Page 145 of The Pucking Coach's Daughter

The lock in my door slides back, drawing both of our attention.

Carter comes in, already tucking his stolen key back in his pocket. His gaze goes to me, and his brows lower. “You good?”

I jerk my head in some semblance of a nod.

Carter closes the door and makes a beeline for me. He seems content to ignore Penn until he gets to my side, leaning against the counter with his hip touching my thigh.

“Oh, you got him.” He smirks and touches his throat. “You’ve got a little blood just here.”

Penn grunts.

“He didn’t think I was asleep.” I sigh. “But the rest worked.”

Carter glances at me. “Was your mouth open?”

I scowl.

Penn cracks a smile.

“So what are we going to do about Oliver?” Carter asks.

Penn’s smile slips away as easily as it appeared. “What are we going to do about him?”

“Oh, I’m sorry.” Carter pushes off the counter and strides around the island. “We talked about this.”

My brows furrow.

“I—”

“You didn’t,” Carter repeats. “After all the shit she’s endured in the past six months? You think terrifying her is worth it?”

“Carter—”

“You’re worth fucking more than that, dream girl.” His gaze cuts to mine, flashing from angry to soft. “You hear me?”

I hear him, I just don’t necessarily believe him.

He faces Penn again. “If he’s going to go to extremes to traumatize her for his own pleasure, I won’t have it. And you shouldn’t either.”

I miss Carter’s expression, but Penn winces.

I can’t do this.

The last person I want to think about is Oliver Ruiz. The last thing I want to think about is how he deserves some sort of punishment for tormenting me. Penn has tormented me, too, hasn’t he?

They’re both complicit, and I am tired. I’m so fucking tired of this. Every muscle hurts, reliving that fight. The fear that held my body hostage. I ache, and my head pounds, and I don’t want to scheme anymore.

“Both of you just… get out.”

I set the mug down and head for my bedroom. They can let themselves out, but they won’t let themselves in here.

I grab my desk chair—it doesn’t have wheels, which is usually a pain but now convenient—and shove it under the handle of the door. I lock all my windows, fix my blankets. I long for the sort of oblivion that will ease the stabbing pain behind my eyes.

My chest is heaving by the time I crawl into bed, dragging the covers over my head.

Sleep doesn’t come for a long time, yet. But when it claims me, I go with all my lights blazing.

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