Page 113 of The Heart Breaker

She makes this frustrated sound and tries to pull free. “Cole?—”

“No.” My other hand tips her chin up so she has to look at me. “Tell me what happened.”

Her eyes flash. “I don’t want to talk,” she snaps, jerking her face out of my hand. “I want you to fuck me. That’s what we do, right?” She looks up at me with those red-rimmed eyes. “We’re just fucking.”

My jaw tightens.

I don’t make a habit of letting people get close to me. I don’t talk about my sister. I don’t talk about my dad. I don’t let girls stay the night, and I definitely don’t cuddle them. I don’t blow stupid amounts of money on concert tickets for a band I don’t even like. I don’t lie in bed staring at Valentine’s gifts and consider buying a ring for someone I’m ‘just fucking’.

This stopped being just sex a while ago.

And the fact that she thinks I’d just sleep with her to help her cover up whatever happened before she came through my door makes my stomach drop.

The worst part is, I know exactly why she thinks that.

Because I made it easy for her to.

Because she was going to see her ex, and I couldn’t make myself tell her not to go. I couldn’t say any of it, because I was too busy being jealous and pissed off and scared out of my mind that she’d get in that room with him and remember every reason we don’t work. Every reason we hate each other. All the history between us. That she’d look at me after and decide I was never anything more than a distraction before going back to what she knew.

I hate feeling scared, hate not being in control even more. And somehow, with her, I’d gotten to the point where I was willing to give that up. Because all I wanted was her.

I catch both her wrists in one hand. “We’re not fucking until you tell me what happened.”

She glares at me, breathing hard, still trying to hold herself together with anger and sheer stubbornness, but then her eyes go glassy, filling with tears.

My gaze drops, and my stomach does too.

I don’t know how I missed it before. Maybe because she was soaked through, because her hair was stuck to her face, because her eyes were so red, they pulled all my focus. But now she’s standing under the hallway light, and there’s no missing the red mark on her cheek.

Everything in me goes tight. The sound in the room drops out until all I can hear is my own breathing and the blood pounding in my ears.

“Tell me he didn’t.” My voice comes out rough, the words gritted through my teeth. “Tell me I’m seeing shit and that asshole didn’t put his hands on you.”

Her glassy eyes lift to mine, desperation in her gaze, and when I notice her blotchy red lips part and nothing comes out, my chest burns.

I let go of her and turn, reaching for my keys. I don’t have a plan beyond getting in my car and finding him. I don’t need one. I know what hotel he’s staying in. I’ll figure out the rest when I get there.

I’ll wreck his face. I’ll wreck his life. Mine too, if that’s what it takes.

But her hand catches my wrist before I make it to the door, stilling me.

“Don’t.”

Her voice cracks on the word, and I turn to see her panicked expression, her fingers digging into my arm as tears slide down her cheeks.

“Please, Cole,don’t.” Her grip tightens. “It’ll only make it worse. I don’t want—” Her voice catches. “I don’t want another guy standing up for me. I should’ve done that myself. I should have?—”

A broken sound rips out of her, and I drop the keys, catching her before she hits the floor. The second I wrap my arms around her, she falls apart.

Her whole body shakes as she fists my shirt and buries her face in my chest. I can feel the heat of her tears through my shirt, feel every rough, broken breath, and I swear I’ve never hated another man the way I hate him in this moment.

“Fuck,” I breathe, my own voice cracking as one hand slides up her back and the other cups the back of her head. I pull her closer, tucking her tight against my chest, my chin resting over her wet hair. “Fuck, baby. I’m sorry.”

She keeps crying into me, and all I can do is sit there on the floor and hold her through it. My hand keeps moving over her back, then into her damp hair, then down again, hoping I can ease some of the pain she feels.

I can’t—I know that—but I keep trying anyway.

I pull back just enough to look at her, and the sight of her damn near guts me. I brush the damp strands back, my thumb grazing the side of her cheek.