Page 73 of Beautiful When He Breaks

Every muscle in my body goes hard.

“What does that mean?” I ask, and my voice already sounds wrong.

Julian hears it and almost looks sorry for causing it, which makes me want to start breaking things immediately.

“It means he got possessive,” he says. “Then controlling. Wanted to know where I was, who I was with, why I didn’t answer fast enough. He’d go sweet if I pulled away, then mean if I still didn’t give him what he wanted. He started using whatever he thought would work.”

My stomach turns. “Did he hurt you?” I ask.

Julian looks at me for one long second, and I know the answer before he speaks.

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “Sometimes.”

Something savage tears loose in my chest so fast I almost get off the bed without meaning to. I stop myself by sheer force, fingers curling into the blanket instead. “What the fuck do you mean ‘sometimes’?”

His mouth twitches like he hates the question because there isn’t any version of the answer that doesn’t make this uglier.

“I mean, it wasn’t every time. That’s part of why I stayed as long as I did. He’d be good just enough to make me think maybe I’d overreacted. Then he’d get angry again. Or cold. Or rough. Or…” He shakes his head once and drags a hand over the back of his neck. “Sometimes it was physical. Sometimes it was just words, but honestly, those started getting in my head worse.”

I’m breathing too hard now. I know that. I don’t care.

“Who?” I ask. “Who was it, Jules?”

Julian’s face changes instantly. His eyes drop again, and I watch him brace for the damage of saying it out loud.

“Blakely,” he says. “Coach Blakely.”

For one second, my brain doesn’t process it.

Then it does.

The man who walks around campus with that polished, respected adult smile. The man who I have probably passed a hundred times without ever thinking twice about.

I think I actually stop breathing.

“No,” I say, and the word comes out rough and disbelieving. “No. You’re telling me that fucking—” I cut myself off because Mila shifts in her bassinet, and I instantly lower my voice even though my hands are still shaking. “He’s the one who’s been hurting you?”

Julian nods once, eyes still on the floor. “Yeah.”

That simple agreement nearly does me in. I get off the bed before I even think it through because if I stay seated, I’m either going to break something or start crying, and I cannot handle either right now. I pace to the window and back, dragging both hands through my hair.

“That disgusting motherfucker,” I say, voice shaking now with how hard I’m trying to keep it down. “That slimy, predatory piece of shit. He’s a coach. He’s a grown fucking man who had authority over you!”

Julian’s shoulders hunch slightly, and I know that it’s my anger hitting him wrong. I stop pacing immediately and kneel in front of him instead, because he does not get to carry my volume on top of what he’s already holding.

“Hey,” I say, softening my voice; my hands hovering before I settle them carefully over his. “I’m not mad at you.”

He lets out a breath that sounds broken. “I know.”

“No, I need you to really hear me.” I squeeze his hands once. “I am not disgusted with you, either. I’m disgusted with him.”

His eyes finally lift to mine then, and what I see there almost destroys me. Shame, yes. Anger. Exhaustion. But under all of it there’s this awful, bruised relief, as if some part of him still expected me to hear the name and step away.

I don’t. I move closer.

“How long?” I ask.

He looks at our hands for a second before answering. “Months.”