Total pages in book: 136
Estimated words: 137326 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 687(@200wpm)___ 549(@250wpm)___ 458(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 137326 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 687(@200wpm)___ 549(@250wpm)___ 458(@300wpm)
Osborn’s only reaction was an evil laugh.
That was the first time Preston deliberately resorted to violence during a game. While he’s fine with murder, he believes hockey violence is beneath him and those who rely on their muscles are peasants.
Even in real life, Preston often delegates tasks to his family’s extensive network of private security guards, vehemently refusing to dirty his hands if the task is not interesting enough.
But he made a rookie mistake that landed him five minutes in the penalty box, which is a great part of the reason why we lost.
Those five minutes of power play were brutal, and Osborn made sure to wave at Preston every single time he scored. The Stanton Wolves crowd went wild for Osborn, cheering and chanting as if he were their god.
Even after Preston was released from the penalty box, he was practically useless. Osborn had already gotten into his head, so it was game over.
Jude and I held down the fort, which is why we didn’t completely get our asses kicked, but it was still a loss.
I don’t do well with losses.
I don’t lose. End of.
My entire upbringing was customized to teach me that people like us don’t lose. We’re always on the winning side.
Every fucking time.
So naturally, my father was displeased, and as an expression of his fury, he locked me up in my own hell.
A dark room in the basement of our house, because, yes, Grant Davenport has a chamber of torture where he can teach his kid discipline.
It started right here before the boarding school picked up the legacy. After I graduated, this place returned to being my prison cell.
My eyes are closed as I hang from the ceiling by my wrists, only wearing my jeans as my toes barely touch the cold, damp floor.
Now and again, the ceiling above me opens and I’m drenched with icy water so I don’t fall asleep.
A couple of years ago, I went into hypothermia, but Grant’s doctor saved me. Sometimes, when he’s truly disappointed in me, he’ll electrocute me enough to hurt but not kill me.
I used to be apprehensive about the punishments. I used to stiffen my muscles and lash out. But that only prolonged the suffering, so I learned patience.
Discipline.
Hardening my mind has allowed me to let whatever he sends my way roll off my skin.
The elements, the dark, the strain on my muscles—it’s all normal.
While time in this room is impossible to count, I usually spend the night here and am released in the morning before practice or open skate. Grant can’t have the outside world miss out on his golden boy, especially after I became a hockey star.
He takes my wins for granted and my losses as a slight to his honor.
Usually, I use this time to think about the next steps I need to take to bring him down, ruin his legacy, and smash his lifelong achievements.
But my head has other plans and keeps wandering back to a few days ago when I fucked Dahlia like an animal and let my last shred of control shatter.
I meant to fuck her and humiliate her. To use and discard her like that first time.
It was supposed to be a show of power so she would understand who was in control.
But then she took everything I dished out and enjoyed it. She moaned for it. Her inner animal clashed with mine, fitting my most depraved desires like a glove.
Not even in my wildest dreams did I think I’d meet someone who shares the same fabric of my depraved soul.
That’s why I never showed that side of me. Didn’t even consider it.
But with Dahlia? It came out so naturally.
She had the audacity to kiss me. To sink her tiny claws into me and sear me to her. To demand it, even.
Like she had every right to.
That’s when any semblance of rationality scattered into thin air. I lost my decade and a half of discipline in a fraction of a second.
And just like that, I succumbed to my instinctive primal side.
My lips twitch as if I can still taste her on my tongue.
It’s fucking irritating how a tiny woman with dubious intentions has the power to chip away at my barriers and erode my walls by just existing.
No. Not irritating.
Dangerous.
And the worst part?
After that encounter, she ghosted me.
Well, not quite, but ever since I gave her my jacket to cover up and led her out of the Armstrong mansion, then drove her to the dorms, she’s been ignoring me.
Her texts have been dry at best, and she always comes up with a way to avoid me.
The following day, I saw her limping her way to class and I, being a gentleman, checked on her.
Me
You’re limping.
Okay, it wasn’t entirely checking, but she got the gist. Or not. Because her reply was not what I was expecting. Not that I knew what I was expecting.