Chapter 17
Millie
The clock on my bedside table reads four fifty-five.
The sheets are twisted around my legs, and I can’t decide if I’m too hot, too cold, or just right.
I’ve been pondering taking a sleeping pill, but my psychiatrist, even though he insisted on giving me those fucking pills, warned me not to take the easy way out every time I can’t fall asleep.
Abby’s snoring softly, comatose since I crawled into my bed after hiding in the library until midnight. I didn’t want to face her after I ran out of the cafeteria.
I shake my head, dislodging the memory of Jasper and Mateo, Creed’s arms around me, then Hyde’s as he spent the afternoon holding me curled into his side like a helpless little girl.
Kicking the sheets off, I rise from my bed, sick and tired of staring at the ceiling. I take light steps, careful not to wake Abby as I lock myself in the bathroom.
Fifteen minutes later, I enter the gym, my hoodie unzipped, “Beauty Sleep” by VOILá seeping from my headphones. The lights are on, but no one’s around. It’ll be about an hour before even Creed gets here.
Dropping my bag by my favorite treadmill—the one that’s perfectly positioned to ogle Creed as he hammers the boxing bag—I set a jogging pace.
I’ve run every day since I was discharged from the hospital. My psychiatrist, Dr. Quinn, insisted on exercise, droning on about endorphins and dopamine, but working out didn’t sound appealing until Hyde dragged me to a gym and the treadmills called my name.
Eyes closed, I find the correct button, gradually increasing speed. I usually stick to jogging, but today not even sprinting will help me outrun these feelings ripping me wide open.
I hate how much Jasper and Mateo rattled me, despite doing little to nothing wrong. I hate how fast my memories avalanched, burying me under their weight. I hate how fucking weak I feel.
Scowls, laughter, finger-pointing, and whispers accompanied my everyday life until I graduated high school.
Evan’s voice still rings in my ears sometimes.
The sweet nothings he whispered when I thought we were alone.
The mocking that followed every interaction, out of my earshot.
The silence when I walked back into the school cafeteria after a near-death experience.
I jam my finger into the speed controls, choking on my overwhelming humiliation. I didn’t want to die. I just wanted everything to stop for one goddamn minute.
Shame claws up my throat. I’m sprinting, but it’s not fast enough to outrun the feeling. Not enough to erase the heat crawling across my skin every time someone whispers.
The music changes from VOILá to My Darkest Days, to “Shame On Me” by Catch Your Breath, and it’s so on the nose tears prickle my eyes.
Normally, I don’t let myself cry. I already cried a fucking river because of Evan, but I can’t stop choking today.
My feet slam against the belt, my chest aches, vision tunnels, but I don’t stop.
I run faster.
Faster.
Faster.
Never fast enough.
A tattooed arm bands across my stomach, yanking me off the treadmill like a rag doll. I yelp. My eyes fly open and the air whooshes out of my lungs as I slam against a hard chest. The gym blurs, but I catch a familiar face in the mirror before I’m spun around so fast I don’t know which way is up.
Creed rips my headphones off, wild eyes searching my face. His nostrils flare, jaw flexes as he holds me suspended for a second before my feet hit the floor. My heart’s punching my ribs, adrenaline sky-high, and I rage, fighting him off.
I don’t even know why.
I’m pure instinct, anger, and embarrassment.
“What the fuck...?” he grits out, cuffing my wrists. “Millie. What the fuck happened?”
I twist and jerk, but he doesn’t budge, pinning my hands to his hard pecs. He drags me closer, maneuvering me flush against him, immobile in the cage of his arms. He grabs my face with his free hand, his hold firm, almost bruising, fingers digging into my cheeks until my lips pucker.
“Millie,” he warns, his voice brooking no argument. “Stop fighting or I’ll fucking hurt you, baby.”
A shudder shakes me, but my tears stop at once.
He’s breathing hard, the peppermint of his toothpaste filling my senses as he stares me down. And that unwavering, hard expression freezes me in place.
“Good girl.”
Oh, God...
My breath hitches, heat explodes beneath my skin, and everything narrows until Creed’s all I see. I almost collapse at his feet when relief shudders through me.
“You’re okay,” he adds. “I’m here. You’re with me and there’s nowhere else you’d be safer.” His fingers flex around my wrists. “Now, will you stop hitting me if I let go?”
I blink up at him, biting my lip before nodding.
He loosens his hold bit by bit until he lets go completely, watching me with those dark, penetrating eyes. He’s still holding my face, but at least the circulation returns to my hands.
“Is this about Jasper? Hyde told me what happened.”
I breathe through my lips, puckered under Creed’s fingers.
He towers over me, so tall I have to crane my neck, and I’m suddenly very aware he’s shirtless.
A pair of low-slung sweats hugs his hips, his chest on display and dotted with a mix of inked pictures.
They’re so random I wonder if he absentmindedly doodles with a tattoo gun when he’s bored.
“Millie,” he urges again.
The raspy note in his voice sends a bout of heat through my veins. I don’t know why, but whenever he spits my name out like a warning, like an order, my knees turn weak and my body sings.
“I asked you a question. Were you crying because of Jasper and Mateo?”
I inch away, and with an exasperated huff, Creed steps back, pulling his phone out.
My pulse jumps. I know who he’s about to dial and the last thing I need right now is Hyde’s guilt-fueled overprotectiveness.
He makes me feel safe and cherished for a while, but it fades, leaving bitter self-loathing.
I should be stronger. I am stronger than this.
Emboldened, I snatch Creed’s phone, hiding it behind my back while shaking my head.
He cocks an eyebrow. “No Hyde this time?” he guesses. “Okay, but you need to answer my question.”
A muscle ticks in his jaw when my mouth stays shut.
“Still not talking to me, huh?” He takes a threatening step my way. “Why? What the fuck have I done that you refuse to speak when I’m around?”
You scare me. You scare me because I can barely control myself around you. Because you make me feel alive, real, and normal. Because I want things I shouldn’t, and I trust you when you’ve given me no reason.
My chin trembles with every word I’m holding back. I try parting my lips but my heart kicks up, the flight response slamming into me so hard I stagger. My mind rebels, protecting me so fiercely I bite my tongue, tasting blood.
“Running won’t help you,” he says, seeing right through my treadmill tactic. “I’d tell you to scream your pain out but we both know that won’t happen.”
He shoots forth, cinching my wrist before I wander away.
“You need an outlet for the choking anger, not a place to hide.” He tugs me closer as if he can’t stand the distance. “I’ll teach you how to offload rage with your fists.”
Warmth blooms behind my ribs at the idea.
Back at home, I spent countless nights screaming into my pillow and tearing my hair out.
Countless mornings running around the block until my lungs burned.
None of it helped for long. Both outlets were just temporary fixes.
Nothing more than cheap band-aids covering my anxiety and humiliation.
I’d be lying if I said driving my fists into Evan’s face didn’t cross my mind.
It did... many times.
I imagined shoving Evan back, kicking, clawing, beating him up until he bled, but the sad truth is, I couldn’t cause any damage. He’d overpower me without breaking a sweat.
Creed smirks, dark and knowing, as he drags me even closer, the heat and scent of his body soothing the fear I was sprinting from not five minutes ago.
“Jackpot,” he says, curling a loose lock of my hair behind my ear. “Isn’t it, Millie Baby?”
He doesn’t wait for a reply, either aware he won’t get one, or too impatient to waste time trying to coax out words. He takes me across the room and pushes me onto a bench.
“No gloves.” Taking a knee before me, he drapes two knuckle wraps across my thigh. “Give me your hand.”
He makes quick work of wrapping my right hand, his fingers moving fast like he’s done this a hundred times. He probably has.
I squirm in place, the silence between us loaded, screaming with something I don’t dare name.
My eyes wander down his chest, to the moths inked over his hard stomach, that ridiculously defined six-pack of corded muscle I’m dying to feel beneath my fingertips.
I’ve never seen a man this ripped. Evan was a hockey player.
He was muscular, but in a bulky, overdrawn way.
“You look like you want to lick me, baby,” he says, a ghost of a smile dancing over his full lips. “I won’t stop you.”
My eyes snap to his. They’re dark brown with a few golden flecks catching the overhead lights.
“Keep staring. You’re doing wonders for my ego.”
As if a man who looks like him needs his ego stroked. He’s the undefeated cage-fight champion. Ripped, hot, dangerous. I bet he has a whole fan club on campus.
Once he’s done wrapping my other hand, he points toward a medium-sized bag and takes a stance behind me.
“Let’s see what you’ve got. Hands in fists. Thumbs out, always. Otherwise, you’ll break them.”
I follow his instructions, balling my fingers as hard as I can.
Creed immediately takes my fists in his. “Loosen up a little.”
He moves my arms higher, tucks my elbows a fraction, then his knee slides between mine and my pulse riots, goosebumps rising along my arms.
Noah did that last night... it was different, we were face to face, his thigh was higher, but my body remembers, and arousal dampens my panties.