Page 20 of Fractured Heart

Tate hugs me tighter. My ribs barely hurt now, and my tears slowly subside. His arms feel strong and warm and comforting, and I let myself relax against his chest. I even start to snuggle closer when Charles lets out a loud, pointed cough.

I jump away from Tate and spin around to face the Beast. Charles is still barefoot, but instead of those tight, black briefs he was in earlier, he’s wearing a pair of black silk shorts and a silky black t-shirt.

Despite his beastly size and wild beard, I find myself drawn to Charles. When he gives me a pointed once-over, my body floods with heat. He takes in my robe-clad body, and then his gaze drifts up to my matted hair and tear-stained face.

My heart sinks. Charles isn’t checking me out. He’s probably taking in every messy inch before he tells me to get out.

I take an instinctive step closer to Tate and only then notice the items in Charles’s hands. A tablet and a handful of chocolate bars. He sets them down on the counter and then turns to Tate. “Can I talk to you?” he asks. At Tate’s nod, he adds, “Over there?”

Tate hesitates but Charles doesn’t wait for him to make up his mind. He grabs his roommate’s arm and drags him across the living room. They splash their way through the bubble-filled moat, releasing more of the vanilla scent into the air. It would make for a great song, if I felt like singing. Which I don’t. Not after what I’ve done to their beautiful apartment.

I stand there, holding my breath, as Tate and Charles stop next to the couch. Charles scowls and Tate sends me a wink, but I’m too freaked out to respond. I know exactly what will happen next. Charles will tell Tate that I have to go, or worse—that he called campus security or the police.

My heart races as I listen as the deep, beastly timbre of his voice as he starts to speak. He’s too far away for me to overhear, but whatever he says, Tate doesn’t agree. He shakes his head and starts to whisper something in earnest. He sends me a few furtive glances, and I wonder if he’s trying to defend me or if he’s changed his mind and is telling Charles I have to go. Whatever he says, Charles doesn’t agree. His huge hands bunch into fists and he starts to argue with Tate.

The two of them go back and forth for a while and Tate’s expression darkens with each passing second. First, to a frown, and then to a full-blown scowl. He glances at me, and I shrink back as a lump forms in my throat. He’s finally realized the extent of the damage. I’ve destroyed his apartment and he hates me. He really, truly hates me.

I force back tears as Charles suddenly spins around and stalks toward me. My heart hammers in my chest as he takes large, purposeful steps. Instinctively, I retreat, and my back hits the bar. I wince.

Then, Charles is right there, towering over me. Crowding my personal space. Staring at me with a feral look in his eyes. Before I can react, he grabs me around the waist. I barely hold back a scream. Then, my feet leave the ground and my heart nearly explodes out of my chest.

“You alright, Roonie?” Charles asks gently as he sets me down on the barstool.

I nod as the tension slowly seeps out of me. Charles isn’t like Father. He’s not going to hit me. He might ask me to leave, but he wouldn’t physically hurt me.

Charles regards me for several seconds while I hold my breath and wait for him to tell me to leave. He doesn’t. He walks past me and takes the barstool to my left while Tate splashes toward us and takes the seat to my right.

Chapter 11

The two of them crowd me in and I feel like I might faint. I should be focused on the impending conversation. I have to explain that I can’t fix what I’ve done to their apartment. I have to admit I can’t pay for the damage and then Charles will probably announce he called the police.

The stress must be getting to me, because most of my attention flits back and forth between their rock hard chests.

Their shirts cut off at their biceps, showing rippling muscles off to perfection. I’m mere inches away from Charles’s huge, powerful arms and Tate’s perfectly sculpted muscles. They’re so close I can practically feel the heat radiating off them.

My pulse picks up and I shift uncomfortably in my seat. They’re too close. Every movement away from Charles brings me brushing up against Tate, and every movement away from Tate causes my arm to graze Charles’s huge one. No matter which way I go, I end up squished against a very large, very tempting guy.

Then, Charles reaches toward me. I gasp. For a second, I forget to breathe.

“Eat,” he orders, picking up a chocolate bar off the counter.

“What?” My lips part in surprise. I just turned the apartment into a drenched, vanilla scented mess, and instead of sitting me down for a serious conversation, Charles is offering me chocolate?

He doesn’t reply. He takes my hand in his much larger one, flips it over, and places the chocolate bar on my palm. My pulse spikes as he leans in, but he reaches past me to pick up the tablet. He powers it on and starts scrolling. After a few seconds, he tilts the screen so that Tate and I can follow along.

Charles has a menu open, with pictures of various foods. There are large red plus and minus signs next to each dish, and Charles scrolls down until he reaches the dessert.

“What flavor do you like?” he asks gruffly.

“Ice cream?” I whisper. Why are we sitting at the kitchen counter talking about ice cream when the damage to the floor is getting worse with each passing second?

“Great idea, Charles.” Tate smiles like he hasn’t got a care in the world. “Do you like cookie dough, Roonie? How about chocolate?”

I’m too confused to reply. After a few silent seconds, Charles taps the plus signs next to both flavors. “Anything else?”

“Why?” I whisper, trying to put my confusion into words. Then, my stomach growls.

“You’re hungry.” Tate touches my hand gently through my thick robe. “When was the last time you ate?”