Total pages in book: 55
Estimated words: 53212 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 266(@200wpm)___ 213(@250wpm)___ 177(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 53212 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 266(@200wpm)___ 213(@250wpm)___ 177(@300wpm)
“Of course,” he replies, stepping aside without protest and offering another little wink in my direction. “If you want to go, you know where to find me.”
I push off again, starting up another lap to get back into a rhythm, but I only make it halfway around before meeting another observer.
Jiminy Cricket. So much for the rink being empty.
I slide to an agitated stop in front of Rook, who’s leaning against the bleachers. He, too, isn’t wearing skates or gear, but jeans and boots instead, and his eyes bore into the back of the retreating man in the suit at the other end of the arena like he can turn him to dust with his mind.
It’s oddly protective in a way I don’t understand and makes the hair on my forearms stand straight up.
I almost go back to skating, but something inside me just says, fuck it.
“Can I help you?” I ask, finding my voice and doing it with challenge.
Instantly, Rook’s eyes jump to mine, but that’s where the concessions on his aggressive posture stop. He swallows hard before shoving off the bleachers, charging down the back wall, and leaving the rink, out the door and into the parking lot through the same door Holland took without a word.
I’m left standing there with my mouth agape and my senses tingling like a fucking idiot.
What is with this guy?
Suddenly, the peace and respite I felt from the ice fifteen minutes ago is gone, and the desperate need for a shower cry and the comfort of my bed has taken its place.
Cutting my drills short, I skate off the ice with angry strides and shaking hands, pulling my sweatshirt on and yanking my blades off with little to no finesse.
Alyssa would probably laugh if she were here—probably tell me I’m the weird one, not the hockey guys, and that I’m letting them get to me too much. Hell, she’d probably encourage me to go to the private event thing with Holland on Friday and book angry sex with Rook on Saturday, but none of that is even remotely me.
It’s a little after nine when I’m stepping out of the rink, my bag slung over my shoulder and a crease in my forehead from overanalysis, and the parking lot is expectedly quiet at this time of night.
I walk toward my Civic that’s parked toward the back of the lot, but pull to an abrupt stop when something throws a wrench in the plan.
Oh, come on. You have got to be kidding me.
Rook
I fucking hate this shit.
I hate that whatever this thing is can drag me across town without asking. Hate that I let it. Hate that I can’t fight harder against it.
By the time I pulled into the rink’s lot, I already knew she was here. That is, after all, what brought me here after I left Kane’s place—my body choosing the direction with a swift turn of my steering wheel before my brain could weigh in.
And now, I’m still here, skulking in the dark like some kind of stalker.
Kylie Moon is halfway across the asphalt of the dark parking lot, keys in hand, bag slung over her shoulder, posture loose in the way of someone who still believes the night is normal. She doesn’t notice the sound at first, but that’s what makes her human. She’s built for softness, for love, for life; I’m built for awareness, for speed, for execution.
We are opposites, and yet, at an intrinsic level, we are one.
A slow bleed leaks air from her tire, and a soft hiss fills the otherwise frigid night air, audible exclusively to my sensitive ears. I’m no match for Cal, who can probably hear this shit from his couch, but my hearing, in comparison to Kylie’s, is undeniably advanced.
And so is my vision. Even from here, I can see the puncture in her tire isn’t from a rock or road debris. As suspected, this was intentional, and that means someone meant it as a trap. Anger chokes me as my vision tunnels to Kylie and her immediate surroundings.
Her brown hair is pulled into one of those messy knots she always has when she skates, a few loose strands catching the light from the moon as she walks, and her bright, entrancing blue eyes scan the lot as she holds her keys tightly in her hand. She’s on edge, I can feel it in my bones, and a surge of pride for her survival instinct overwhelms me.
Humans aren’t born into a perfect world any more than we are—but the societal expectations are different. Trust easy, be kind, give the benefit of the doubt—they live within a golden rule to treat others the way they’d like to be treated.
Vampire code is harsher but, in a lot of ways, a hell of a lot less complex. Trust is earned. Kindness is reserved. There are no benefits—only doubts.