Page 110 of Dark Little Game

I have my claim to him in the shadows. In the darkest parts of the night, when it’s just us, in our room.

But then it ends.

It has to end.

Like everything good in my life inevitably does.

“Go back to them,” I say as I break off from the kiss, giving his hips a little shove.

There’s something smoldering behind his eyes, though.

“What if he found out?” Rayne says quietly, his stare burning right into me.

“Nothing good would come of it. We both know that.”

“Iwantyou,” he says in a low tone.

“Dangerous territory you’re in, wanting me. Nothing good can come of that, either.”

He pulls his body away from mine in an instant.

Like he’s depriving me, on purpose.

And the worst part is that it’s fucking working. I miss his contact immediately, and my instinct is to reach out and pull him right back even though we both know better.

“I know you want me, too,” he tells me before he walks back into the crowd.

19

Rayne

The Onyx House front room is full, and the rows of dark red candles in every windowsill are lit.

“Last call for confessions,” Noah says, walking all around the room and shaking the little black box full of our little pieces of paper. “Anyone who hasn’t added yours yet, you better put it in now.”

I watch as a couple of guys walk over to slide their papers in through the slot at the top.

Everyone in the house is milling around, heading upstairs to grab their short capes and coming back down again with them tied around their back. Moments like these, when all thirty of us put on our capes and gather with the candles lit, are when I truly feel like I’m part of a secret society.

Most of the time, Onyx can feel like any good fraternity. Guys I know better than anyone else, living in one house, helping each other.

But right now?

I feel like I’m part of something more special.

The way the vaulted old ceiling in this house looks as the candles cast shadows all throughout the room.

The way all ofuslook with our capes on.

The Confessional is always one of my favorite Onyx Society traditions.

Weston comes in and plops down on the sofa next to me, the cushions sinking a little under his weight. He has a short glass in his hand full of ice and a clear liquid.

I tap the edge of it. “Starting early on the gin and tonic?”

“It’s just vodka,” Weston says.

“You’re drinking pure vodka?”