Page 23 of Brutal Game

“Nope,” Jack repeated.

Dylan sighed. “Sebastian, you can partner up with Olivia and Annabelle.”

With that, he started today’s lecture.

“Let’s talk some more about Freud today, and, ‘repression.’ As we all know, Freud is not beloved by modern day psychology, especially the…feminist branch…”

Pretending to take notes, I glanced over at Jack, who was watching our professor with an indiscernible look. “What wasthatabout?”

Jack shrugged. “Not your business. Your only business from now on is keeping my cock happy.”

I glanced around, terrified someone had heard, but everyone’s eyes were on Dylan. None of them saw Jack as he gripped the back of my neck and held me in place. I tried tobreathe regularly for the rest of class, ignore Jack’s presence next to me, the threat of him, the sheer, brutal size of him, the knowledge that the nightmare hadn’t ended like I’d hoped.

It had barely begun.

9

Aviva

When class ended, I expected Jack to release my neck and swagger off to wherever he came from—the pits of hell, most likely.

As the rest of the students filed out of the room, he released my neck, stretching out his own before standing up from his seat and holding out a hand.

“Shall we, princess?”

“Stop calling me that,” I said. It was almost becoming automatic at this point. “And stop with this faux gallantry. I know who you really are.”

Jack stood there patiently, waiting for Dylan to leave.

“Everything okay, Aviva?” Dylan asked, sounding concerned. I considered, for one moment, just one moment, telling him everything, but I knew nothing good would come of it. Jack’s threats were clear: If I exposed him for assaulting me and blackmailing me, he would tell the administration I’d broken into the locker room—and the NHL that Asher had “falsely” accused Joshua Jensen ofabuse and assault. I couldn’t take that risk. No, I was putting up with this bullshit for Asher’s future, and my own. Like it or not, Jack Feldman was right: he owned me. I just didn’t have to make it easy for him.

“Everything’s fine! See you next week!” I said.

“You sure?”

“You heard her,” Jack said.

Dylan stiffened, glaring at Jack. But whatever power Jack had over him held. With one last glance at us, he left us alone in the room.

The moment our professor was gone, Jack’s mask disappeared. He loomed over me, pushing a strand of my hair behind my ear and lingering there, the gentle motion at odds with his cold, hard expression. This was the real Jack Feldman, not the golden boy he played in public.

It was terrifying how gorgeous he was—short, dark hair, angry gray eyes framed by dark, thick lashes that would have almost made him look pretty if it weren’t for the square, sculpted, currently tight jaw and beautifully cruel mouth. That mouth had been on me, had kissed me, had licked me and sucked me and briefly made me forget everything including who I was and what mattered to me. In some ways, it was good he hated me, because it would keep whatever happened between us as strictly blackmail. A kind, caring Jack Feldman? That had heartbreak written all over it.

Jack moved away from me, checking something on the door. Seemingly satisfied, he shut it and locked it. The click echoed in the small lecture room with a frightening finality. I jumped.

Grabbing Dylan’s chair, he pulled it out from the table and placing it against the door before leaning back in it like he didn’t have a care in the world.

“Come here,” he ordered.

Everything in me screamed to disobey. I hadn’t come this far in life to become some asshole jock’s meaningless plaything.

“Aviva.” Jack’s voice was like a slap. “Come. Here.”

Reluctantly, with daggers in my eyes, I rose and walked toward him.

“Such an angry little spy,” he murmured, pulling me between his legs. “You must hate this: being forced, not having control. Or maybe you love it.”

I stiffened at the jab.

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