Page 25 of Off-Ice Misconduct
You expect good things to happen on sunny days, so when something goes horribly wrong while the joyous sun beats down on you, it’s hard not to call the sun a liar.
I don’t want to seem eager, but the office hours are the only reason I’m using this office, because I’m not staying. This will be my first and final year at Shadowridge University, so there’s no point in getting too comfortable, but I should make it look like I am. I dust the shelves and finally unpack my meager box of knick-knacks. I have one picture—the only picture—of me and Tate with Uncle Jasper. His child-rearing methods were questionable, that’s for damn sure, but he took us in, fed us, kept a roof over our heads. He paid for school, good-quality clothing, and taught us that life will throw you lemons and you might not have sugar to make lemonade, so learn to fucking drink sour juice.
Saying I’m fond of him is too generous, but maybe healthy respect is more appropriate.
A loud rap jolts me from my dusting. “Come in.”
It’s McKinnon, here for his office hours, but he’s a much different McKinnon than I was bordering the edge of flirting with yesterday. This McKinnon’s lost all humor. The flare of anger that’s usually got some playfulness simmering under the heat is all steam today, and he’s … is that blood?
I drop my dusting rag and storm over, gripping him under his chin, at the top of his throat, inspecting his bloodied nose.
“I didn’t want to be late,” he says, guessing at my line of questioning, which would have definitely involved wanting to know why he didn’t take care of this before he arrived.
Still holding him by the throat, my eyes scan everything—the rest of his face, his neck, his attire. I didn’t say he had to dress up for office hours, so he’s wearing what he probably wore to training—sweatpants and a t-shirt, but he’s got the letter jacket on.
Did he wear it for me? I want to find out, but there’s blood all over his white t-shirt, muddy scuffs across his cheek and along his collarbone, and his hair’s dripping, soaked to the bone. Fuck, can’t think. Is that his blood or someone else’s?
And you’re touching him, VanCourt. Got him by the throat.
He swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing under my palm, but he doesn’t pull away. Instead, he breathes carefully, eyes locked on mine.
Slowly, I remove my hand. “Who did this to you?”
“That’s new,” he says, voice low and tight. “Usually, you’re asking what I did wrong.”
He’s right. My instinct was to check on him, not challenge him. I didn’t ask what he did, I only wanted to know who touched him.
It might be new between us, but not out of character. Claiming what I feel is mine is as natural as breathing to me. Something inside of me has decided Ace is mine, and that’s just the way it is. Like gravity or the sky being blue. That’s not good news for me or him. Especially not for him.
The little shit. It’s like he knows. But at least his expression’s gone from pissed off to amused.
“Didn’t know you cared, sir.”
“Sit, McKinnon. Stay.” Maybe if I speak to him like he’s a dog, a brute like him will understand.
He shrugs, a simmering smile spreading across his face as he sinks into the chair in front of my desk while I dig the first aid kit from my meager box of supplies. I never leave home without one. Even before my life as a wild recluse, it was crucial that Ihad an extensive first-aid kit on me at all times. Uncle would have had my hide if I hadn’t been prepared. After my brief career as a paramedic, I began stocking my personal kits with specialty items.
McKinnon watches on, curiosity forcing him to lean his head toward me with interest. I toss the kit down, gripping his face in my hand again. There’s swelling I didn’t notice upon first glance. The blood caught me off guard—not because blood bothers me, but because it was his, which is apparently a distinction my brain makes now. Bruising’s setting in, and I spy a few small cuts. I pull some antiseptic spray from my kit.
“I could get used to you manhandling me like this, sir,” McKinnon says in the brattiest tone imaginable.
My breathing hitches. For a second, the tables have turned, and I’m the one flustered. I didn’t plan for this. But if he wants to get cheeky like that with me, I’m happy to call him on it.
“I’d be happy to, princess. But you wouldn’t be calling me sir, you’d be calling me Daddy.”
That shuts him up and turns his ears a brilliant shade of fire-engine red. But before I can celebrate my victory, a crystal-clear image slams into my brain—Daddy,falling from those pouty lips of his, wrecked and desperate, a cry I wrenched out of him with my oversized dick.
Well, that’s going to become a goddamn obsession.
Meticulously, I work on cleaning the blood away, all without gloves. It stains my fingers. I know better than that, but I don’t care. It’s his blood, which seems to make it okay, even though I have no idea what’s living in it.
If it’s living in him, maybe it should live in me, too.
God fucking dammit. This is bad. I shouldn’t have touched him. I should stop touching him now. But like hell will I.
“Start fucking talking, McKinnon,” I say, slowly losing my patience.
“Language, Professor—ow!”
