Page 10

10

Tovah

H oly shit. He’d put me in the trunk of his car.

Like full on threw me in the trunk of his goddamned car.

I reminded myself to breathe. Usually when someone who was part of an organized crime family put you in the trunk of their car, it meant you were about to die. But I doubted I’d pissed him off that much.

I wasn’t risking it, though. And I’d watched enough movies to know that older cars were built so if you were locked in the trunk, you could kick out the taillights. It wouldn’t actually get me out of the trunk, but I could wave my arm around and scream for help and someone would see me. I hoped so, anyway.

Taking a deep breath, I kicked out my leg, hard, directly at the taillight. Nothing happened, so I did it again, and again. Finally, on the fourth kick, I heard a crack and then cold air greeted me.

I did it!

Turning around in the tiny trunk wasn’t easy. I had to slither on my stomach, which hurt. I was going to have rug burn on my stomach later. After a few tries, I managed to turn around and stuck my arm out the hole where the taillight had been. I started to scream for help at the top of my lungs. I couldn’t see anything, had no idea if there was anyone around, but it didn’t matter, it was my only chance.

As I continued to scream, the car slowed to a stop.

Oh, shit. Had Isaac heard me somehow?

I pulled my hand back into the car, preparing to run.

The car stopped, a car door slammed, gravel crunched, the locks beeped, and then the lid of the trunk was being raised and I was exposed to fresh air, moonlight, and Isaac’s cold expression.

“That was clever,” he said, sounding amused, not irate like I’d expected him to be. “Fortunately, I already knew how clever you are.”

Crap.

I shouldn’t have appreciated the compliment, but Isaac’s admonition did stir up a little satisfaction in me. Or would’ve, if it hadn’t screwed me over. Because from what I could tell, we were alone.

Isaac reached into the trunk, grabbing me by my armpits and hauling me out. We were front to front for a moment, and the proximity to the heat of his body made my breath stutter. He slowly slid me down his body until my sneakers hit gravel. I expected him to release me from his hold, but he just gripped me tighter. His hands were so big, the tips of his thumbs teased the edges of my breasts. Inhaling sharply, I forced myself not to react, looking up at him.

“Let me go,” I said softly.

He jerked his head to the side. No.

“Isaac, let me go. You’re hurting me.”

“You agreed to this,” he said, also softly—but there was a danger in the quiet of his voice. “And then you kneed me in the balls and ran. Leaving a few bruises on your arms is the least I’m going to do to you.”

“Really?” I scoffed, hiding my fear. “What would the students at Reina think if they could hear you threaten me right now? What would your teammates or your new coach think?”

I expected him to release me, but a smirk played on his face, illuminating his left dimple in the moonlight.

“It doesn’t matter what they’ll think, Tovah. They won’t ever know.”

And then he was releasing me briefly, only to grab my left wrist and drag me behind him down the gravel path to a house a few hundred feet ahead of us.

Huge oak trees surrounded us, the darkness and shadows only broken up by the dim light of a crescent moon. It was mostly silent, except for the nearby hoot of an owl as it observed me stumbling after Isaac as he took long, angry strides toward the house ahead of us. In the dark, it was an ominous gray, with closed shutters and a large porch. Old Colonial , my brain supplied, but the fear and frustration eclipsed it.

“Are you seriously kidnapping me?” I huffed.

Isaac ignored me.

“You know that’s a crime, right?” I continued.

“According to you, I’m already a criminal. What’s one more felony?” But he didn’t sound as blasé as he was trying to be. I’d hit the target, but it didn’t mean he was releasing me.

When we reached the house, he hauled me up the five steps to the porch, withdrawing a key from his pocket and unlocking the front door. I managed to pull in one more breath of fresh air before he was slamming the door behind me and locking it. Finally, he released me, only to play with his phone, and with an ominous beep, a robotic voice spoke.

“House locked down. Alarm on.”

That was it.

I was all alone, with the dark, dangerous, hockey-playing mafia prince.

And there was nowhere else to run.

The house was beautiful. With muted grey walls, original beams and wainscotting everywhere, and big picture windows looking out on the forest, it was everything I ever could have wanted in a home. Too bad I didn’t want to be here.

“Where are we?” I sassed.

“My house,” he said simply, watching me.

His house.

“I thought you live in the hockey annex?” I asked, curiosity getting the better of me.

“Sometimes. Sometimes it’s easier to be alone. And this is one of those times.”

Although his quiet admission brought out an understanding in me, I shoved it away. What was more important was I was in Isaac’s home. A home where he probably stored secrets that I could use as evidence. Curious, I followed him through the living room into a big, sparkling, modern kitchen, with Shaker cabinets and a big black farmhouse sink. It was exactly how I’d design a house, if and when I would be able to afford my own. My mom and I had spent years living in temporary rentals and even motels. Did Isaac even get how lucky he was?

“Must be nice,” I muttered, then jumped when Isaac asked:

“What must be nice?”

“Being rich as fuck,” I said, tossing my hair.

I expected him to grin, to preen, to rub in my face everything he had that I didn’t. What I did not expect was the way his jaw went tight and his eyes flashed.

“You might be surprised,” he said. “When all that wealth comes with strings attached, it feels more like a trap than a golden ticket.”

“I’m playing the world’s smallest violin for you,” I told him.

He rolled his eyes, pulling out a bar stool and pointing to it. “Sit.”

“I think I’ll—” I started.

“Tovah. Sit.”

I glared at him.

He picked me up by the waist, depositing me on a bar stool, then braced his arms on both sides of me on the island countertop. My chest burned with anger and helplessness.

“Let’s try this again,” he said slowly. “I don’t think you understood the rules the first time. One: You don’t go anywhere without me or one of my teammates accompanying you. Two: All of your internet time is monitored. Schoolwork only. I’m not risking you notifying your editor or sneakily publishing something on The Daily Queen ’s site. Three: Whatever I tell you to do, you do. Whatever I tell you to wear, you wear.”

The burning in my chest grew. I crossed my arms over my chest. Shaking his head and tsking at me like I was an unruly child, he lifted one of his arms from the countertop, grabbing my left wrist and pulling my left arm away from my chest, then my right one.

“Leave them,” he warned.

“Fuck you,” I said slowly.

He paused, staring me down. The words were unnecessary, because the implication was clear: Oh, you’re gonna.

He continued. “Little snoop, hear me loud and clear: If you don’t follow my orders to the letter, if you break a single one of my rules, I will have absolutely zero qualms calling my father and telling him I have Tovah Lewis in my grasp. How long do you think you’ll survive?”

Not long. But that wasn’t the only issue. Isaac didn’t seem to realize that my mother was alive. I didn’t want to follow his bullshit “rules,” but it wasn’t just my life on the line—it was hers.

Which meant going along with what he wanted.

For now.

He’d made a mistake. He’d brought me into his home. His life. He might know I was clever, that I was smart, but if he knew just how smart or clever I was, he wouldn’t have risked letting me get so close. They said keep your friends close and your enemies closer, but that didn’t apply to journalists.

I was skeptical when it came to his plans, though. “How the hell are you going to pull this off? You think no one’s going to be suspicious that we’re together all the time, that you can’t stay away from me, that your friends are always around me—when before it was pretty obvious to everyone that we can’t stand each other? People are going to think you’re pussy whipped.”

Isaac threw back his head and laughed. I was entranced in spite of myself: by his deep, husky chuckle, the way his Adam’s apple moved in his throat, the way his dark eyes warmed with humor. The experience was like a seductive caress; a temptation I neither needed nor wanted.

“Do you know how much pussy I’ve played with?” he taunted. “Your cunt could be entirely made of diamonds and gold, and it still couldn’t control me. Nah, everyone on campus will think you’re dick drunk.” His eyes narrowed, his hand squeezing my right wrist. It didn’t hurt, but the warning was there. “And you’re going to make them believe that, aren’t you, little snoop? You’re going to follow me around with big heart eyes, sit on my lap and toss your hair and giggle like you did at the bar in front of your friend, and let me touch you however I want to. Make everyone think you’re in love with me.”

“And you?” I countered, hating how breathless I sounded. “Are people going to think you’re in love with me?”

A look came to his eyes I couldn’t read. “They’d be idiots if they did.”

It shouldn’t have hurt. I didn’t care what Isaac Silver thought of me. But the memory of who he’d been as a boy was stronger than I’d realized, because his outright hatred burned almost as badly as my chest did.

“You’ll come to my home games,” he said. “Away games are negotiable depending on good behavior.”

“I can’t! I have work!” I protested.

“Not any more you don’t. I’ll quit the bar for you.”

“I need that money, Isaac.” I was at Reina on scholarship, but I still had to pay for textbooks and rent.

He waved a hand, releasing my wrist. “I’ll pay for whatever you need. You aren’t working at that damn bar in that tight little tank top while douchebros hit on you.”

“ You are a douchebro,” I muttered.

He raised an eyebrow. “You’ll come to every single one of my games, here and away, and you’ll wear my jersey. We’re not playing games where you wear some other player’s number and make me look like a fool.”

“What, are you jealous, Isaac Silver?”

He smirked. “Why would I be jealous of anyone else, when I know you’re going to end every night in my bed?”

I gulped, my throat suddenly dry. It grew drier as his eyes lazily tracked me as I swallowed.

“This is a big house,” I protested. “Why would I sleep in your bed?”

“Because I don’t trust you in my home. I don’t trust you alone. And you’re going to have to get used to me touching you, so we can sell this fake thing between us publicly. And,” he added with dark silk in his voice, “because I want you in my bed, and I’m getting what I want. From now on, I say ‘suck,’ you ask, ‘how deep?’”

The angry burn in my chest made it hard to breathe. I hated his words, and I especially hated the feelings they sparked in my core.

“If you get your dick anywhere near me, I’m biting it off,” I threatened. “That deep enough for you?”

What happened next was almost too fast for me to track. With a growl, Isaac lifted me off the barstool he’d set me on earlier, flipped me around, and threw me face down on the kitchen counter so my legs dangled off. A slap rang out and a moment later, my right ass cheek stung.

He’d hit me.

Spanked me.

As if he had the fucking right.

“You fucking asshole,” I seethed, lifting myself off the counter, only for him to push me back down with a hand between my shoulder blades.

I struggled against him, but I was no match for the big hockey player here in his own house. He peppered my ass with hit after hit, not tempering his strength or restraining himself in any way, just delivering pain. It hurt . It stung. It burned.

And then something horrifying happened: it started to feel good.

The more it hurt, the wetter I grew. I could feel it, on my pussy and between my thighs, and thanked fate that I was wearing jeans so he’d never know.

I’d barely had that moment of gratitude before he was lifting my hips and unbuttoning the top of my jeans, slowly pulling down the zipper. Cool air brushed against my panties.

“What the hell are you doing?!” I shrieked.

“Taking your pants off. What does it seem like I’m doing?” he countered as he dragged my jeans down my ass and legs, letting them crumple between my ankles, making it impossible to kick him.

My pink panties followed, his fingers tracing bare skin and leaving aching shivers in their wake. If I wasn’t imagining things, his breathing was becoming heavier, rougher…

…especially when he shoved one of his hands between my pussy and the counter, and his thumb came in direct contact with my bare lips.

My wet, bare lips.

He froze. His hand, his body, his breath, everything.

And then:

“Fuuuuuuuuuuck.” he rasped, his breath tightening and quickening. “This turns you on, you little snoop? Me beating your ass makes you hot and wet? You like pain, don’t you?”

“No,” I gasped.

He delivered another slap, this time to the underside of my ass. “Don’t fucking lie to me. I can feel how much you like it. I don’t care that your name means ‘good.’ There’s nothing good about you, bad girl.” He delivered another slap, this time between my thighs. I screamed from the combined pain and pleasure. “And I’m going to make sure you feel it.”