Page 68 of Shattered Hate

Damn—yes, the interview. This is exactly what he does to me; my mind goes to mush in his presence.

“Uh, yeah.” I clear my throat again, shifting in my chair as I try to get comfortable, though I’m far from it.

Our gazes remain locked, and his raised eyebrow dares me silently. But dares me to do what?

“What are you thinking about right now?” I ask, his grin morphs into something similar to the Joker, his eyes sparkling as they slowly travel over my body.

Suddenly, it feels like the temperature has risen—did someone turn off the air conditioning?

When his eyes meet mine again, they widen as he spreads his legs out, and all I want is to crawl to him on all fours and climb him like a tree. His thumb brushes against his bottom lip, drawing my gaze back to his—I know exactly what he’s thinking.

“Next question,” he growls. I nod, frozen like a deer in headlights, wondering how I can be this aroused so soon after he just left me completely spent. All I can imagine is bouncing on his cock where he sits, marking him as mine by spilling all over his chest.

God, I need a cold shower—and maybe an exorcism.

Clearing my throat for the third time, I ask, “What do you love about Devil Hawks?”

His reply comes instantly: “Why don’t you ask me something you really want to know? Not for the camera. For you.”

I’m momentarily stunned. First, he wanted this interview formal, and now he wants it to be just us, sitting here trading questions. I take a deep breath and then ask the one question I’ve always wanted to: “Do you believe in love?” His eyes dart to the camera still recording. He told me to ask what I wanted, and here it is. No backing out now, Trayton.

“No,” he answers flatly. “What does love mean to you?”

Is he serious?

“I’m leading the interview,” I protest.

“And I’m asking a simple question.” But it’s far from simple for me—a loaded fucking question.

“Love can mean so many different things. It might be one thing for you and a thousand things for me.”

“What does love mean to you?” he repeats. I try to give a straightforward answer, but of course, that doesn’t suffice—he wants to dig deep, to peel me open and see just how much more he can hurt me. And sadly, I let him—time and time again, so I answer truthfully.

“To me, love is the person I’d run to if I knew we had only one more day on Earth. It’s the person I’d want to lie with when everything crumbles around us—no fear, no tears, just us because that’s what it would be. Being content with them on my last day in this world.”

We sit in silence, staring at each other as if he’s processing it before slowly nodding.

“If I ever figure out what love means for me, I’ll let you know. But don’t hold your breath.” He turns to the camera. “Over and out.” Then he stands and walks toward his locker, leaving me sitting there, utterly stunned.

“You didn’t answer any questions—what the fuck?” I call, leaping to my feet and storming after him.

“Wasn’t feeling it,” he replies, his tone suddenly sour and flat.

“Wasn’t feeling it?” I shout louder. “Wasn’t fucking feeling it?” I throw my head back, laughing in a mix of disbelief and raw anger. The sheer nonchalance of his “wasn’t feeling it” stuns me, and I fix him with a searing glare as he stands there, eyes dark and explosive, daring me to push further.

“Because it’s all about Trayton—what he wants, when he wants it, and WHO he wants,” I scream. “Nobody else matters, do they? It’s their time, their effort, their fucking feelings on the line!” The words tumble out in a stream, not all perfectly on point but all fueled by simmering rage and desperation. “Trayton King, parading around Hawksview with those broad shoulders, those mesmerizing eyes, and that glorious fuckingdick—he does exactly what he pleases, with no regard for anyone else!” For a split second, a trace of a smile crosses his face before it vanishes into a look of resigned defeat.

“Just sit in that chair and see how you like it when I hurl questions that make you uncomfortable,” he snaps. I laugh bitterly, shaking my head and spreading my arms wide in exasperation.

“You just did. You told me to ask you what I wanted to know. So I did…” My voice drips with challenge. “Ask me anything—make me uncomfortable—because if that big, egotistical Trayton King gives you an order, you obey without question.” I watch him, his eyes wide, shocked, and is that wonder, as I push him further. “You know, I wasn’t even planning on doing these interviews today—I’ve got other work that isn’t all about ice hockey,” I snap, my fingers cracking crisply in the charged air. “But you knew that, didn’t you—Coach would have mentioned it—yet you demanded I be here. Now you say ‘Oh, I’m not feeling it?’” I suck in a breath. I’m vibrating with fury, but underneath it all, I’m vulnerable too. “This isn’t the fucking Trayton show!” My jaw tightens as I continue, unable to tamp down the torrent of emotions. “So, what do you want to know, Trayton King? Do you want to hear that life is a miserable shitshow? That I despise it most days? Or perhaps”—I go wide-eyed, snapping my fingers at him—“that I’ve thought about dying more often than I’ve truly thought about living?”

“What?” he murmurs softly. I hadn’t meant to let all that spill out. It just happened in the heat of the moment.

“Forget it,” I mutter, the fiery urge to unleash my anger dissipating now that I’ve said it. It’s something I never intended to reveal. Trayton cautiously steps closer.

“Do you think about dying a lot?” he asks, his surprise evident. “Dax.” His gentle voice fractures something within me, and I take a deep breath.

“I’ve thought about it plenty,” I admit, exhaling heavily. “It’s not the idea of leaving this world that frightens me. It’s the fear of failure, the agony of it not working, that haunts me more. I researched the least painful ways. Taking a bunch of pills and drifting into sleep seems the least painful. But then I wonder, what if I don’t take enough? What if it fails? What would be the point? Just to end up in a hospital bed for days, feeling like absolute hell, only to return to school where people who despise me treat me like a freak. Back to a so-called home where torment and beatings await.”

---