Page 87 of Cracked Ice (The F*cked Up Players #1)

forty

T he door slams closed with a harsh crack, and I flinch. I thought the atmosphere would be calmer inside. That we’d go back to laughing and having my legs tickled—or spread. But I was wrong. I’m left afraid in the darkness with Lucien.

He’s going to leave me.

Lucien whirls on me, pressing my back against the door, his grip on my hips a painful burn like he’s trying to sear his touch into my skin.

My legs shake as we stand in the entryway, locked in place.

His face is furious, but gloriously beautiful as always.

It scares me most to see him this way, to see something so beautiful contorted in pain and fury.

Like this, I’m forced to face him and the reality that he’s two seconds away from walking back out that door, never to return.

My breaths come out in short bursts, and my heart beats a mile a minute.

“Are you going to touch me now?” I whisper, staring at his snarled lips.

He pushes off the door, releasing his hold on my hips, and my heart falls to my stomach, eliciting a reaction that’s somewhere between sickness and heartache.

He flees to the comfort of the living room, submerging us in a thick, tar-like tension.

Lucien is far from the controlled stranger he was earlier tonight, who coerced my clothes from my body with a single demand and an amusing game.

Right now, he’s a tiger pacing the length of my Tahitian rug like it’s his own personal cage.

I follow him partway, but stop short when he stalls to answer my question, eying me as if he’s trying to decide if our time together has reached its end or not. I couldn’t blame him if it had.

“No,” he rasps, his chest heaving. “Not right now.”

“Why not?” I ask, though I’m pretty sure I know the answer. Bradford succeeded; he drove a wedge between us, just like he wanted.

Lucien pokes at his temple repeatedly as he attempts to regain focus, groaning, “because my control is slipping and I don’t trust myself not to hurt you for real. I’m a little . . . too riled up at the moment.”

My eyes shine with excitement. If he’s worried about hurting me, then it means he still wants to touch me, which means, it’s not over yet.

“Are you sure?” I hedge, tracing along the rug as his previous pacing morphs into a slow stride.

We look insane walking around my apartment like this.

Like we’re on a leisure stroll through the park, with him on the massive rug and me on the refurbished parquet, but it’s nice.

Comfortable. And after a night like ours we’re used to looking crazy.

His hand circles his chest, like he’s trying to dislodge all of the bad feelings he’s keeping bottled up. But I’d rather he didn’t. I’d rather he let it all out and release that brimming frustration on me.

Finally, he looks over to me, his hands firmly to himself– something I want to change.

“I won’t see you,” he answers, though his eyes are seeing me more clearly than they have all night.

His steps slow even further.

“Who will you see?” I risk asking. It doesn’t surprise me in the least that he’s seeing someone else. I've watched him fight blindly all night, without a care to his own well-being or reputation, so I wonder, who does he see when he looks at me?

“My . . . mom. My dad. My sister. Them drowned in blood. Painted with it; their eyes wide open and staring at me. And . . . quiet. So, so much quiet, and trees, and snow. I see snow.”

The confession he’s dropped between us squeezes at my heart. It’s heavy, weighted, only made light by the airiness in his voice as he stands stock-still on my rug, entranced.

I gently cup his face. Choosing to touch him instead.

“Hey, look at me. Look, it’s not snowing. There are no trees. Just me.”

My shoulder lifts in an awkward shrug and his eyes track the movement.

“You’re not scared?” He questions. Though his words are careful, intentional.

I shake my head. “No.”

“You don’t think I’m insane?”

There's a slight tilt to his head and his hair brushes across my fingers.

I sweep my thumb along his cheek.

“I think it’s terrible, whatever happened to them. But no, I don’t think you’re insane.”

His brows scrunch.

Scoffing, he says, “I think you’re insane. Crazy is just fine for me but utterly unhinged is a dangerous place, Princess. You should have run from me when you had the chance.”

The corner of his lips quirk ever so slightly, a smirk that tells me he’s okay now.

“You’re not that dangerous. You’re just a little”—I see-saw my hand back and forth— “misunderstood,” I finally supply.

He flops onto the couch and I stifle my growing amusement.

“Oh, baby, you have no idea how fucked up I am. I’m capable of things you’ve never imagined. It’s why I have to do crazy shit like this to keep me stable.” He gestures between us and my mind rolls back to our unconventional evening.

Lucien sighs, sitting up a little when I sit down beside him. I wince, having forgotten for a second that I have his name freshly carved into my ass.

“Still hurts?” he asks.

“Of course, it fucking hurts,” I snap. “You don’t exactly have a short name.” I try to readjust and end up hissing in pain. “Couldn’t you have just done your initials?” I whine. The reality of what my body has been put through hits me like a brick.

Lucien stands, looking down at me with a blend of pride and concern.

“I didn’t want there to be any confusion,” he says before walking back toward the kitchen. “At least now no one can say they don’t know you’re mine.”

His words echo through the apartment and even though I roll my eyes, I smile too.

I hope it’s true. I hope the next time some man my dad forces on me gets handsy, they feel the scar etched into my skin.

I hope it scares them to know I’ve been with someone crazy enough to carve his name on my ass.

I hope the guy runs away in fear knowing that someone else owns me.

Lucien comes back, carrying two glasses of water, the antiseptic I used on him earlier, some pain meds and a mix-match assortment of band aids, paper towels and other items.

“I could practically hear you rolling your eyes from the kitchen,” he chastises, setting everything down carefully on the coffee table. “Keep it up and I’ll carve my last name on the other cheek.”

Don’t threaten me with a good time .

Lucien sits down next to me, then thumps me between the eyes.

“Ow! What was that for?” I yelp.

“Let’s press pause on the naughty thoughts and get you cleaned up before we add any new marks, Crazy Pants” he chuckles.

Shit, how’d he know what I was thinking.

I rub my forehead. “You don’t know if my thoughts were naughty or not,” I whine.

“You were thinking of being bratty, so I punished you anyway.” He hands me the glass of water. “I know how much you like pain, but we still can’t risk infection,” he says, gesturing for me to lay on my stomach after I take a sip.

I tug the hoodie over my head.

“Is it going to leave a permanent scar?” I ask as he shimmies my dress up, exposing my ass to him for the millionth time tonight.

“Do you want it to?” he asks, swiping a damp paper towel over my cuts.

I nod, nervous about giving voice to the darker desires of my heart. We’ve shared so much tonight but not much has been admitted aloud.

“We can do something more permanent later,” he offers, continuing to clean what I’m sure is dried blood away. “This will scar for a little bit, but it’ll eventually heal and fade. I didn’t want to maim you on our first night.”

Lucien chuckles, but my heart sinks a little.

“Hey, Lucien?” I ask sheepishly.

“Yeah,” he answers absentmindedly, pouring the antiseptic over the fresh wound.

I wince, but rest my face against my folded arms. “Why’d you cut me?”

“Because,” he says, blowing air across my heated skin to dull the sting.

I’m none too pleased when he leaves it at that, providing no further context.

“Because, what?” I huff.

“Because it’s like I told you—I’m fucked up. That’s all there is to it.”

I refuse to believe that that’s all there is to it .

I sigh, “Tell me the real reason. Please.” I nudge his bicep with my toes. “Lying is against the rules.”

He tosses the bloodied paper towel to the side, grabbing the Neosporin next.

“Because . . . there’s beauty in scars. We’re not meant to be perfect.

We’re not meant to survive car crashes and come out completely unscathed while everyone else dies.

That’s not normal. We’re meant to make mistakes and eat fries and fall and die.

We shouldn’t be striving for perfection, we should be striving for .

. . more,” he admits, dabbing at some of the deeper cuts.

“So that’s why the cutting?” I turn slightly to look at him.

He shrugs. “That’s what Dr. Thottie thinks.”

I chuckle, shaking my head a little at his abysmal nicknaming skills, but quickly sober. “I’m sorry about your family. That must have been hard.”

He says nothing for a long time, and I worry I’ve crossed a line. I look over to watch him as he presses a Hello Kitty band aid to what feels like the U in his name and a tiny Batman band aid over the N.

“It was,” he finally says, pulling my clothes back down to cover me.

I start to sit up, but pause when he asks. “Do you have any siblings?”

“Uh, no,” I shake my head, “not really.”

Lucien barks a laugh. “ Not really ? You either do or you don’t,” he chuckles. “Estranged siblings count.”

My lips quirk into a smile.

“No, I don’t have an estranged sibling, or any sibling really, but I almost had one.”

Lucien cocks a brow at me. “Well, this I gotta hear.” He leans back into the couch, turning his head to eye me further.

Tucking my leg beneath me so that I’m not sitting directly on my ass, I regale him with my sordid tale.