Damaged (Boys of Winter #2) - Sheridan Anne Page 0,84

so fucking stubborn that it drives me insane.

I walk away with my hands pulsing at my side, terrified of looking back and seeing the raw emotions in his eyes. I feel the heat of his stare on me, and I don’t doubt that if I turned around right now, I would run at him with my arms wide-open and throw myself at him. But because he’s a stubborn asshole just like the rest of his friends, he would push me away, no matter how much he has to hurt himself to do it.

I take a deep, calming breath and walk straight out of the room, needing to stop the second I round the corner to take a moment to figure out what the fuck just happened. I press myself up against the wall and stare at the blank one in front of me.

That fucking asshole. Who does he think he is coming at me with all that ‘I got you those brass knuckles and I know you better than you know yourself’ bullshit? Does he actually think I’m being a misleading whore who’s going to destroy all his friends?

Screw him. King and Cruz know exactly what’s going down between us and not only do they agree with it, they fucking love it just as much as I do. What is with the guys here being too fucking stubborn to just take what they want? Why do they need to make this so complicated?

The fury burns brighter, and the more I stand here, confused and torn over Grayson, the more that itch builds within me. I have to hit something. I have to work it out of my system.

I push off the wall and clench my jaw as I start storming toward the other end of the house. I don’t venture down here often, but there’s one room that I’ve been dying to get into since the second we got home.

I shove my shoulder into the door and twist the handle so violently that it opens with a bang and rebounds off the adjoining wall.

I stride through the darkened home office and grab hold of the sliding bookshelf. Pushing it out of the way, I instantly hear the sound of fists pummeling against flesh.

The sound is like a beacon drawing me in.

My shoes hit the top step, and as they do, the pummeling fists stop. Dread sinks heavily into my stomach. I know exactly what I’m going to find down here, but for some reason, I don’t feel ready.

I don’t think I’ll ever be ready.

I hit the bottom step to find Carver standing by a long workbench with an old rag in his hand, wiping off the blood that stains his warm skin. The room is dark with a single hanging light that gently rocks from side to side, right above Sam Delacourt.

His wrists are bound and hooked over a big meat hook with his body bruised and bloodied, his eyes frantically searching for an escape, not that I can really see his eyes through all the swelling.

It’s fucking creepy down here, and judging by the drainage grate built into the ground, I’d dare say this room has been used a few times before.

I swallow over the lump in my throat and raise my gaze to meet Carver’s. It’s the first time I’ve been down here, and I don’t miss the way he searches my eyes, waiting to see if I’m about to freak out. But that’s not going to happen. All he’ll see is the crazed desperation that Grayson caused.

Carver just watches me for a long moment before nodding and reaching back. His fingers curl around the top of a baseball bat, and in a brief magical moment, he steps into me and presses the baseball bat against my chest.

I take it eagerly, and as that familiar itch burns brightly within me, I turn my ferocious stare on Sam. I grip the bat at the top, and as I stalk toward Sam, I let the tip of the bat drag against the concrete floor. The metallic sound instantly grinds against my nerves, but I stick with it, knowing that it’s so much worse for Sam.

As I step in front of him, a twisted grin stretches across my face. “Time’s up, motherfucker.” And just like that, I rear back and let the bat fly.

It smashes into his ribs over and over again, hitting the exact same spot. I let every bit of my anger out. The frustration toward Carver, the confusion