42. Renee

”You”ve gotta be fucking kidding me.”

I stare at myself in the mirror. A miniscule swath of burgundy red fabric strains over my breasts. Strategic cutouts expose parts of my waist and hips and the hem hits just below my ass.

Like, juuust below. If I”m expected to do any bending—well, I can”t. That”s a wardrobe malfunction waiting to happen. I feel like if I even sneeze too hard, some unsuspecting bystander is getting a gynecological glimpse of my insides.

I can”t tell if this is supposed to humiliate me or boost his ego. It”s probably a combination of both.

The only part of the dress that feels like it was picked out with me in mind are the draped slivers of fabric posing as ”sleeves” that just so happen to cover my bruises.

Deacon knows exactly what he”s doing.

”Come on, Renee,” he chides. “Even with valet parking, I want to be early.”

I can’t tell if I despise his good moods more than his violent ones. All I know is that, whether he’s scowling or grinning, this man is beyond insufferable.

”I don”t feel good,” I call through the door. Maybe faking some gross pregnant woman ailments will have him second-guessing dragging me out with him tonight.

He barges in behind me. In contrast to his earlier touch, Deacon turns me gently. His palm presses to my forehead and he hums thoughtfully.

Nice try, buddy. You can fake Mr. Doting Fiancé to me, but I ain”t buying that shit.

”You don”t have a fever. You”ll be fine.”

He smooths his hands over my shoulders and rakes his eyes over my body. It”s the first time Deacon has ever looked at me with this level of objectification. He”s always been clear—sexually, I”m not his type. I”m fine with that. I wouldn”t come near his dick with a hundred-foot pole.

So this sudden shift?

I don”t like it.

His gaze sweeps up and down slowly, taking in every detail, every inch of skin. That sickly grin stretches a notch wider. ”This suits you. Perhaps I”ll buy you more for special outings like this, eh?”

“It’s… not my favorite,” I say diplomatically.

He shrugs and clucks. ”You”ll get used to it.”

He starts to turn away, but I clutch his elbow. I never touch him unless I absolutely have to, so, with one eyebrow raised in surprise, he pivots back to see what might’ve brought on this change of heart.

”Don”t make me do this, Deacon.” It”s my last ditch attempt to appeal to something inside him that might see reason. ”I look ridiculous and taking me to a Firebirds game isn”t going to change what”s between us. It”s not going to change those tabloids, either.”

”The point isn”t to change the tabloids,” he says simply. I almost wish he had more of that familiar venom in his voice, because this icy calm is magnitudes more unsettling. ”The point is you settling into your role. You”re mine, Renee. I think it”s time we both start acting like it.”

Being at the game is far, far worse than I expect.

Eyes are plastered on me the moment we arrive. It”s either that people recognize me because, well, dozens of pictures of mine and Weston”s park “date” have circulated by now. Or, it”s that I”m dressed like the barely legal sugar baby to a questionably older billionaire.

My mortification has no end. Deacon leads me to the private box he bought. Being confined alone with Deacon Carrington for nearly three hours is not high on my list of things I want right now. Or ever, actually.

But even lower on the list than that, somewhere in the range of the bottom rung of hell, is being alone with Deacon and a dozen of his closest “friends.”

As soon as he opens the door, I”m bombarded with cigar smoke, raucous laughter, and wolf whistles.

”No fair, Deacon. You”re the only one with a broad on your arm!”

An older man, whom I recognize with horror as an investor my father”s done business with, calls over to Deacon. He”s wideset in the stomach, with a full-on Father Christmas beard, and he’s already ten sheets to the wind, which only makes his Texas accent twang that much harder.

”Jericho, glad you could make it.” Deacon”s arm snakes around my waist, yanking me into his body. He smooths his fingers over the exposed skin of my ribs. ”I wanted to treat her to a night out. Did you know she likes hockey?”

Jericho laughs, full-bellied. “Alistair has his hands full with this one. Always a firecracker, even as a little girl.” He winks at Deacon. ”But you get to wrangle her down, eh? Lucky guy.”

The way he grins lewdly is way too weird for a guy who”s known me since before my first period.

The other men are a mix of trust fund babies like Deacon, investors, bankers, and business owners. I know just about all of them—if not directly, then in passing because of my family”s circles.

”Didn”t you have a thing with their right wing? The Scott boy?” Franklin, a dusty blonde trust baby, is the one piping up, peering over the edge of his phone at me with squinty, beady little eyes.

”Professional friendship,” Deacon answers for me. His hand tightens on my side. ”But you know how boys from the wrong side of the track like that get when given attention by their betters.”

Franklin snorts. ”Little fling turning the ice brute into a puppy, hm?”

”A lost one at that.” Deacon chuckles. “Maybe if he wins the game tonight, I”ll get him a nice, warm cardboard box for the side of the road.”

The men cackle in unison. It sounds like a room full of drunken, barking dogs.

I see why Deacon invited them all here, why he brought me with him. It’s a stark reminder that I have no allies. He”s stranded me on an island surrounded by sharks and unfortunately for me, he”s my only lifeline.

I need to sit. Spying a seat at a distance from the others, I take a hopeful step toward it.

Deacon, however, has other ideas. His nails dig into my side, insistent and harsh. ”Not there. Sit with me, sweetheart.”

Deacon has never used endearments with me like this in front of others. And like the times he”s used them in private, it doesn”t feel like it comes from a loving place. It”s a threat.

Comply, or else.

I muster a smile and look up to him. I hope my eyes convey all that I hate about his man, even as my mouth is set to give him “love” back.

”Of course, dear.”

He chooses a seat right in the thick of his posse. When I go to sit in the one beside him, he tugs me toward him.

”No. Here.”

When I realize what he means, I feel my skin go cold.

His empty lap is where he expects me to go.

I fight the urge to bolt. I sit, lowering myself like I’m squatting on a Port-A-Potty at a music festival. When Deacon wraps his arms around me, he settles his chin right on my shoulder. I can feel the curve of his smirk against my cheek.

”Now, that’s a good girl.”

”Need a private room there, Deacon?” Chester, another trust fund baby, jeers.

”Or maybe some cameras for a little recording session?” Henry, a banker, pipes up as he puffs the end of a thick cigar.

I shudder. Never let wealth fool you into believing that these kinds of people have manners or respect. If anything, it only encourages them to behave worse.

Despite Deacon”s previous misgivings about being sexual with me, he continues to push the line further and further from where it was. He splays both of his hands up along my rib cage. The tips of his fingers dance dangerously close to the underside of my breasts.

”Renee”s pretty familiar with cameras,” Deacon remarks. ”But I think I”ll keep those parts of her to myself.”

Is he for fucking real right now?

I laugh deliriously, and I hope to God that it”s not showing how nervous and disgusted I am.

”Deacon, please,” I murmur. It’s a silent plea for mercy. I get it, I’m saying. Lesson learned, loud and clear.

Behave or be humiliated: check.

When the game starts, Deacon”s display of social dominance over me doesn”t stop. He carts me to the seating that overlooks the rink. A furious heat rises in my face. The men think it”s an embarrassed flush as Deacon situates me squarely in his lap again.

”No need to be so demure,” Jericho teases me as he flops into another of the seats. ”You”re a red-blooded young couple, after all. We get it.”

I could vomit. Deacon, however, laughs. His hold on me tightens as he says, ”Trust me: she”s not so demure all the time.”

I close my eyes and try to breathe. Where”s my Alice in Wonderland potion, labeled DRINK ME, BITCH, to make me small or invisible or give me wings to fly out of here?

The only thing to drink here is booze and I can”t have that.

The men around us turn their attention to the game at hands as lineups are announced. Jericho burps between beers as he comments, ”That Seattle defender, Beckstrom, is a beast. I’d rather get hit by a freight train than that son of a bitch.”

”Yeah, but the real powerhouse is Martingale. Boy can skate.”

”Please,” snorts Jericho. “The Bulls’ Reese Dalton is a hell of a lot better. Texas-bred—we make ‘em strong and fast down there, you understand?”

Chester rolls his eyes. ”Bets on who gets player of the year?”

”Twenty grand says your boy won’t even make the short list.”

They carry on like this, Deacon occasionally throwing in his two cents—usually jabs about Weston. He”s more occupied with keeping his hands on me.

And keeping me on him.

To distract myself, I watch the game. It feels wrong to be sitting here in Deacon”s lap with Weston so close. I should be in the crowd—or better yet, on the bench with my camera out, snapping motion shots, getting sneaky candids of Weston”s varied I’m-kicking-this-team”s-ass expressions.

Suddenly, like a magnet pull, Weston turns.

And looks right up at me.

He squints, like perhaps he can”t quite see me—or maybe he can and he just can’t bring himself to fully believe I”m here with Deacon of all people.

It takes me a moment to realize the deeper—and more terrifying—reason for that. Our faces are plastered on the kiss cam.

No.

No, no, no?—

”Let”s give them a good show, darling.”

Deacon”s fingers slide against the edge of my jaw. The condensation from his drink is wet on my skin and cold. I want to pull away, but when I try, Deacon”s grip tightens on my face.

”Behave.” He breathes the word against my mouth. A cigar-whiskey plume burns my nose.

And then he does it.

I”m powerless to stop anything as his mouth claims mine. At first, it”s an insistent press. Then, it”s an aggressive slip of the tongue against my lips. He doesn”t ask for entrance; he takes it, forcing the taste of his inebriated breath on my tongue.

I dig my fingers into the armrests of the chair. I have to force myself to stay here or I”m going to launch myself into the air and never come back down.

When Deacon”s finally done with me, he pulls away with a smirk and says the two most nauseating words in the English language: ”Good girl.”

The praise makes me nauseous, especially with the backdrop of Deacon”s friends” wolf-whistling and the crowd whooping and hollering over what they”re seeing as a sexy moment between a couple.

They wouldn”t be so fucking enthusiastic if they knew the truth.

My gaze finds the rink again and immediately locks with Weston”s. Even from here, I can tell one thing.

He.

Is.

Furious.

Anger blazes in his eyes, hot and molten. My stomach drops. I want to yell out to him, This isn”t what it looks like! Don”t believe the lie!

But I”ve already told him this is what I”ve chosen; I”ve already told him to believe the lies. So what”s he supposed to see as truth? This farce of a relationship with Deacon or all the feelings I”ve always had for him?

”I-I need to use the bathroom, Deacon.” I turn to him. His brow quirks up.

Suspicion.

So I play along with his nonsense. I lean in, brushing my mouth against his jaw. His cologne on any other man might be appealing, but on him, it might as well be poison. It”s so acrid I think I”m inhaling brimstone.

Swallow it down, girl.

”I won”t be long,” I whisper in promise.

Deacon shifts. I know that subtle stir in his lap will be a problem later on. But for now, if this newfound distraction can be used to my advantage, I”m going to use it.

”Please?”

I really lay it on thick. I look up at him through my lashes, thickening the lilt of submission in my voice. It feels all so wrong.

My skin crawls as Deacon smirks, brushing his knuckles over my cheek. ”Hurry back.”

As if this wasn”t insulting enough, he smacks my ass on the way out.

Cue another thunderous applause from the peanut gallery.

Is it possible to die from sheer humiliation alone?

The one good thing about being in the private box?

Private bathroom.

It”s a single-stall situation and looks more like a luxury hotel bathroom than a grimy hockey rink affair. No mysterious substances caked on the toilet seat or suspiciously damp paper towels lolling out of the dispenser.

And yet, it does nothing to make me feel better.

I lean over the edge of the sink, grip the porcelain, and look into my reflection. Despite all the makeup Deacon insisted I wear, I”m haggard. Eyes manic. Skin pale.

Deacon has me drowning.

What happens when we leave here? When we”re alone in the bedroom he”s forcing me to stay in, where will be my retreat? All this posturing of his and I can”t tell how much of it is going to stay here in this hockey rink and how much of it is going to follow me home. Surely this is too much?—

BANG.

”What the fu?—!”

I whip around, eyes wide. I expect Deacon, coming to claim more of me. But it”s not Deacon. It’s not Deacon at all.

It”s Weston Scott.