

The past remains where it is and there’s only the present.

“Let’s go, okay?” she whispers.

I nod.

“Yeah. Let’s go.”

I see why she wanted to walk. We pull up to her apartment in mere minutes.

She points out her apartment building and I pull into the nearest parking spot, but it’s when the engine cuts off that the once-comfortable silence we’d enjoyed for all of five minutes, turns. Changes. The interior of the car fills with the scent of coconut and something sweet.

What should have been a warm breeze blowing from the car vents feels sweltering in the confined space. The hair on my arms stands at attention with an electric charge.

I pull the key from the ignition, but neither of us stir. We let the charge build, enjoying the pull. Sydney’s eyes are transfixed on me, burning like lasers.

It’s not entirely unpleasant.

She’s been staring the entire drive. Most people would find that creepy, but me? I find it endearing.

I swipe my hair out of my face and drop my head back onto the headrest. Lolling it to the side to face her, I resume our unspoken staring contest.

Seconds pass. Maybe minutes.

“You’re staring,” I accuse, though the last thing I want is for her to stop.

“You’re staring back,” she whispers.

My lips curl into a crooked grin and I settle deeper in my seat as my eyes continue to bore into hers.

A beautiful shade of pink creeps up her neck as she maps my features, but she doesn’t blink or move. She’s not just staring; she’s searching, and something about being found by her spreads a warmth I've long forgotten through me.

When the tension becomes too much, she blinks.

I win.

“Did I scare you?” I finally ask.

“Yes,” she breathes.

My grin spreads wider, satisfied she’s not lying to me again.

“Are you still scared?”

She turns her body toward me, tucking her ankle beneath her knee while a small smirk tugs at the side of her mouth. A very cute mouth.

“Yes,” she repeats, more confident this time.

Interesting.

The back of my hand ghosts over her cheek, “Do you still wanna play with me?”

My knuckles are bleeding again, staining her pale cheeks as I stroke the skin. She doesn’t rear back this time or sneer in disgust. She lets me touch and feel.

Her glittery eyelids flutter.

“Absolutely,” she answers, gone to the sensation and relishing the contact. A deeper, redder blush highlights her cheeks now. It pairs nicely with the blood on her face, even more so when those blue eyes shine up at me.

I lean in closer, over the console and inhale the coconut scent of her hair. “Good,” I whisper.

When her eyes flick to my mouth, I twirl my tongue along my lower lip, enjoying the dirty thoughts I imagine running through that head of hers.

She tracks the motion, and her legs cross as she shifts in her seat.

Her own tongue flicks out, subtly licking the seam of her dried lips.

Her gloss, all but gone now thanks to our earlier make-out session against the car. Fuck, I can’t wait to do that again.

“Such a brave little stalker, still willing to play even when you’re scared. Still getting turned on despite the fear,” I muse, more to myself than anything.

Sounds like my kind of girl.

I pull away abruptly, leaving us both reeling as I shift the conversation.

“Wha—” she starts.

“So, you weren’t kidding when you said you lived close?” I note, looking up at the apartment building that’s way too nice for a regular college student to be renting, but I guess plenty of people do since it is considered a part of campus.

Her eyes narrow at my sudden shift, but she doesn’t question the change in pace.

“Yeah, um, it’s super helpful to get to the arena and practice since I don’t have a car.” Her arms fold as she leans back against the door, legs still crossed, but more relaxed than before.

My eyes widen.

“What kind of rich girl are you? Why don’t you have a car?” I ask.

“Sacrifices had to be made,” she says dryly.

Sacrifices?

Something about that word bothered me. I didn’t like the idea of her being sacrificial.

A sense of protectiveness surges through me and I’m suddenly really fucking annoyed by her lack of transportation.

I get that she lives close, but it’s not safe to be who she is without a car.

She could be robbed or taken hostage and held for ransom.

Fuck, don’t these people watch true crime shows? Don’t they know the world is a dangerous place? Tonight was a perfect example. What if I hadn’t been there when those guys were waiting outside? What would they have done to her?

Granted, they didn’t know who she was, but that goes to show how unsafe it can be even for regular college students.

The blinding rage sneaks up on me so fast, I almost miss her response to my question.

“A car is a luxury ,” she mocks, doing a terrible impersonation of an old English butler.

“Aren’t you an heiress ? Luxury should be your middle name, right?”

The furrow in my brows deepens yet she looks more amused than anything.

“I told you,”—she points to herself—“Disappointment, remember? Competitive figure skating comes at a cost.” Her shoulder lifts into a shrug, as if it’s the most inconsequential thing in the world.

“And I told you you’re not a disappointment.” I scowl, ready to throttle anyone who ever led her to believe she was a disappointment.

How can anyone be disappointed in someone as incredibly interesting as her? I’ve known her for all of an hour, and I’m fascinated. Drawn to her in a way I haven’t been to anything or anyone in years. Who wouldn’t appreciate everything this girl has to offer?

Her face scrunches with a somber expression before giving a sad smile. “Give it time,” she sighs. “I’ll disappoint you, too.”

Before I can rebuttal that stupid statement, she’s grabbing her bag and opening the door. Leaning over she says, “Wait here.”

The door closes and she trots up the stone steps, her long braid bouncing along her back and her skirt blowing in the wind.

Yeah, fuck that .

I climb out of the car behind her, ignoring her little command. This is my game and we’re only in the second period. Like hell I’m waiting in the car.

I catch up to her before she has time to unlock her door.

Her hand stalls on the handle when she hears me running up behind her.

Spinning on me, she glowers, “What do you think you’re doing? I said to wait.”

I smirk. I’m not sure what gave her the impression I would listen.

She might be a disappointment to her asshole of a dad, but I’m still willing to bet Princess is used to getting what she wants.

That staggering beauty of hers is the knife she wields to cut weaker men down.

Despite what she says, she still carries herself in the same way most spoiled rich girls do.

I step forward, bracing an arm against the doorway and blocking her only exit away from me. “I’m not letting you out of my sight again, Little Stalker.”

Her hand lingers on the doorknob and her lips part.

She huffs, searching my eyes for the punchline. “I’m not–”

I lean in closer, bringing my face down to hers. She sucks in a sharp breath, and I can feel the inhale against my lips.

“Let me in.”

Her hand tightens on the doorknob, and she looks away.

“I shouldn’t,” she whispers back.

Her bottom lip, still swollen from our earlier kiss, tucks between her teeth.

Pinching her chin between my forefinger and thumb, I pull it free.

Then I sink my teeth in. She hisses in pain, trying to pull away but her back meets the door with a thud.

The saccharine tang of her blood fills my mouth, and I lick at the bite.

“So fucking sweet,” I groan.

She whimpers in response, but her body sings from the pain, groaning against my lips as she murmurs my name.

“Lu-cien.”

Her left leg lifts, wrapping around my waist as she grinds herself against me.

I slide my hands up her thigh, holding her in place as I kiss her again.

This kiss is deeper, harder, and there’s another thud when her equipment bag falls from her shoulder.

If this weren’t a corner apartment we’d be giving the neighbors one hell of a show.

Even still, there’s nothing stopping them from hearing us.

More whimpering sounds when I squeeze her ass hard enough to bruise.

My dick hardens from the noises spilling from her lips, and the need to get her inside this fucking apartment before I lose all semblance of control grows.

“Let me in, Princess.”

“I c-can’t,” she stutters between kisses and I’m not sure if she means she physically can’t or isn’t allowed. I have no idea if she has a roommate but I assume if anyone was home they would have come out by now with all of the knocking we’ve been doing.

“You can —and you will. I know you want to. So either stop fighting me or fight me like you mean it but either way, you’re not getting rid of me.”

I pull back, releasing her so she has to face me.

“I . . .”

We’re both panting, unable to get enough air but our mouths draw closer yet again.

I press my forehead to hers.

“Open the fucking door, Sydney,” I pant, my own desperation bleeding through. “Now.”