Damaged (Boys of Winter #2) - Sheridan Anne Page 0,17

released as I let out a frustrated breath.

How the fuck could Carver do this to me? Surely, he knows that his father was guilty. Surely, he knows how badly he deserved to die.

There has to be something more going on here. I know Carver and I had a shaky relationship to start with, but to condemn me to a life behind bars? That’s taking it way too far. Even through all of this, through his hand around my throat, through his pissed off glares and nasty comments, I still trusted that he’d have my back.

I’ve never been so wrong.

God, why is it so hard to hate him?

He was the guy who’d come after me in the middle of the night to make sure I wasn’t getting myself in trouble, he’s the guy who had the balls to break all the hard truths to me, the only one to ever give it to me straight. He’s the guy who’d allow me to sneak into his bed at night to keep the monsters away, he’s the one who came after me in that shitty cell that Sam had shoved me in. Time and time again, Carver has been my savior, but now … he feels like the perfect stranger.

I thought something was building between us. It was strained, but it was something big. I could feel it right down in the bottom of my chest. When he touched me … when he kissed me, it was like magic pulsing around us. The electricity would spark, and I’d feel as though I was on cloud nine. Nothing could possibly get better than the times Carver and I were briefly on the same page.

All that’s gone now. We’ll never get that electricity back. The fire that sparked between us is well and truly dead, just like our fathers.

My fingers bunch into a tight fist and my nails dig into the soft skin of my palms, instantly drawing blood. I try to stop, but I can’t. It gives me a release that I can’t possibly find anywhere. My body itches to fight. I need to beat the living daylights out of someone, and that someone needs to be Carver, but I’ll settle for the next dickhead who walks down this hallway and dares to face me.

I need to fucking scream.

I’ve never felt so angry. My blood boils and I hate how much I’ve allowed this to affect me. The boys will get me out of here; I know they will. I shouldn’t be stressing about it. I just need to give them time. I’m sure they’re working on a plan right now. At least I hope they are.

I’m not so sure about Grayson yet, but I feel as though I can trust King and Cruz, at least for the important things. Can I trust King to resist thinking about getting his dick wet? No, certainly not. Can I trust Cruz not to take off with my Ducati whenever the fuck he wants? Again, no. But when it comes to my safety, my life, I trust them with all that I am.

The frustration burns brightly inside of me and I cross to the small, uncomfortable bed, dropping to my knees and slamming my head down against the pillow. I hold it to my face and scream as loud as I can, letting out every ounce of energy that pulses through my veins.

I scream and scream, tears of anger springing to my eyes until my throat is raw and aching.

How did this even happen? One second I was putting on a show for the sixteen families of Dynasty, doing their bullshit cult initiation, and the next, there was a dead man at my feet with his blood pooling around my heels and a satisfied smirk stretching across my face.

Who the fuck am I?

“WINTER. WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING?”

My head whips up to find Grayson, King, and Cruz standing on the opposite side of my cell, staring in at me like I’m some kind of sideshow with their faces pressed right up against the metal bars. My breath comes in hard, sharp pants as I look at the three of them, wide-eyed and concerned.

I drop the pillow back to the bed and go crashing down to the hard concrete beneath me, completely out of breath. I didn’t realize that screaming into a pillow was such a workout.

I lean back onto my hands and look up at the three guys in defeat. “You have to get me out