Page 65 of Reckless Obsession

Hell the fuck no, I don’t.

The control and dominance were only supposed to exist in his dorm bed, and even then, it was on my terms whether he realized it or not. I don’t belong to anyone, and I sure as hell don’t want anyone belonging to me either.

So I told him exactly that.

And to make sure he understood me, I grabbed a pen and shoved it into his neck right there and then.

I still remember the look on his face.

That part never fades.

The shock. The disbelief. The stupid, stunned expression of someone realizing too late that the thing they thought was broken in their favor had teeth after all. I remember pulling the pen back out and watching the blood pour from his throat in bright, rushing sheets, as if I’d turned on a faucet somewhere inside him.

I recall the scoff that escaped me as I watched him bleed. I remember his hand clutching my shirt as he tried to speak through the blood, and how I pushed him away, watching the life fade from his face.

And I remember smiling because it felt good and easy. Then I called Anton and told him what I’d done, my voice brimming with enough excitement to concern any halfway decent person.

Good thing my family isn’t halfway decent.

I don’t know how they cleaned it up, and I never asked. One day Logan was dead, and the next I wasn’t charged, questioned, or even looked at too hard. I wasn’t a suspect. I was just quietly removed, packed up, and sent back to the States like damaged cargo no one wanted to discuss.

Three months after killing Logan, I met Tristan. And that, unfortunately for me, changed everything.

I wanted to be Tristan’s.

There’s the sick joke.

I’d killed one boy for saying I belonged to him, only to meet another and feel that need to be his rise up in me willingly, violently, like something starving finally catching the scent of food. I wanted his hands on me, his attention on me, his claim on me. I wanted him to own me in every way that should’ve made me run. And worse—I wanted to own him back.

Pathetic, really.

“Are you ready?” Caleb’s voice cuts through my head, dragging me back to the cage.

I blink a few times to ground myself, then nod. He turns me to face him, his eyes scanning me as if he’s checking for cracks. A flicker of worry crosses his face, making me want to laugh.

“Don’t give me that look, or I’ll punch you in that cute face of yours.” I say with no real heat behind it.

“And you think I’ll just let you?” he shoots back, brow raised, his mismatched eye color catching the dim light. One brown, one blue. He’s annoyingly good-looking with dark hair, a sharp jaw, lashes most girls would kill for, and the kind of charming smile that should be wasted on magazine covers instead of blood-soaked cages.

Honestly, I don’t know why he fights here when he could be ruining lives professionally as a model or some shit.

“You’ve been fighting here for three days straight,” he says, folding his arms over his buff chest. “Have you even gone home? I don’t mean a hotel. I mean home. To your parents.”

I shrug. “Why? Someone report me missing?”

He lets out a frustrated sigh, then opens his mouth to speak, but the announcer cuts him off, calling my stage name—The Reaper. Yeah, I know the name is corny as hell, but it stuck.

“That’s my cue,” I say, flashing him a cocky grin that earns me an eye roll.

“Don’t kill him,” Caleb says, his voice low and clear with warning. “His brother’s one of the elites. If he dies, it’s going to be a problem.”

“How many people has he killed?” I ask, my eyes already drifting to the cage as the bastard steps in, looking at me as if I’m his next meal.

Joke’s on him.

I’m starving too.

“A few,” Caleb says. “Five in the past two weeks.”