Page 15 of Don't You Pucking Dare

Something dark and violent surges through my veins after that conversation with Jack. But this fucktard isn’t Jack. His fingers are tracing her cheek, and she's looking up at him with that innocent smile that's supposed to be meant for me.

Not his fucking territory.

I down my drink, letting the burn ground me. This possessive bullshit isn't part of the plan. She's just a means to an end. A pawn. Nothing more.

But watching his hands on her...

I move past them without being noticed and take solace in the darkness of the library. I sit in an armchair in the darkest corner of the room and try to sort out in my head what the fuck I’m going to do now. She walked into the party and quickly attracted the nearest fuck boy around, and she took the bait. I crack my neck out of frustration. This isn’t how the night was supposed to unfold. I have her fucking precious music journal, and she’s making out with some idiot now.

Not as innocent as she plays to be, huh?

She must be a whore like the rest of them.

I pull my phone from my pocket and watch the video I have of her for the hundredth time. I stop the video and quickly put my phone back in my pocket when I hear the door to the library open.

Of fucking course.

She stumbles in with that same dark-haired prick, giggling as he pushes her against the door. I recognize him as a lower-level initiate from the Reapers. They haven't noticed me in my dark corner, too wrapped up in their little moment. I grip the arm of the chair as I watch him press his lips to hers, his tongue invading her mouth.

His hands are all over her, and she's letting him. Making soft little sounds that turn my blood to acid. Every touch, every moan, every arch of her body feels like a personal insult. When his hands land on her perfect tits, my dick twitches. He pushes them against her chest, and I suppress a fucking growl.

They move to the couch, giving me a perfect view of everything I'm going to make him regret. She's timid, controlled— even now, even with his mouth on her neck, she's holding something back. Keeping herself in check.

Something dark unfurls in my chest. She shouldn't be here with him. Not with anyone. What the fuck’s going to happen if the guys find out about this? Good point, so I pull out my phone and start recording. If anyone asks, I have proof that this was just a blackmail scheme.

The fucker’s hand slides under her dress and my teeth grind from clenching.

"Princess," he breathes against her skin, and rage floods my system.

She's not his to name.

"You’re so fucking wet," he growls.

She kind of loses her balance— pulling away, hand pressed against his chest. "I shouldn’t be here."

"We're having fun, aren't we?" He reaches for her, but she's already gone, heels clicking against hardwood as she flees.

Thank fuck she didn’t let him go any further.

Otherwise, I may have joined.

The door slams behind them both, leaving me alone in the darkness. The scene replays in my mind: her careful restraint, the way she kept herself in check, how quickly she ran when things got too real.

Little Lola Kemper's got secrets. Walls she's built. Boundaries she won't cross.

Yet.

I lean back in my chair, satisfaction coursing through my veins. This isn't just about destroying Rick Kemper anymore. His precious daughter is a puzzle I'm going to enjoy taking apart, piece by piece.

First, I need to find out how far I can push her.

Chapter 9

I run until the music fades to a dull thrum, my heart pounding against my ribs. The same old panic claws at my throat— the one that always comes when things get too intense, too close.

The side door deposits me into the night air, away from the masked figure guarding the front. Away from what just happened in the house library. Away from hands that touched too much, too fast.

My cello would know what to do with this chaos. Music always has rules, boundaries, perfect mathematical precision. But here, in this world of parties and boys and stolen journals, I'm fumbling in the dark.

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