Page 81 of Beautiful When He Breaks

Blakely is standing there in slacks and a polo with the athletic department logo stitched over the chest, looking put together, respectable, and composed. The kind of man parents would trust with their sons because he says all the right things under bright lights.

My stomach drops, and my body wants to do what it’s trained itself to do around him for months now: freeze, assess, soften, survive. Then another feeling comes in under it, one that’s been getting stronger every day since Eli kissed me back.

No.

I lower my gym bag from my shoulder into a firmer grip and say, “What do you want?”

His expression doesn’t change much, but I know him well enough now to see the anger under the calm exterior. It’s in the set of his mouth and the way he squares himself a little more when he hears my tone. “You’ve been ignoring me for three weeks.”

I shrug. “Yeah, I know.”

He studies me for a beat as if he’s waiting for shame to show up and smooth this over for him. When it doesn’t, his voice goes colder. “That isn’t how this works.”

A week ago, maybe even three days ago, that line would’ve gotten under my skin exactly the way he meant it to. It would’ve dragged old reflexes to the surface. Apology. De-escalation. Some version of, “Yes, I know, just let me explain.” Today, all I can think about is how tired I am of his confidence in thinking that he gets to define the shape of my life.

“It actually is how it works now,” I say. “You text. I don’t answer. That’s the new system.”

His eyes narrow. “Watch your mouth.”

I laugh, and the sound of it surprises both of us. “You don’t get to talk to me that way anymore,” I say.

He steps forward then, just one measured step, but enough that the space between us tightens. “Julian.”

That fucking tone—that warning-soft one. That blend of command and intimacy he uses when he thinks he can still pull me apart with the right voice alone. I hate how well I know it, but I love that it doesn’t work this time. Fear skitters through me anyway, but it doesn’t own the whole space between us.

“I’m done,” I tell him.

He has the nerve to laugh in my face. “You don’t mean that.”

“Actually, I do. It’s over,” I say again. “Whatever you thought this was, whatever version you’ve been telling yourself where I keep coming back and you keep getting away with it, that’s done. Don’t call me, don’t text me, don’t corner me, and stay the fuck away from me.”

His jaw tightens hard enough to show. “You’re making a mistake.”

“No,” I say. “You made the mistake of thinking I would be your fucking punching bag forever.”

He moves fast after that, getting close enough that I can smell his cologne. My fight-or-flight screams when his hand catches the front of my shirt and shoves me back against the brick wall before my body fully processes the motion.

It isn’t the hardest he’s ever grabbed me, but the shock of it on campus in daylight, so close to everybody else, does something ugly to my nerves.

“You ungrateful little—”

My hands hit his chest and drive him back one full step against the side wall by the maintenance door, and the second I feel him give under the force of it, my mind goes violently, beautifully clear.

“Don’t fucking touch me,” I snarl.

The words come out louder than I mean them to. Right now, I feel bigger than him—every second of shame he tried to feed me just burned off in one shove and left behind something he doesn’t know how to handle.

Then his face twists in rage.

I know that look; I know exactly what comes after that look, and my body starts preparing for impact before my mind catches up. I’ve learned his tells too well.

He’s going to hit me.

“Julian!”

Eli’s voice cracks across the lot before Blakely can move.

I turn on instinct and see the guys coming fast from the gym path—Eli first, pale and furious and already moving, Luca half a step behind him with that captain stride that somehow looks calm even when it’s not, Ryan farther off and confused as hell, and Killian right there too, hands in his pockets and murder on his face.