40. Sydney
forty
sydney
My window slides open.
I lie still and keep my breathing regular, but on the inside I’m fuming.
Carter and I conveniently missed the hockey game. FSU, much to our surprise, lost. Dylan texted me about it. Apparently the volleyball team all went as a bonding trip. But she said that Oliver wasn’t on his game, and Penn let in too many pucks. He was swapped out for the other goalie halfway through the second period.
He didn’t want to leave me. Carter, that is. But at the notification of the loss, a new fear kicked up that they’d be stupid enough to go to the warehouse and fight again.
We watched a movie and fooled around, and then he presented me with a gift. Something he’d had for a while but wasn’t sure how open I’d be.
A knife of my own.
It’s a slim folding knife, half the size of his.
He spent time showing me how to open it one-handed, which is a useful skill for a variety of reasons. And then he showed me—in great detail—everywhere I could keep it.
Please note: ass is definitely not one of those places.
All other holes are fair game, as long as there’s no stripping, squatting, and coughing involved.
The handle is baby blue, the blade is extra sharp. He stopped me from pricking my finger on it, insisting that the first blood draw should be someone other than its owner.
I didn’t want to cut him, though.
The person sneaking into my room, I’m assuming Penn, toes off their shoes and shuts the window again. He creeps forward and stands over me. Waiting.
I’m a great faker. I hope.
Eventually, he moves again. He slowly peels the blanket down, off me entirely, and rolls me over with gentle pressure on my hip bone. It’s either roll onto my back or resist him, and I can’t give up the ruse. Not when the folded knife is tucked in my palm, my fingers curled over to conceal it. It’s in position to flip open with my thumb.
My head lolls to the side, and he exhales.
Oops. Pretty sure Carter left a mark there earlier.
“Sydney,” Penn whispers.
When I don’t respond, he nudges my legs apart and climbs over me. To give him credit, the bed barely tilts. I’m not sure how he has the ninja abilities of a freaking cat.
Must be that same skill that helps him excel in the crease.
Anyway .
He’s hovering over me, his tops of his thighs brushing the insides of mine.
Naked, then.
The worst part is keeping my eyes closed and my body relaxed, because I really just want to fucking stab him. Not really , but… you know.
He pushes my shirt up.
Goosebumps cover my skin, the room chilled from the brief time the window was open. My nipples tighten, but he doesn’t go far enough to expose the cut.
He shifts my panties aside. It seems he still doesn’t give a shit about my period, although he makes no move to pull out my tampon.
There’s one more thing Carter taught me.
He made me practice it on him until I could do it smoothly. And while he allowed that if he’s expecting it, he can resist the motion, I will hopefully take Penn by surprise.
I recall exactly how Carter positioned my hands, the way I need to thrust up with my hips and drag my leg to knock him off-balance. I mentally arrange my limbs, plan out exactly where everything needs to be placed.
One-two-three-GO.
I grab Penn in a flurry of motion and manage to roll us—right off the bed. My surprise is only overshadowed by his.
We land hard on our sides, and I keep the momentum going. He lands on his back, and before he can twist us again, I flip the knife open and press it to his throat. Just under his chin. The bob of his Adam’s apple as he swallows forces his skin into the blade.
It cuts him. A drop of blood rolls down.
“Stop moving,” I snap. “I told you I’d cut your balls off if I saw you tonight.”
He just looks at me. And looks and looks and looks .
“Say something.”
“I’m waiting for you to make good on that.” He leans up, and the blade sinks into his skin more. He lets out a hiss of pain, but he doesn’t back away. “Hmm, princess? A little lower, though.”
“You deserve this.” I push up off his chest and stride to the door, slamming my hand on the light switch. The overhead light flickers on with blinding power.
He just lies there, although he pushes himself up on his elbows.
“You were just about to fuck me while I slept.” I flex my grip on the knife. “After what I just went through? Really?”
He rolls his eyes. “You don’t sleep with your mouth shut.”
Oh, what the fuck?
I glare at him. Belatedly, I notice his boxer briefs.
Asshole took off his jeans but not his underwear?
“You’re cute when you pretend, though. And that was a cool move.” His gaze, practically upside down now with where I’m standing, slides to my hand. “And knife.”
“Carter,” I say.
He makes a noncommittal noise. Sometimes he seems cool with the guy, other times, not so much. And Oliver is definitely not okay with Carter.
Nope. It’s too weird of an hour for this. What I need is liquid courage. Tequila or vodka. But as a twenty-year-old with no connections, I’ve got… instant coffee.
I yank on sweatpants, slipping the blade into my pocket. I hit all the lights in the apartment on the way into the kitchen. There’s a modicum of comfort that comes with banishing the shadows.
He stalks after me, but he’s not as up in my business as usual. I put the kitchen counter between us and click on the coffee machine.
He sits.
I stay standing.
“You understand why I’m pissed at you?” I question. “You saw what was happening to me. I had bruises around my fucking neck.”
“We give you bruises,” he reasons.
“I like those ,” I hiss. “What I don’t like is thinking I’m about to be raped by some stranger. I know you. On some level, I fucking trusted you. What I don’t trust right now is that you or Oliver have my best interests at heart.”
His gaze drops to the counter.
“What hurts the most is that you knew. You held me right after Bear… Hell, you tried to put me back together. And you still watched Oliver bring it all back up to the surface.” I focus on the coffee, putting things in a clinical order in my head. Mug, coffee pod, water. Press the button.
“Sydney…”
“I can’t do any excuses tonight. I just want you to know that for however long that took, I was living in a very real nightmare. And it didn’t stop when Oliver made it clear it was him behind the mask. I still had to look at it. How fucking confusing to see the mask worn by my attacker and?—”
I cut myself off.
I don’t know what Oliver is. I don’t have a fancy label for him. For once, I don’t even have the right words to describe how I feel about him.
He hurts like a bruise I can’t stop touching.
Penn’s gaze lifts. The coffee is done, and I busy myself with sugar and cream. I mix it and hop up onto the counter. There’s a good distance between us—the kitchen plus the island. Eight feet? But the way he looks at me…
He may as well be right in front of me, his breath on my lips.
“You’re absolutely right,” he says. “You’re right. Of course you are. Now that you say it—” He hops off the stool and paces along the island’s length. “He pulled out the masks, and I fucking went along with it. I stood in front of that door and I thought your panic was all part of the game.”
“It wasn’t a game.” I glance away. “Chasing me is one thing. Capturing me and… cutting off my leggings, whatever , is fine. Making me believe the person who might actually kill me has me pinned down is another.”
“I’m sorry,” he whispers.
The lock in my door slides back, drawing both of our attention.
Carter comes in, already tucking his stolen key back in his pocket. His gaze goes to me, and his brows lower. “You good?”
I jerk my head in some semblance of a nod.
Carter closes the door and makes a beeline for me. He seems content to ignore Penn until he gets to my side, leaning against the counter with his hip touching my thigh.
“Oh, you got him.” He smirks and touches his throat. “You’ve got a little blood just here.”
Penn grunts.
“He didn’t think I was asleep.” I sigh. “But the rest worked.”
Carter glances at me. “Was your mouth open?”
I scowl.
Penn cracks a smile.
“So what are we going to do about Oliver?” Carter asks.
Penn’s smile slips away as easily as it appeared. “What are we going to do about him?”
“Oh, I’m sorry.” Carter pushes off the counter and strides around the island. “We talked about this.”
My brows furrow.
“I—”
“You didn’t,” Carter repeats. “After all the shit she’s endured in the past six months? You think terrifying her is worth it ?”
“Carter—”
“You’re worth fucking more than that, dream girl.” His gaze cuts to mine, flashing from angry to soft. “You hear me?”
I hear him, I just don’t necessarily believe him.
He faces Penn again. “If he’s going to go to extremes to traumatize her for his own pleasure, I won’t have it. And you shouldn’t either.”
I miss Carter’s expression, but Penn winces.
I can’t do this.
The last person I want to think about is Oliver Ruiz. The last thing I want to think about is how he deserves some sort of punishment for tormenting me. Penn has tormented me, too, hasn’t he?
They’re both complicit, and I am tired . I’m so fucking tired of this. Every muscle hurts, reliving that fight. The fear that held my body hostage. I ache, and my head pounds, and I don’t want to scheme anymore.
“Both of you just… get out.”
I set the mug down and head for my bedroom. They can let themselves out, but they won’t let themselves in here.
I grab my desk chair—it doesn’t have wheels, which is usually a pain but now convenient—and shove it under the handle of the door. I lock all my windows, fix my blankets. I long for the sort of oblivion that will ease the stabbing pain behind my eyes.
My chest is heaving by the time I crawl into bed, dragging the covers over my head.
Sleep doesn’t come for a long time, yet. But when it claims me, I go with all my lights blazing.