14. Stone
STONE
There’s something in me that just can’t leave it alone.
I pace my room, which feels like all the air has been sucked out of it. I can’t tell if it’s because of what Evan revealed or simply because it’s empty.
My gaze drops to the corner where Wren had made her little nest the first night.
The blankets and pillows are gone, her nest relocated to under the fucking stairs.
I hate that she’s down there. I hate that she’s still in this fucking house, but I hate more that she left this room and abandoned me to my own thoughts.
Because I’m battling guilt, too. Over posting that photo, of alerting her apparently psychotic drug-dealing father to her whereabouts, to potentially bringing back nightmares.
Evan didn’t say that, per se. He came pretty damn close, though. He did insinuate that I was the current bane of his existence for hurting Wren. Which is…fair. I’d be more worried about that if I didn’t know he’ll get over it in a day or two. Life will go on.
Besides, it’s not like Wren’s dad is going to hurt her from behind bars. He’s a dangerous guy—surely there’s due process for shit like that. The prison is supposed to monitor contact. So while he can call her, there’s a simple solution: block the number and move on.
My mind keeps drifting back to Wren, though. Stupid fucking Wren with her soft, dark hair and big hazel eyes. Her tiny body wrapped up in my arms, not anyone else’s.
Wait .
No, she’s never been in my arms. It doesn’t even count when I ripped her away from Archer or when she crashed into my chest after I snuck up on her. And the way she brushed against me in the doorway, as she ran for her new little safe haven, has put permanent goosebumps on my arms.
Fuck Wren Davis.
My anger, an uncontainable restlessness, drives me back out my bedroom door and down the stairs.
Evan is long gone. The rest of the guys are asleep.
The house is so silent, my footsteps sound loud to my ears. I go to the kitchen and open the fridge door, scanning the shelves. While I’d love to guzzle a beer and pray for it to put me to sleep, I opt for a bottle of water.
It’s the safer choice, seeing as how we’re moving to a two-a-day practice schedule.
Our first preseason game is this week, and Coach seems…well, maybe worried is the wrong word. But concerned?
I’m not the only new guy on the team. It seems like there’s been a massive transition in the past year or two, an outflux of the talented players Coach relied on, and an influx of…us. The new guys.
While I’m determined to prove I’m worthy of starting, while I relentlessly chased this school for this coach and this team, not everyone feels the same way. Hockey is my blood. But to some, it’s a hobby.
There’s no time for anyone to half-ass this season.
I close the fridge and sit on one of the stools. The water is halfway to my mouth when a loud noise doesn’t just break the silence—it fucking decimates it. I start, dropping the bottle.
Water flows out of it onto the counter, running off the edges and hitting the floor in little streams.
“Shit,” I mutter. I right the bottle and sop up the mess with the hem of my shirt. There are no fucking kitchen towels, and one measly square of paper towel proves… ineffective . I tear off my shirt and use it to soak up the rest of the water on the floor before I register the noise.
It was a scream.
I tilt my head, waiting for…
Well, I don’t know.
Some sort of reaction from the rest of the house?
“No! GET OFF ME! ”
Fuck.
I rush toward Wren’s little closet, pausing only for the briefest of moments before I yank open the door. It’s a swath of darkness and shadow. I flick on the hall light, and it illuminates enough of the tiny space to see her.
She’s writhing on the makeshift bed, which is nothing more than a few blankets on the floor—which alone gives me another twinge of guilt. Her eyes are screwed up tight, her whole body tense. She jerks like she’s trying and failing to escape someone.
I glance over my shoulder, waiting for the telltale sign of Evan running to Wren’s rescue. Hoping for it, more like.
No such luck .
Her mouth opens. A yawning, wide stretch of teeth and tongue and gums, all pink and white and exceptionally ordinary…
Except, it’s not.
And for some reason, I duck into the closet-room instead of backing away and waiting for someone else to deal with this. With her.
Someone much more qualified. Someone who gives a shit about what happens to her.
The door closes behind me, putting us in total darkness. Yet, when I drop to my knees and reach for her, it isn’t hard at all to find her shoulders. To haul her upright and shake her slightly, even as the scream bubbles out of her.
It’s loud. Bloodcurdling.
I slap my hand over her mouth, muffling the sound, and reach for the lamp with my other hand. That, I fumble with. It takes a moment for the light to click on, and I squint against the burning illumination. Then, I focus back on Wren.
“Wake up,” I urge, peeling my fingers from her face and cupping the back of her neck. “Wren, wake up .”
She does.
Violently.
She hits me in the chest, knocking me back into the door. It must’ve latched, because it doesn’t move under my weight. And her eyes are wild, her hands patting down her body. She touches her face, runs her hands over her cheeks and lips and nose.
Her breathing is coming in short bursts, and her eyes remain unfocused.
I crawl closer until I can grab her hand.
“Wren, stop.”
“Can’t. Breathe.”
“I know. It’s okay, just slow it down.”
She shakes her head, her hair swinging around her shoulders. She looks like she’s still caught up in the nightmare.
I realize two things at once.
If she continues like this, she’s going to pass out.
And…Evan is going to murder me either way.
So I grab her face and yank her forward, slamming my lips to hers.
I’ve kissed girls before. But tell me why my breathing stops as soon as our mouths are on each other?
Tell me why my heart fucking skips?
And most of all, tell me why Wren Davis kisses me back?
I lean into her, our mouths opening and tongues tangling. She tastes sweet, a faint remnant of sugar on her lips. Her hands creep up to my biceps, gripping me so tightly her nails cut into my skin. And her moan goes straight to my dick.
I nip her lower lip.
The little bit of pain breaks the spell, and she jerks away from me.
We’re both breathing hard. She tucks her hair behind her cheeks, wide-eyed and confused. Gone is the cocky girl who drives me nuts. In her place is a version of her that isn’t so… guarded . For just a moment, I can see who she’d be if she hadn’t gone through the childhood she had.
But she’s Wren, and I’m me, and as soon as she registers that, the walls slam back down.
“What the fuck are you doing?” she hisses.
I swallow. “You were screaming.”
“Because of you .”
“I don’t believe you.” My voice is low.
Her eyes inexplicably well with tears, and she twists sharply on her pallet of blankets away from me. She faces the wall, her shoulders so high they’re almost touching her ears.
“Go away,” she orders.
“Wren—”
“Go. Away .”
I don’t believe a single thing Wren Davis has ever said. And I don’t believe this either. I reach out and grip her shoulder, pulling her back around. But the expression on her face—pure, devastating fury—has me releasing her just as fast.
“Fine,” I spit out. My pride is more hurt than anything. “Stay in your little closet until the sun comes up. Hide from everyone—”
“I’m not hiding,” she whispers raggedly. “I just don’t want anything to do with you.”
“Feeling’s mutual,” I snap.
I jump to my feet and slip out of the room, slamming the door shut behind me. I make it all the way to my room before I lose my shit. I have a silent freak-out for ten seconds, then I wrangle myself back under control.
Kissing the enemy is not allowed under any circumstances.
Even if the enemy is having a nightmare. Or hyperventilating. Or looking at me with those big, panicked eyes…
I flop on my bed and cover my face with my hands.
Why was my first impulse…? Why did I have to kiss her?
I could’ve slapped her, that might’ve done the same fucking thing.
But with way less heat . I can still feel the ghost of her on my lips, the little breathy noise she made, the way she started backward when it seemed to register who she was making out with.
We used tongue.
That’s going to keep me fucked up for a long time.
I roll on my side and turn off my lamp.
The only solution to this is to go radio silent.
Or, as I overheard my step-monster whispering one night, stone-cold .
She hated when I froze her out—which I did often.
I hated her. I wanted her gone. She wasn’t a replacement for my mother, not even close .
But she sure did try. So she got the cold shoulder, the icy, cutting remarks, and then…
well, then I left for hockey camp. And that turned into hockey during the school year, which turned into the draft.
One more year of playing college hockey, and then I join the New York Guardians.
After tonight, I’m so fucking ready to get out of here.