Ruthless Kings of Obsession (Leighton Royals University #3)

39. Poison Is Its Form Of Karma

Poison Is Its Form Of Karma

~ D OMINO~

Another coughing fit tears through me as I lean against my locker, each breath feeling like sandpaper against my throat. The fluorescent lights of the locker room seem too bright, making my head pound with renewed intensity. I've been feeling like absolute shit for weeks now, but tonight's practice pushed me past some invisible threshold.

Just fucking breathe , I tell myself, trying to clear whatever's rattling in my chest. The doctor swears all my tests are normal, that the medication and weekly injections are working fine. But something feels wrong – has felt wrong for a while now.

My hands shake slightly as I reach for my water bottle, and I hate how weak the simple movement makes me feel. I used to own this locker room, used to command respect just by existing in this space. Now...

The sound of approaching footsteps barely registers before someone's knocking hard against the back of my head, shoving me aside with casual cruelty.

"Move it, traitor," Johnson sneers, his bulk taking up too much space in front of my locker. "Can't even hold your stick right and still think you deserve a spot here?"

The rest of the team files in behind him – Williams, Parker, Thompson – all wearing identical expressions of contempt. I try to focus on their faces, but everything's slightly blurry around the edges, like I'm viewing the world through warped glass.

"Did you see him tonight?" Williams laughs, the sound sharp and mocking. "Fumbling around like some freshman who's never touched ice before."

"Probably too busy sucking Benedict's dick to practice properly," Parker adds, earning cruel chuckles from the others.

I should respond. Should defend myself or fight back or do something other than stand here trying not to throw up. But everything hurts – my chest, my head, my bones feeling like they're made of ground glass.

Just get through this , I think, reaching for my bag with trembling fingers. Get changed and get out. Don't show weakness. Don't let them see ? —

Ice cold water hits me like a physical blow, soaking through my practice jersey and making everything exponentially worse. The shock of it steals what little breath I have, sending me into another coughing fit that makes my vision swim.

Their laughter echoes off metal lockers, a soundtrack of humiliation I used to conduct rather than endure. "What's wrong, Leighton?" Thompson taunts. "Can't take a little shower after such pathetic performance?"

"Maybe if you weren't such a fucking traitor," Johnson adds, stepping closer with obvious menace, "you wouldn't?—"

"What the fuck?"

Matteo's voice cuts through the chaos like a blade, making everyone freeze. I manage to lift my head enough to see him standing in the doorway, Zander and Marcus flanking him while Ren leans against the frame with dangerous casualness.

"Just showing the traitor what we think of his gameplay, Cap," Williams says quickly, though he takes an instinctive step back. "No big deal."

"Yeah," Parker adds, fake bravado not quite hiding his uncertainty. "Not our fault he can't hack it anymore. Did you see his hands shaking? Couldn't even grip his stick properly."

Something flickers across Matteo's expression – concern maybe, or realization. But before he can respond, Zander moves with that lethal grace that always means trouble.

"Interesting," he says softly, studying the group with predatory focus. "You're all so brave when it's five on one. Wonder how that math works out now?"

The temperature in the room seems to drop several degrees as the team processes the implied threat. Because this isn't just Matteo – their captain who commands respect through skill and leadership. This is all of them – the Kings who've carved out their own kind of power in this twisted world we inhabit.

"It was just a joke," Thompson mutters, not quite meeting anyone's eyes. "Teaching him a lesson about loyalty?—"

"Loyalty?" Marcus cuts in, his voice carrying that clinical edge that somehow makes him more threatening. "You want to talk about loyalty while attacking someone who's clearly unwell?"

I want to protest – to deny any weakness or illness – but another cough tears through me before I can speak. The effort of staying upright makes everything spin faster, black spots dancing at the edges of my vision.

"Domino?" Matteo's voice sounds strange, like he's speaking underwater. "How long have you been sick?"

I try to answer, to maintain some facade of control, but my legs choose that moment to give out completely. The last thing I register is Ren moving faster than should be possible, catching me before I hit the ground.

Then everything goes dark, and I drift in a space between consciousness and oblivion. Voices filter through occasionally, though making sense of their words requires more energy than I possess:

"His skin's on fire?—"

"How long has this been?—"

"Get them out of here before I?—"

"Call Hannah, tell her?—"

"...just like the others..."

That last bit catches in my fever-addled brain, tugging at something important I should remember. But thinking feels like wading through molasses, each attempted connection sending fresh waves of pain through my skull.

Someone's hands are on my face – cool and clinical, checking pulse points and temperature with professional efficiency. Marcus maybe, or Hannah if she's arrived already.

"Triple digits," a voice confirms grimly. "And his lymph nodes are swollen. Just like?—"

"Don't." Matteo's voice carries warning wrapped in real fear. "We don't know that yet."

"The timing though," someone else argues – Ren maybe? "We already have five people on the team who are ill?—"

"Enough!" The command cuts through my haze, making me flinch slightly. "Get him to the car. Now."

Movement follows – hands lifting me with surprising gentleness, voices murmuring instructions I can't quite grasp. Everything feels distant and too close simultaneously, like I'm watching myself from somewhere outside my own body.

Just like the others , my mind repeats on loop. Just like everything happening across campus...

Understanding tries to surface through the fever, but consciousness is slipping away faster than I can catch it. The last thing I register is someone's voice – Zander's maybe – saying something that should terrify me if I had the energy to feel anything at all:

"Looks like The Blinded One's started collecting early."

It seems sop far away and low, but I dare to wonder if he sounds happy about it.

Maybe…

Then darkness claims me completely, and I drift away on waves of fire and ice, wondering if this is what karma feels like when it finally comes due.

Sorry, Iva .

Crazy to think of an apology when I never truly apologize to her correctly.

Only now when oblivion approaches.

Guess I won't live to see your hair grow back after all...