Page 9 of That Pretty Pucking Mouth (The Blackridge Reapers #4)

Ezra pants beside me as we break into a sprint for the goal line. The rink fills with the sound of heavy breathing. Coach yells for us to go faster with his intermittent whistles.

“Why the fuck are you so happy, huh?” Ezra hisses as we cross the line and barrel back, sweat dripping from our brows underneath our helmets. I don’t respond and just skate ahead of him, my grin growing with each glide.

Rhea… Rhea…

The only regret I have is letting her walk away that night, for not chasing her down and claiming her right there and then, for letting her have her freedom…

Something had stopped me from possessing her, from taking it further. Some sense of bullshit morality or etiquette that had never seemed to affect me before. But it stopped me from taking what was mine.

For months, I waited, watching her from a distance, convincing myself it was the right thing to do, resisting the pull I felt.

It felt like torture seeing her with someone else–although the burn I felt when I pounded them into a pulp was exhilarating–every guy who so much as touched her felt my wrath eventually, though I always kept it subtle, nothing that would point back to me.

Just enough to remind them that they had no right to touch what’s fucking mine.

It didn’t matter that he or she doesn’t know it.

I know it, and I couldn’t stand the thought of filthy hands on my dove.

That night with Jack… I almost lost control. The way he had his hands all over her. It sent me into a rage I couldn’t contain. I shouldn’t have let her slip away. I should’ve claimed her in that kitchen, right in front of him, so he would know, so that they would all know.

No more waiting… or morality.

The restraint I had forced on myself for the past months? It was over. I had given her enough freedom, enough time. There was no keeping the monster in me at bay anymore. Nothing is going to stop it. Nothing is going to fucking stop me now.

Not Jack. Not the cops. Not anyone. Not even her, the murderer herself.

Ezra skates up beside me, his harsh breathing filling the air. “You’re really going to ignore me now?”

I fight the urge to roll my eyes. “I’m not ignoring you, dude. I’m just tired of listening to you repeat the same thing over and over again.”

“Fuck,” he snaps, his frustration palpable. “You’re really not taking this seriously, are you? Where the fuck is your head at, huh? Do you have any idea––”

I skate faster, wanting to get away from this conversation. “I’m taking it seriously, Ezra,” I mutter, my breath ragged. “Jack’s dead, I get it.”

Ezra pulls up beside me, his face flushed from anger and exertion. “ You get it? Then why are you acting like you don’t give a shit? He was our hockey brother, dude. He was on this fucking team, and…”

I grit my teeth, forcing my legs to move faster. The memory of Jack’s hands on Rhea flashes through my mind again, and my hands tighten around the handle of my stick. If he wasn’t dead, I would have killed him already.

Maybe I should give Rhea a little reward for that.

Ezra isn’t wrapped in the same shit that I am if it’s not obvious.

He doesn’t know what I’ve done to be a part of the Reapers, and what I’m willing to do from here on out.

He doesn’t have the same devil on his shoulder like I do, but truthfully, that’s why I keep the fucker around.

Without him, I might be completely lost in the darkness.

It’s always good to have a rational, levelheaded idiot on your side. He’s the angel on my other shoulder.

And I care about what’s gone down, but not in the way Ezra thinks. He has no idea the shit that Jack got himself into in the last few weeks. If it wasn’t Rhea, it would’ve been the Reapers. Hell, maybe even myself put on the job to take him out.

I say to Ezra, “You think I don’t know what’s at stake? I’ve got this handled, alright?”

“Handled?” he scoffs. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean? You’re skating around here like it’s nothing, while the cops are crawling all over us, and you say you’ve got this handled?”

I slow down, glancing at him. “Trust me on this, Ezra. I know you’re fucking shaken up, but whatever you’re worried about, keep it at bay, brother. We won’t go down for this,” I say, my voice lower. “Because we didn’t do it. We’re good. We’re fucking good.”

Ezra’s eyes widen a bit, but he doesn’t say anything. He’s scared, and I get it. But I’m not. The only thing that scares me right now is losing my chance with her.

Ezra exhales sharply, still looking at me like he can’t believe I’m this calm. He glances at the rest of the team. The Reapers on this team aren’t fucking shaken, just like me. I nod at Zane and Brody as they skate by.

“You’re crazy, man,” Ezra mutters, shaking his head. “Well, I hope they fucking do their jobs and catch the fuck who did this.”

His words hang in the air, heavy with tension.

A flicker of fear crosses his face, but he doesn’t push it any further.

I can tell he’s scared—scared of what happened to Jack, scared of the cops, maybe even scared of me.

But if he thinks they’re going to catch who the fuck did this, he’s wrong.

My little dove is safe as long as I’m here.

“You have to admit this looks bad, Thatcher. Real bad. And if they don’t find the guy, they’ll keep digging.” He pauses and flashes me a nervous look. “They could find out about other things.”

His words hang sharp and loaded in the air, escalating the tension further, but I shrug it off. Nothing will happen if I don’t want it to.

Around us, Coach calls for a huddle and I start moving. I skate away from him, calling over my shoulder. “Let them dig. They won’t find anything.”

But deep down, I know that’s not entirely true. If they look hard enough, if they start asking the right questions, they might find things I don’t want them to. Things that shouldn’t see the light of day.

The only thing that truly scares me isn’t the cops or getting caught—it’s losing Rhea. And I’m not about to let that happen.

Practice ended later than I wanted. After making us run suicides for the better part of the session, we played a short scrimmage, and I ended up taking out my anger and tension out on the puck, sending it barreling into the back of the net more times than anyone else.

Now I sit in my car, parked just far enough to blend in but close enough to watch. Rhea’s apartment is on the second floor, and through the dim light of her window, I can see her moving around inside.

The burning urge I felt during the day to see her now sated as I watch her pace around, her phone in her hand, every now and then glancing out the window, but she doesn’t see me. I’ve made sure of that for the past months.

My fingers tighten around the steering wheel as I lean back in my seat, my eyes never leaving her. I can see her mouth moving then and again but I’m not tempted to listen in on the bugs I have planted in her room, nor the cameras.

I prefer this—watching her, knowing she has no idea I’m here, no idea I’ve been here all along.

The urge to be close to her, to control every aspect of her life, is like a fire that never goes out.

I’ve kept it in check for so long, convincing myself that patience was the key, that she would come to me eventually.

But the sight of her with Jack shattered that illusion. My jaw clenches as I watch her now, so unaware, so fragile.

Her pacing slows, and she sits on the edge of her bed, running a hand through her hair, her shoulders slumping like she’s carrying the weight of the world. I blink, looking down at my phone vibrating in my lap.

Someone just viewed your profile. Tap to see who it is!

I read the notification, tapping on it absently. The app opens and I can’t fight the smile on my face when I see her name pop up.

It seems like she’s taken the bait. I knew leaving that comment on her roommate’s post would grab her attention.

It’s only a matter of time now.

I tap on her profile picture, browsing through her posts, a regular occurrence now for me. I practically have all her pictures memorized by now. I scroll through images of sunsets and clouds, books, coffee orders to the one picture I just can’t seem to forget.

It’s a candid shot of her laughing heartily, probably at whoever was taking the picture. The pure joy on her face captured perfectly against the backdrop of a serene lake. A spring break trip she took with her roommate during freshman year.

She’s so bright and beautiful, so full of light, and I can’t help but be drawn to her. I can’t help but be selfish and want her for myself.

My fingers hover over the screen, tracing her beautiful face before clicking the phone off and turning back to her window.

She’s staring at her phone, her eyes wide.

Pretty little dove.