Page 14 of Twisted Little Game

I exhale, reaching forward and opening my hand for him.

“See? All you had to do was ask nicely.”

He takes the bloody wad away without ceremony. I notice that his body still takes up as much space in front of me as possible.

He takes my wrist very gently, and my hand looks small in his big mitt.

Fucking manhandle me, then you act all tender?

Something sharply cold presses onto my cuts that stings like hell.

“Ow,” I protest.

“Just relax.”

“Are you trying to help me now?”

He frowns as he cleans my wounds, turning my hand over to see the fresher gashes from when I wailed on the wall.

“Yes, Tate,” he murmurs.

So he does know my name already.

I peer at his dark rows of lashes as he looks down at my hand, working dutifully. I wonder if he knows me through the shit they say about me in the media, or because he’s a fan of my brother’s, or if everyone in this weird secret society frat just knows every newbie who comes to this school.

“You should have let me hold the glass on that prick’s throat a little longer, if you really wanted to help me.”

“Mm,” he hums, “I let you hold it on him for long enough.”

He pockets the sanitizing wipe and brings out cotton and a spool of bandage tape. He starts to pull some out, nodding at my hand. He works silently, and I can tell he’s experienced in first aid, too.

There’s a quiet confidence radiating from him.

The kind that usually attracts me, no matter the gender of who it’s coming from.

I can’t imagine what it would be like to get fucked by someone his size.

The tallest guy I’ve ever been with was six-foot-one on a good day. Roman is much taller than that, and…

Straight.

He’s fucking straight, Landrey, guaranteed, and doesn’t seem to like you very much.

As far as I can tell, the guy might lack the capacity for human emotion.

He regards everything with a cold look or a frown, and I don’t think there’s anything else beyond that wall.

There’s no more blood soaking through my wounds now that he’s wrapped them in cotton and gauze. The real bandaging works a whole lot better than the paper towels did, and Roman cleans off his own hands with a wipe after finishing.

“Thanks,” I tell him. “Don’t know why you bothered helping me.”

“Because it’s my job,” he says without looking at me. “Give me your phone.”

I glare at him. “You going to shake me down now? Sell my phone on the college black market?”

He just holds out his hand. “You need to be able to contact me.”

I dig my phone out of my pocket and put it on his palm. He enters his number and hands the phone back to me.