Page 72 of Pucked Around and Found Out

“Take a shower. I'll get you some clothes.”

His tone isn't cold or angry. Just... firm. Controlled. Like he's forcing himself to maintain distance.

I choose not to fight him. I make my way into the adjoining bathroom and cringe when I see the damage I caused during my earlier rampage.

I let the others have free reign in the other areas, but I chose this room for myself. The vanity mirror is cracked, spiderwebbed with fractures. The toilet is broken. The shower door hangs off its hinges.

Evidence of my rage. My pain. My loss of control.

I look away from the sight of the destruction and climb into the stall carefully, turning the water to scalding. I'm hoping the heat will force me out of my own mind, give me something to focus on other than the boy who just claimed me as his even though I know he detests the sight of me.

Even though I know this can't last.

Even though I know I'm setting myself up for more heartbreak.

I quickly wash myself, scrubbing away the evidence of what we just did, even as I wish I could keep it on my skin forever. Then I shut off the shower and reach for a towel.

When I turn to step out, I freeze.

Xaden is standing there with a towel in his hand, wearing only a pair of jeans that rest low on his hips. The tortured look on his face almost breaks me—raw and honest in a way he never allows himself to be.

I force my emotions down and step out, grabbing the towel from him. Our fingers brush and electricity sparks between us, but I pretend not to notice.

I quickly dry off, hyperaware of his eyes on me.

I don't wait for him to lead. I head back into the bedroom, spotting the sweats and hoodie he's laid out on the bed. I quickly pull them on, grateful for the coverage.

They're so big I have to tighten the drawstring and roll the waistband four times. The hoodie rests just above my knees, swallowing my frame completely.

But rather than feeling lost in the material, I feel secure. Safe.

It's almost like being wrapped up in his clothes and scent is a safe harbor for me, a place where I feel like nothing and no one can harm me.

The realization terrifies me.

I toss the towel onto the bed, inhale a steadying breath, then turn back to face him.

He's leaning against the doorjamb to the bathroom with his arms crossed over his bare chest, watching me with an intensity that makes my skin prickle.

I give myself a second of weakness to admire the sight of him.

Gray eyes that hold so much pain stare at me with an expression I can't read. Black hair tousled and wild from my fingers. Tattoos that tell the story of a boy who was forced to become the man he never wanted to be. A body so exquisite it looks like it was carved by the Greek gods themselves.

Even in the dim lighting of the room, darkness clings to him like a natural aura. Like he's made of shadows and violence and something achingly beautiful underneath it all.

“The rink. Five tomorrow morning.”

I snap my gaze back to his face and frown. He's back to walling his emotions off from me, shutting me out like the last thirty minutes never happened.

“I know you have intel on the Kings, Filthy Few, and me and my guys. I want it all, Tink.”

“Why?” I ask quietly, trying to keep the hurt from my voice.

He pushes off the doorjamb and stalks toward me, not stopping until his chest is flush against mine. I'm forced to crane my neck back to maintain eye contact, and the heat radiating from his body makes me want to lean into him.

But I hold myself rigid.

“Half of what you hear and all of what you see,” he utters, his voice low and dangerous.