Total pages in book: 128
Estimated words: 128356 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 642(@200wpm)___ 513(@250wpm)___ 428(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 128356 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 642(@200wpm)___ 513(@250wpm)___ 428(@300wpm)
I stride toward him, then stop because I won’t stoop as low as him. “Took? Are you wording it as if she had a choice? Is mental illness a fucking choice? You’re the one who ruined her!”
He doesn’t shift. Doesn’t budge, just stares at me with unfeeling eyes. “Apparently, she ruined you, too.”
“What—”
“Listen, Jude. I was ready to turn a blind eye to your impulsive, fruitless revenge as long as you kept yourself in check. I forbid Julian from interfering with your way of blowing off steam and even provided you with the manpower to do as you damn well pleased, but you need to stop being so obsessed with your mother and her disturbed mind.”
“Did you just…call it disturbed mind?”
“It was. Deep down, even with all the coping mechanisms and memory-filtering you seem to do, you know she wasn’t normal.” He squeezes my shoulder. “Join me and Julian for dinner sometime and we can talk about it if you wish.”
“No.”
“Do so while I’m asking nicely, Jude.”
He leaves, but I’m shaking with rage and the need to scream in his face.
Punch him.
Bash his fucking head in.
But I don’t, because that would mean he’s right, and he’s getting in my head, and that’s simply off the table.
Regis did manage to accomplish something tonight, though, agitate the fuck out of me.
I was in a good mood until he forced me to be in the same room with his repulsive presence.
So even when I make it to the club downtown that we usually go to after our wins, I’m feeling murderous.
The moment I pull into the parking lot, I see Violet.
But she’s not alone.
And my vision is red.
28
VIOLET
Ishouldn’t have let Dahlia talk me into joining her to celebrate.
I really, really shouldn’t have.
Going to the game was already out of my comfort zone, but then again, I was the one who asked her if she still had that extra ticket and if I could join.
Not sure why I did it in the first place.
Well, I do. I wanted to see Jude play. Against my better judgment, I’ve been getting curious about him lately and wanted to learn more about his past and what made him who he is.
And hockey is a big part of who he is.
I could tell the sport held a special place in his life. Not only because of the violence but because when I watched him, it felt like it was the only time he could be free and be himself.
That knowledge made my chest hurt.
According to Dahlia, Jude—and Kane and Preston—had a very tough upbringing and have huge legacies to uphold, so they can’t be themselves.
They couldn’t even when they were young.
In reality, my chest shouldn’t hurt for Jude. Even if he’s the best fuck I’ve ever had, even if he often tells me these things that make me reconsider everything I took for granted about intimacy.
It doesn’t change the fact that he was my stalker and the man who was bent on killing me.
But I seem to completely gloss over those tiny facts whenever I’m with him.
It’s wrong and strange that I feel safe around him and that I leave him little notes in my journal because he religiously reads them.
The breach of privacy should be appalling, but for someone like me who struggles to communicate my needs, it’s been a blessing.
Still, despite everything that’s been going on, I shouldn’t have come to the game or been kind of…mesmerized by him. His power, his control, the way he commands the ice. Even his bursts of violence didn’t frighten me.
Not sure when I stopped being scared of Jude, but it just kind of happened, and now, I’m more in awe of his brute strength, even if I’m still slightly apprehensive.
The game and my confusing feelings aside, I should’ve gone home, not let Dahlia convince me to come to the club.
“It’ll be so much fun!” she said. “If you’re uncomfortable, you can leave at any time. No pressure, Vi.”
So here I am, dressed in a denim jacket over a sleeveless black dress that reaches my knees, but I still find myself tugging it down, self-conscious that it’ll be blown up by the wind and reveal things that shouldn’t be exposed.
One of my foster parents called me a whore at eleven because my dress showed some of my thighs. Her husband looked at me creepily and even let his hand wander up my leg when she walked in, but I was the whore who should cover up.
Ever since then, I haven’t been comfortable with dresses and have done everything in my power to dress in a way that doesn’t draw attention so that I’m not blamed for flaunting myself for the male gaze.
But, lately, I’ve been thinking about how that thought process is wrong. I’ve had a few online therapy sessions since I can afford it now, and I got a discount for a top therapist, Sloane Harriot, who’s helped me tremendously in such a short time.