Page 8 of Renegade Ruin

I came back to reality to the sounds of her gasping for air and the visual of my hands wrapped around her delicate throat.

“Fuck.” I instantly drop my hands from where they are constricting her airway.

Willow slouches back, her blonde curls falling around her face as she struggles to force air into her lungs. When she peers up at me, her blue eyes are wide, like she’s seeing me for the monster I truly am.

I haven’t seen her in person since I left her standing on the steps of the courthouse after she told me about the crash. I denied every phone call. Every attempt at closure. She didn’t do anything wrong. Until she did.

I work my fingers through my hair and grip the roots—the pain keeping me steady. Present.

What have I done? I’m not this person. I don’t hurt women. Not unless they ask me to, and even then, it’s always followed by mind blowing orgasms. This is barbaric. It’s…shit who am I becoming?

My hands tremble as I stumble back and frantically drag my eyes over her to make sure I didn’t hurt her. “Willow…you…fuck…are you okay? What are you doing here?”

Her eyes soften and a half-hearted smile tips her lips.

It slices through me.

How the fuck is she smiling right now? My fingers were around her throat, pressing her into a splintered locker while she gasped for air. There’s nothing about this that warrants a smile.

“I was in the press room. Harold told me you were in here redecorating. I figured you might want a woman's opinion.”

My mouth drops open as I try to process how the fuck she’s joking around right now. She should be yelling. Cursing my name. Firing me. Any and all of the above. But no, this woman who has been the bane of my existence for one reason or another for the last year, who is now wearing my fingerprints around her neck, is smirking at me.

“Bishop. I’m okay.” Her hands drift to straighten her skirt. “I shouldn’t have snuck up on you.”

My fists tighten at my sides, nails cutting into my palms. “It’s not okay.”

“I didn’t say it was. I said I’m okay. Though, I’m pretty sure I saw a termite over there, so maybe you did us a favor.”

She huffs a fake laugh and the insincerity of it momentarily reminds me this is not the woman who warmed my bed. She’s not the woman who listened with reckless abandon to the stories of my life and inspired me to be a better man.

She’s not endgame.

Not that I want her to be. Not anymore.

Endgame implies forever, and if there’s anything I’ve learned in the last year, it’s that forever is an illusion.

Mostly Willow York is someone I actively try to forget. If I’m going to survive this, I have to hold on to who she’s become—a trust fund baby who wears a mask of indifference, indulges the whims of the league and the press, and only considers what the bottom line means for her business.

None of which is who I knew her to be.

My eyes narrow on the face I once found perfect and my voice hardens. “Happy to help.”

Her stare clashes with mine, another reminder she’s not the woman I remember.

Then she falters.

“Bishop.” Her voice softens, wary and so full of pity it almost undermines the resolve I just solidified. “Are you?—”

“No,” I cut her off. “You don’t get to ask if I’m okay. Not here. Not today.”

She hesitates, and I watch as something wars behind her eyes before she nods. “Alright. Then I need you to get your shit together and get upstairs for the draft.”

Ah, there they are. She might’ve been a pushover, but she’s always had claws.

“Yeah, I’m not doing that.” I scoff.

Her eyes narrow, and now that I’m not in the comedown spiral of my blackout, I take the opportunity to really look at her. It’s been months since I’ve seen her, but she’s still beauty wrapped in sin. Her soft coral blouse hugs her full breasts, and I can’t help but remember what they look like cupped in my hands with my fingers teasing their sensitive nubs. My eyes wander shamelessly down her form, lingering on the curve of her hips in the skirts she favors, before falling to the open-toe heels she no doubt hates.

---