Page 32 of Pretty When He Bleeds

“Yours is in the fridge,” he says, lifting up his blender bottle. “Figured you’d prefer it over a heavy breakfast. Grab it and meet me by the SUV.”

With that, he walks out of the kitchen and I can’t help but give a small smile as I watch him leave. For all the shit Killian gives me, he really does know me better than anyone else.

Finding the first aid kit, I clean the bite mark on my shoulder, slap a large band-aid on, and walk out.

Campus is the same as always—busy, noisy; a mess of people moving in every direction. I slip into the crowd, keeping my hood up and avoiding people as I head to my first class.

I barely hear anything the professor says and forcefully snap myself out of it. I take notes out of habit, my hand moving mechanically while my brain is elsewhere. The whole morning it’s like that—going through the motions, nodding here and smiling there, giving half-assed answers when asked a question.

No one notices anything different about me. I don’t know if I should feel thankful or sad.

By lunchtime, I’m drained and the last thing I need is to see him. But of course I do. He’s walking across the quad, a cigarette dangling from his black-painted fingernails, his curls falling messily over his forehead.

He’s wearing a black hoodie, ripped jeans, a chain hanging from his belt and black boots; his usualfuck-youattitude is practically radiating off him. Seriously, why is everything about him so goddamn hot?

I freeze for half a second, my heart lurching in my chest before I force myself to keep moving. I think about turning around and ducking into one of the buildings to avoid him altogether, but then, as if he could sense me, he turns his head.

The mark on my shoulder throbs when our eyes meet, and once again, I still can’t get over how clear his eyes look. His steps falter for a split second, and I know I should say or dosomething.

But I don’t and neither does he. I break eye contact first, my chest tight as I walk away from him this time.

The rest of the day is a blur of class, class… and more class. By the time I’m done, I’m more than ready to hit the ice and snap out of this funk. But the universe must hate Roman Bishop because, on my way to the rink, I spot him again.

This time he’s sitting on a bench close to the art building, hunched over a sketchpad, earbuds in, a cigarette dangling from his lips. I slow down, my heartbeat picking up as I watch him. He looks so peaceful, so fucking calm, like the chaos of the world doesn’t bother him when he’s in his element.

It pisses me off.

Not because I’m jealous, no, but because I want that. To be able to switch off and opt out of the endless cycle of guilt, pain, anger, and confusion. I shake my head and keep walking before I do something I’ll regret.

The rink is freezing, but it’s a welcome change from the confusion of the day. The sharp chill bites at my skin as I lace up my skates, the familiar weight of the pads grounding me. I need this right now; I need to do what I do best just so I can fucking breathe.

Killian sits down next to me, his grin easy but his eyes not missing a beat. “You ready to kick some ass today, Bishop?”

“Always,” I mutter, even though my heart’s not really in it.

He watches me for a second like he’s trying to figure out what’s going on in my head, but he doesn’t say anything. Instead, he smacks my shoulder and stands up, his voice carrying across the locker room.

“Alright, assholes, let’s go! Time to show Coach why we’re the best fucking team in the league!” The guys cheer, their energy infectious, and I force myself to ride the wave as we head out onto the ice.

Practice is brutal, but it’s exactly what I need. The drills, the sprints, the scrimmages—it all demands my full attention, leaving no room for anything else. By the time we’re done, my body aches in the best way, and my head feels a little clearer.

Killian skates over, a water bottle in hand. “Good work today,” he says, tossing it to me.

“Thanks,” I mutter, catching it and taking a long drink.

He hesitates, and I know he’s worried about me when he asks, “You good, Rome?”

I nod, avoiding his eyes. “Yeah. Just tired.”

“Alright,” he says, but his tone tells me he doesn’t buy it. But I can’t help it. I can’t snap out of how confused and fucked up I feel.

As we head back to the locker room, I can’t help but think about Damon. About the way he looked at me earlier. About the way he looked sitting at that bench, lost in his art.

And most of all, about the way his lips felt on mine.

Fuck.

When I get home, the house is alive with its usual chaos. Put ten of the best athletes in a house together and you’re bound to have that. Usually I would join in with Eli or Thorn in playing video games in the living room, but I think I need the quiet more than the distraction.

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