Page 9 of Cracked Ice (The F*cked Up Players #1)

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H er mouth opens to speak, but nothing more than a broken squeak comes out before it clamps shut again.

Who knew stalkers could be so cute?

Her pretty honey blond hair is innocently curled and her sky blue eyes sparkle with both dark and light hues.

How appropriate. They remind me of cracked ice, like a frozen-over lake filled with fissures and fractures, etched into the orifices of her face.

I could drown in those frozen eyes. I could get trapped beneath the ice and never come up, she’s that beautiful. It’s unreal.

My palms itch to touch them, to roam my fingers over the thin membrane and ensure they’re real—not contacts or an illusion.

Her pupils dilate the longer I stare into those eyes, promising their existence to me.

It’s at that moment I decide, she’s worth not killing.

Quite the opposite actually. She’s worth killing for.

She’s too goddamn pretty, like a pretty little princess doll.

A porcelain figure that I could so easily break if I’m not careful.

Sweat drips from my hairline, coating my skin while she drinks me in for what feels like the first time. She’s seen plenty of me, though.

Our bodies have never been in such close proximity, and our skin has never touched. I’ve never been close enough to breathe her aroma—like coconut and fruit. Unfortunately, I don’t smell half as good, yet she sucks me down like I’m oxygen itself.

Her lips part to speak again, but if I didn’t know any better, I’d say she was experiencing shock.

At this point, killing her would be more accidental than purposeful.

It’s entirely possible I’ll crush this butterfly before she ever gets to fly.

Those delicate wings of hers could crumble beneath my touch the moment I get my hands on her.

The instinct to hold onto her and never let go is so strong.

And the emotion guiding me is foreign. I’ve never wanted something this bad.

Her lashes flutter while she attempts to speak for a third time.

In the time I wait for her to say something, the itching of my palms becomes almost unbearable, craving the feel of her skin.

I’m dying to touch some part of her, to cement her physicality with some sort of contact.

I need to touch her, hold her, squeeze her.

The desire is so intense, my hands shake against the metal.

It’s a risk I’m willing to take. But I won’t break her . . . yet. It’s too soon.

In my defense, the only reason I considered killing her in the first place was because I thought she was going to kill me first. I mean, she’s been stalking me for months at this point, so it’s a logical assumption.

She’s never spoken to me and never came to games or team practices.

She just stared at me from hidden locations, and only when I was alone.

Occasionally, she smiled at me from beneath a dark hood like she knew something I didn’t.

She hid herself well too, not too many people are capable of that with me.

Honestly, good on her. She managed to achieve what others barely live to see. I mean, I knew she was there, but she always remained just out of reach. I never got close enough to see her up close, especially not this close. I wasn’t even sure my stalker was a girl until she showed up here.

What was I supposed to think? Her behavior absolutely gave ‘I want to wear your skin’ vibes, not puck bunny vibes.

Now here she is at a game, sporting my number on her goddamn face, dressed to the nines in school spirit and standing right in front of me.

I think it’s kismet. Nothing but fate could make this possible.

“Um, hi,” she finally says. I blink, not expecting those to be her famous first words.

“Hi,” I respond, something between an amused laugh and a questionable scoff hidden behind the singular word.

The corners of her pouty lips tick upward in a nervous smile and I’m unable to hold back anymore.

I reach out to touch her, tracing my bloodied knuckles down her supple cheek.

Red streaks trail in their wake down to her jaw.

She’s so soft . She sucks in a stuttered breath.

Those peculiar eyes of hers growing wider, but I don’t miss the way she’s looking at me, like she’s memorizing me.

It’s then I see the truth. This is as surreal for her as it is for me. Our first time face-to-face.

“I was wondering when I’d finally get to meet you,” I breathe, entranced by the proximity of this very real person standing before me. For a second there I almost worried the doc was right and that it was all in my head, but here she is standing in all her glory.

Seeing my blood streaked across her face makes me want to see what other bodily fluids I can smear on her skin.

“Excuse me?” she asks, her voice a shaken whisper.

My eyes flick from her cheek to her lips. Well, seems the little stalker princess does have manners.

“You’re different than I thought you’d be,” I state, somewhat absentmindedly, as I reach out and pull on one of her curls. It boings when I let it go, and I chuckle. “So fragile and small.” I tilt her chin up. “I thought you’d be . . . scarier.”

It’s hard to reconcile this flawless girl in front of me with the one who relentlessly tracked me down. For the better part of a week, I seriously considered she might be part bloodhound or that I was being tracked by something otherworldly.

She jerks her face away.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she rasps, before clearing her throat.

“Well, you’re her , right? The girl who’s been following me, sneaking into my private practices, watching me? Messaging me? You’re her. ”

She better hope she is. I’ve been waiting for this day for months, when I could finally play with the person crazy enough to stalk a demon like me.

If this girl turns out not to be my stalker, well, let’s just say, killing might be back on the table.

I would think my real stalker wouldn’t be too happy about her if she wasn’t. They might hurt my new plaything.

“I didn’t—” she shakes her head rapidly. But there’s a twitch in those cracked-ice eyes peering up at me like I’m personally responsible for the sun setting and rising. I fucking love it.

“It’s not what you think. I’m not . . .” she tries again.

I know it’s her, and yet it’s not her, not in this moment. Right now, she’s a scared damsel, frightened and confused, or she’s pretending to be. I’m not sure which. Something tells me it’s the latter, that this is all an elaborate act.

Her hair has a sheen that you only get from constant maintenance at a salon.

With the exception of her hair, her scent is expensive like leather, cashmere, and exotic florals.

Real diamond studs are lanced through her pierced ears.

Her teeth are blinding white with perfect pink gums, and her skin is as smooth as glass, not a single open pore or blackhead to be found.

She’s too perfect a creature to be the same one who left creepy gum figures around and sent those disturbing messages.

But she is, there’s not a doubt in my mind.

“Don’t lie to me,” I sing-song as I step in, pressing our bodies together. “I have a particular distaste for liars.”

If this is going to work, she can’t lie to me. The rules of the game insist we play fair. We can’t do that if the players are liars.

“How . . . how did you know it was me?”

I shrug. It’s a bit hard to put into words. I’ve had years to turn what most people might consider extreme paranoia and hyper-awareness into a blade so sharp nothing gets past me unscathed. Usually. She’s been the exception. I never saw her coming.

“Same way I knew you followed me here.” I lean my head down, nudging her hair line before taking a long whiff of her hair. “You—smell—so— sweet, ” I groan.

“I—uh, thank you?” She licks her lips and shifts beneath my hungry gaze, but it doesn’t escape my notice that she’s no longer searching for the exit.

I nod my head once, acknowledging her, before taking the flat of my tongue and licking up the side of her heart-shaped face right over the #66 she has painted there.

I really like that she’s wearing my number on her face.

It’s cute. The other puck bunnies paint their tits and flash me their chests, but I much prefer this.

I hum in satisfaction. “You taste sweet, too.”

“What the—why?” Disgust temporarily replaces her fear, and she raises her hand to wipe it away, to wipe me away. I snatch her wrist, pressing it to the locker.

“Nuh uh uh. There will be none of that. You’re not allowed to wipe me away, not now that I’ve marked my territory.”

I drag her other wrist up on the locker, pinning them both in my grasp so that her arms are suspended above her head. This should keep her from getting any more funny ideas.

You can never be too careful with these stalker types.

I smile down at her face that’s now covered with my blood on one side and my saliva on the other, and hell if she didn’t just get more beautiful.

“I’m not—” she cuts herself off.

“Go on. Finish what you were going to say. You’re not . . . what?” I goad.

Mine?

I dare her to finish that sentence.

“That’s what I thought. So, tell me, to what do I owe this pleasure? Did you come here so you could watch me some more or did you actually have intentions for me?” I waggle my brows, hoping it’s the latter because I definitely have intentions for her.

She bucks beneath my restraints, her bouncy tits bumping me in the chest. Fuck, we’re going to have so much fun.

“Let me go,” she growls. She says it like she’s used to people following her commands. “Let me go right now or I’ll . . . I’ll scream.”

“Aw, well, don’t threaten me with a good time,” I croon.

“I mean it. I’ll scream for help.”

“I’m not gonna stop you. Go ahead. Scream.” I grin, the acoustics in here are perfect for blood-curdling howls.