Page 55 of Shattered Hate

It’s fucked. It’s fucking hot. I’m drowning in it.

I must be insane to jerk myself off while the tattoo needle’s biting into me. But this is Daxton’s doing. I couldn’t wait, not with his wild eyes burning into me. I needed a release right then, right there.

“You like that, baby?” I rasp. Daxton’s eyes roll back, lids shuttering as he nods, still sucking on my fingers like a starving man.

Jesus fucking Christ.

I carefully pull my fingers free from Daxton’s mouth, and he exhales deeply, his head drooping as if in defeat. After a moment, he seems to pull himself together. He places a few paper towels on my chest to clean me up. His eyes slowly lift but never quite meet mine, like he’s determined to pretend that nothing just happened. With a focused calm, he resumes working on the tattoo, the buzzing needle filling the silence between us.

As he works, my mind crackles with tension, unable to look away from him. I memorize every contour of his face, the way his brow furrows in concentration, the curve of his lips that I can’t shake from my thoughts. The memory of how those lips felt against me, the way they wrapped around the head of my cock, sends a fresh wave of desire coursing through me.

I can’t help but wonder what those lips would taste like, what flavor lies beneath his skin. A frustrated urge bubbles up inside me. “Are you done?” My voice is sharp. I need to leave before I do something reckless, like claim those lips as mine, capture every moan that might escape them, or tear away his tight jeans and take him right here on the spot.

“Let me wrap it,” he says, weary from the day, as if the weight of this tension is wearing on him too.

I sit restlessly, my leg bouncing with nervous energy as he carefully wraps the fresh tattoo. His fingers brush against my arm, and a shiver of goose bumps races across my skin, electrifying my senses.

My heart is in a relentless sprint, a wild drumbeat echoing in my chest. Being near him has me unraveling, my body and mind in chaos over this intense craving I’ve never felt for anyone before. I fear I might burst if I don’t have him in every way I imagine.

I need to escape his presence. “Finished?”

“Yep,” he replies, his irritation evident. “You’re so fucking hot and cold, Trayton. Be one way or the other; I can’t deal with you being like this,” he snaps, frustration cracking through his calm facade.

I spring up from the seat, grabbing him by the neck with a firm grip, my teeth clenched.

His cologne wafts through the air, a mix of cedar and citrus but also spice that makes my heart race. I shouldn’t have let myself get this close, but here I am, drawn in by an invisible force.

“I can’t fucking stand you,” I spit, jaw clenched. “Every time you walk into a room, my blood boils. Every time you’re near me, I want to scream. But damn it, I can’t stop thinking about you.” The words tumble out, raw and unbidden, as I silently curse myself for revealing the truth.

He meets my gaze, his eyes dark with an intensity that matches my own. “You think you’re the only one? You drive me fucking insane. I hate how much I want you.”

I release my grip on his neck, my eyes tracing the contours of his face, every line and shadow that makes him infuriatingly irresistible. “You can’t want me,” I whisper, the words barelyescaping my lips. I turn on my heel, leaving the shop and allowing the door to swing shut behind me.

No one can want me. No one can fall for me because I’ll never return it.

Everyone always leaves.

Chapter twenty-seven

Trayton

One week later

Aweek without him was supposed to be a relief, a chance to clear my head, but it turns out to be anything but. He consumes my thoughts—every little detail of him is etched permanently in my mind. I’ve reached a point where I can’t decide if I want to let go of these thoughts or not. He mentioned to Cope that he’d be holed up in the library all week, trying to catch up. So what did I do? I haunted that library every day, desperate for even a fleeting glimpse of him, even if only from afar. It oddly soothed some turmoil within me. It’s fucked.

Despite knowing he was in the library, each time the locker room door swung open, I couldn’t help but hope it was him stepping through. I’m aware he’ll come today, and every time the door creaks, it’s an intense struggle not to turn around and look, torn between hope and restraint.

Then, just moments ago, I heard it again: the door opening. I sense his presence, my whole being suddenly alight, as if on fire. I feel certain it’s him this time; the sensation is unmistakableas the hairs on my neck stand up, my skin prickling with anticipation. My body seems to have its own awareness, recognizing his nearness.

I finally allow myself to look, a knot forming in my stomach. His eyes are shadowed, and a rugged five-o’clock shadow lines his jaw—yes, it’s undeniably attractive, but it’s wrong. It’s not the Daxton I know. He’s always clean-shaven,always.

He stands there, shoulders sagging and dark circles clinging beneath his eyes like storm clouds as if he hasn’t known a proper night’s sleep in days.

His gaze locks onto mine, and I see nothing but raw, unfiltered sadness. Cope strides over, slapping him on the shoulder. Daxton’s eyes reluctantly break away from mine.

Just then, Daxton’s phone erupts in a shrill ring, and I notice the tension ripple through his body, his shoulders growing stiff as a board. Cope’s brow furrows in concern, but Daxton just shakes his head, muting the phone and slipping it back into his pocket.

Once we hit the ice, I skate directly to Cope, urgency in my stride. “What’s going on?” I press, unable to shake the unease.

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