Page 12 of Twisted Little Game

Out here, I catch more glimpses of thick-lined tattoos from beneath his sleeves.

He’s deeply fucking handsome, without question.

Even though his chiseled face seems to be set in a permanent smoldering scowl, his jawline and prominent Adam’s apple make him look like a statue of a young god.

His brown hair is freshly cut, short above his ears but with more length on the top. His lips are plush and ruddy, and I’d tell him he looks like a great kisser if I wasn’t a little bit afraid of him.

“Looking for a round two?” I toss back at him.

I already got him with my fist once, and I could do it again.

His gaze dances downward, and he catches the fresh gashes on my knuckles.

“You hurt yourself,” he murmurs, immediately reaching out his palm to cradle my wrist. “Why did you do this?”

For a moment, his touch isn’t aggressive at all.

He holds me, examining the wounds with a sad, almost sympathetic look on his face.

“Because I wanted to feel something different.”

He hums, his lashes flicking upward, looking from my hand to my eyes again. “You can feel things without doing this.”

“I’m not afraid of pain.”

“If you are looking for pain,” he says, stroking the underside of my arm, “there are better ways to find it.”

“Yeah? Got any suggestions?”

“Give me those,” he says, gesturing toward the bloody towels.

“I’m not going to do that.”

“Give.”

He reaches out, gripping my forearm and tugging it forward, his authoritative edge coming right back again. His fingers are strong and he gets complete control of my arm again quickly, trying to pry open my fist.

I yank my arm backward a moment later, trying to catch him by surprise by twisting it to the side.

His grip strengthens and he catches me again before I can break free. But when I quickly step forward and bring my arm in the opposite direction, I finally get the jump on him.

My arm breaks loose of his grasp and I feel a smile spread over my lips.

“Try harder next time.”

I spin to make my exit, a rush of adrenaline hits my blood. I take off over the gravel path that cuts between the hedges and roses, and while I know I’m not as strong as Roman, I can fucking run.

Years of football, baby.

I was a natural wide receiver, and I will outrun you any day.

But there’s an iron gate just beyond the hedges.

I falter, coming to a stop.

And it’s already too late when I realize the gate is open, just by a crack, and I could have pushed through if I didn’t fucking hesitate.

Roman’s hand comes down heavy on my shoulder.