Page 27 of Don't You Pucking Dare

Something twists in my chest. Something that feels dangerously close to sympathy.

I press the blade harder against the stone. Sympathy isn't part of the plan.

Jack looks up. "Get back in that dorm and get more dirt."

I nod in agreement. She is my entry to the Reapers, and the process has finally begun.

The ice welcomes me like an old friend. My skates carve clean lines as I strip the puck from some B-team kid who never saw me coming. This is like coming home. Where everything makes sense.

Just like Lola with her cello. The thought hits without permission, and I channel it into aggression, into the perfect shot setup. The goalie's eyes widen as I load up. He knows what's coming— they all do— but knowing doesn't help. The puck sails top shelf where mama keeps the cookies.

"That's how it's done!" Coach's approval echoes across the rink. "Everyone take notes. Friday's game needs to be perfect, but Black?"

I nod at him, letting him know he has my full attention. I’m ready to hear that he’s changing my position.

"You’re still at the pucking net. Is that understood?"

Shit. "Yes, Coach."

Thatcher chuckles, so I slam my shoulder into his.

The shower's heat works out the tension, but my mind drifts to Lola again. To her fingers on strings, to how she trembled in the garden. I need to focus. This isn't about desire— it's about destruction.

Night wraps around me as I stash my gear and head for her dorm. The building's quiet, most students either studying or partying. Jack's keeping Kiah occupied— he's good at that, even if she's already in deeper than she should be.

I lay out a Blackridge Ravens hockey shirt on her bed and then search for a pen. I scrawl Friday's game time in her notebook, no signature needed. Let her wonder. Let her come to the game with no idea which one I am.

Her cello stands in the corner, and I can't resist running a finger along the strings. The soft vibration takes me back to that twilight performance when she played like her soul was bleeding through the bow. I’m not leaving her journal here. She’ll have to come to Friday’s game for it.

Footsteps sound around the corner right as soon as I'm out the door and melting into shadows. Lola appears, and she passes close enough that I catch the scent of her strawberry shampoo.

Soon, Duchess. Soon you'll know exactly who I am.

Chapter 13

The moment I step into my room, I know he's been here. That same electric awareness tingles across my skin, like the air itself remembers his presence.

Then I see the t-shirt spread across my bed like an offering. Blackridge Ravens Hockey. My fingers trace the letters, and I imagine his hands arranging the shirt here on my bed, touching my space, marking his territory.

I glance at my closet, wondering if he’s in. Without hesitation, I open it quickly and sigh when he’s not there. My eyes look at the black space under my bed. I lean down and look under. Empty. Safe. I slump in relief and glance around at what else he fucked with.

My obsessive attention to detail—the curse of a musician—catches the subtle changes. The pen moved on my desk, now resting on my notebook instead of beside it. A date and time scribbled in unfamiliar handwriting.

When I Google it, my heart stutters. The next hockey game. He wants me there.

"What's this?" Kiah's voice makes me jump. She lifts the shirt, eyebrows raised. "Someone holding out on me?"

"More like someone's hunting me." The words come out shakier than I intend.

Her eyes widen as I explain everything— the garden, the masked stranger, the break-ins, the email. She doesn't speak, just starts tapping on her phone.

"Team roster," she says, holding out the screen. "See if you recognize anyone."

The faces blur together until—there. Those eyes. I'd know them anywhere, even without the mask. "Him."

"Brody Black?" Kiah zooms in, and something in her voice makes my stomach drop. "Shit, Lola."

"What? Who is he?"

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