Total pages in book: 160
Estimated words: 163089 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 815(@200wpm)___ 652(@250wpm)___ 544(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 163089 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 815(@200wpm)___ 652(@250wpm)___ 544(@300wpm)
And he’s watching it, too. His usual smirk is wiped clean, and his eyes light up in a shade so bright, it knocks the air right out of my lungs.
It’s almost…dazzling.
Blinding, even.
“Mm. Might consider being on my knees very seriously.” He darts out his tongue and runs it along his lower lip, and my eyes follow the motion, my brain short-circuiting for a fraction of a second.
Then the long, grating static disappears, and the outside world comes crashing back in again.
Like a sound bomb, everything filters in at once.
I shove myself away from Osborn’s orbit, practically sending myself flying across the ice, tripping on a few broken sticks and almost falling before I catch myself.
He doesn’t move, just watches me closely with a slight tilt of his head and a curve in his annoying lips.
Yo, stop staring at his lips, says my brain.
Just a second, replies my eyes, or the other half of my brain, or whichever fucking incompetent son of a bitch is running the show right now.
My breathing deepens, growing harsher than if I were doing intense cardio, my chest rising and falling in sync with my jumbled nerves.
The ones that even my concoction of alcohol and painkillers didn’t seem to quiet—I rate this mix three out of five for inconsistency reasons.
“So…” Osborn trudges toward me ever so calmly, and I’m watching his every step as if he’ll pounce on me at any second.
Which is ridiculous. I pounce on people, not the other way around.
“Is this a kink?” He stops a few steps away from me and kicks away one of the murdered sticks. “Wearing and destroying my stuff, I mean.”
I narrow my eyes, then remember I did put his skates on because I wanted to do a round on the ice while drunk and possibly high. Another decision the me from less than an hour ago thought was genius, and he’s obviously getting disowned as we speak.
You’re so fired, demon.
“Those skates are too big for you, my prince. You’ll hurt yourself.”
“Aw, worried about me? How touching. Hold on, let me shed a few tears for the effort.” I pretend to wipe my eyes.
“Worried? Not really. I just hate cleaning up blood off my ice.”
“Don’t flatter yourself. I wouldn’t bleed for you.”
“No, but you’d bleed on me, wouldn’t you?”
He says that in a gruff tone as he takes a step forward. With the skates, we’re about the same height, and I actually get to look down at him.
I hold my ground, refusing to move—because fuck this shit—but my fingers tighten around the neck of the bottle. “You sound deranged. Should I file a restraining order?”
“I should be the one filing one of those, considering you delivered yourself into my ice rink in the middle of the night, acting like an epic sore loser.” He reaches a hand to my face.
I slap it away with the bottle, sending droplets of alcohol on the ice. “Don’t touch me.”
“Why?” He tilts his head slowly as if I’m a puzzle he’s intending to solve. “Afraid of something?”
“Yeah, catching a disease from this shithole. It’s a health hazard to be here, FYI, so if you want donations, all you have to do is become my servant for a week.”
“My, is that another kink? Tell me more.”
This motherfucker has loose screws. I’m trying to remember if he’s always been such an epic pain in the ass.
Granted, I’ve only met Osborn on the ice.
I’m pretty sure he was mostly…well, a little son of a bitch who stole the attention of the media effortlessly, but he was more like Kane. Silent and boring.
Now, he’s just…different.
I can’t put my finger on it, exactly, but something has shifted in the way he talks. He’s almost as antagonizing as I am.
“What are you thinking about? Talk to me.” He reaches a hand out again, and this time, I slam my free palm against his windpipe, choking him in an instant, stopping him short of making contact.
“What part of don’t touch me do you not understand, motherfucker?”
He puts both hands in the air. “It was innocent.”
“Nothing is fucking innocent about touching!”
My voice rises, and I breathe harshly, tightening my grip so hard, I can feel the tendons coil and flex in his neck.
“You want to kill me?” he strains, his face turning red. “Go ahead, baby. I’m sure you’ll make it look phenomenal.”
B-baby.
Did this asshole call me baby?
I’m going to fucking kill him—
“Love the look on your face, Armstrong.” His muscles pull tight, his words barely leaving his throat, but he’s still fucking yapping.
“Learn how to shut the fuck up!”
“Oh no. Losing your cool? Don’t like being cornered?”
“Keep dreaming.” I shove him away. “I don’t get cornered.”
“Everyone does…eventually.” He flicks his fingers over the red marks I left on his throat. My chest does something at that view. “Some just make it look good.”