Page 66 of Emmett

I can’t breathe.

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

Nash throws his shoulders up in a shrug, dropping his foot onto the floor as he smoothes the front of his suit. “I told you before – all you are is pretty. A good fuck, too, but let’s be honest with each other, kid,” he tells me. “All I had to do was dangle the carrot in front of you, a little bit of the affection that you were so desperate for, and you glommed onto me like a parasite.”

A parasite?

“Nash, I—”

“You can go,” he says.

“What iswrongwith you?” I gape.

He reaches for my throat, wrapping his hand around it and squeezing so hard that I choke and wheeze on the air that can’t come through to my lungs, my fist pounding against his forearm. A tear rolls from my eye as Nash uses his grip on my windpipe to drag me closer to him, pressing my nose against his, and his eyes burn into mine with nothing short of hatred.

“Get out of my house,” he growls, shoving me backward, and I stumble, catching myself just before I fall.

“Fuck you,” I choke out, grasping at my aching throat.

I leave the room in a daze, dragging myself down the long hall toward the exit of the building. I can’t remember if I brought a jacket with me; or my wallet or my shoes or…

I’m on the front lawn before I even realize it, headed for my car while rage and hurt boil underneath my skin.

“Fuck!” Slamming the door shut behind me as I climb into my car, I curl my hand into a fist and slam it over and over again into the dashboard, leaving dents in the material.

I ignore the pain searing across my knuckles and the tears that I can feel hot on my cheeks, and I continue to pound my fist against the hard interior until my skin cracks apart, leaving blood splattered behind on the damaged vinyl with each subsequent impact.

“God damnit!”

Scrubbing a hand through my hair with a heavy breath, I put the car into drive and peel away from the property so fast that my tires squeal and clouds of smoke billow up from behind me.

•

The front door opens with Rowan standing behind it, clutching a robe tightly around her middle, and her eyes squint against the glare of the security light above the door.

“Sorry,” I tell her with a shaking voice. “I couldn’t get my key in the—”

“What’s wrong?” It’s way too fucking late to be here. When I left Nash, it was after midnight; they were all probably dead asleep in there. I shouldn’t have come. Her eyes move from my neck to my bloodied hand and her brows stitch together. “Oh my god.”

Pulling me into the house, she shoves me toward the nearest bathroom and sits me down on the lid of the toilet.

“Did you get in a fight?” She asks, rifling through the cabinet beneath the sink until she pulls out a first aid kit, and Iquietly chuckle to myself. She has a first aid kit. She’s such a mom.

“With my dashboard,” I explain while she grabs my head, moving it around to check for injuries. “I don’t need any doctoring. I just— I’m fine.”

“That’s not something a ‘fine’ person does.” She pops open the lid of the kit, pulling out an antiseptic wipe, and she dabs it against my knuckles, making me hiss as the sting bites at my broken skin. “Did someonechokeyou?”

A tube of ointment comes next, and she silently uses a q-tip to gently dab it over the wounds; a welcome break from the burn of the alcohol. I can tell by the way that she’s holding my hand that she’s pissed, and justifiably worried, but I’m not about to say something to her about it. Instead, I just go along with it while she wraps a bandage around my knuckles.

“You don’t have to tell me,” she finally says, trying to hide the concern in her voice. “But you need to tell someone.”

“I know.”

“I can go get Colt, if you—”

“No,” I cut her off, pulling my hand away from her. “No, don’t get him.”

“Emmett…”