Page 143 of Twisted Play

My phone vibrated against the table. The Devil’s number flashed across the screen—another demand, another threat, another reminder none of this was real. I flipped it face down without reading the message.

“Smart choice,” Katie said, flipping through more cards. “I want a new rule banning phones from hockey house study sessions.”

Haruto raised his hand. “I second that motion. Tristan keeps distracting me with TikToks of golden retrievers.”

“They’re motivational,” Tristan protested. “Pure joy in ten-second increments.”

The front door slammed, and everyone froze. In the week since I’d basically moved in with Cole and Tristan, I’d never heard that door slam. The hockey players were careful with everything—their bodies, their equipment, their shared spaces. They never lost control.

Heavy footsteps echoed through the hallway—expensive shoes tapping on hardwood, moving with purpose but without the usual confidence I associated with?—

Cole appeared in the kitchen doorway.

My stomach dropped. His charcoal suit was wrinkled, the fabric pulled and twisted like he’d been grabbing at it. His tie hung loose around his neck, the knot destroyed. But it was his face that made my chest tighten—pale and hollow, with dead eyes that didn’t seem to register the room full of people staring at him.

Tristan rose from his chair. “Cole?—”

I was already moving, pushing back from the table and crossing the kitchen toward him. Cole’s head snapped up as I approached, shock flickering across his features.

“What are you doing?” His voice was rough, like he’d been screaming.

“You look like you could use a hug,” I said quietly, only loud enough for him to hear.

His eyes widened, like the concept was foreign to him. Maybe it was.

I stepped closer and wrapped my arms around his waist. For a moment, Cole just stood there, rigid and uncertain. Then his arms came up slowly, circling me, pulling me against his chest. His chin settled on top of my head, and I felt some of the tension bleed out of him.

We stood like that in the kitchen, surrounded by the careful sounds of studying, breathing together, his heartbeat slowing beat by beat as we held each other.

When I pulled back to look at his face, his expression was softer. His blue eyes searched mine, looking for I didn’t know what, and all I knew was that I hated the vulnerable furrow in his brow.

Before I could stop myself, I lifted up on my toes to kiss him, soft and exploratory, a fierce need to protect him unfurling in my chest.

Cole didn’t hesitate. He clutched me to him and kissed me back, his lips moving over mine, devouring me like he’d been drowning and I was pure oxygen.

When we broke apart, I could hear the others as they pretended not to watch—pencils scratching on paper, the rustle of textbook pages, the flip-flip-flip of Katie’s flashcards, the careful sounds of our friends giving us privacy.

Hot tears pressed behind my eyes. I blinked them back then stepped away before Cole could see them, before he could see my weakness. He needed something different anyway. I caught his hand, threading our fingers together, and tugged him toward the stairs.

The moment I closed the door to his room behind us, Cole pressed me against it, his mouth crashing into mine with desperate hunger. His hands framed my face, fingers trembling as he kissed me like I was the only thing keeping him anchored to earth.

When we broke apart, both breathing hard, I pushed him toward the bed. “Sit,” I said, my voice rougher than intended. To my surprise, he obeyed.

I knelt between his legs, the carpet rough against my knees, and dragged him down to me, tugging on his tie. I worked it carefully until I could loop it over his head and drop it on the floor. Button by button, I worked my way down his shirt, unbuttoning it to reveal the taut skin beneath. My fingers moved to his belt, the leather smooth and expensive under my touch, but before I could lower my head, Cole caught my face in his hands.

“No.” His voice was rough, broken. “Need you up here. With me.”

He pulled me up, crushing his mouth to mine as his hands fisted in my hair. I could feel his desperation in the way his fingers dug into my scalp, the way he moaned when I bit his lower lip. Then he was lifting me, spinning us around until my back hit the mattress and his weight settled over me, heavy and warm and real.

We stripped each other frantically, hands colliding as we fought with buttons and fabric. Cole’s mouth mapped my throat while I pushed his shirt off his shoulders, tasting salt and the lingering scent of his cologne. His skin was fever-hot under my palms, muscles tense with barely controlled need. When his hands moved to my clothes, they trembled against the fabric—his usual brutality replaced by something rawer, more desperate.

The sound of tearing fabric filled the air as he gave upon my buttons, ripping my blouse open. Cool air hit my overheated skin before his mouth was there, sucking marks into the curve of my breast while his hands worked my bra free.

“What happened?” I gasped against his ear as he pressed kisses to my collarbone, his stubble rough against my sensitive skin.

“Doesn’t matter.” His voice was barely above a whisper, breath hot against my throat. “Can’t change it.”

I understood the helplessness of being trapped by circumstances bigger than yourself, controlled by people who held all the power. Instead of examining his complicity in my own powerlessness, I kissed him again—deeper this time as we frantically worked to take off our clothes.