Page 53 of Her Puck Daddies

I don’t, not for another twenty minutes, at least. But Sven doesn’t need to know that.

I expected some pushback, but not from him. Of the three, he’s always been the most level-headed and in control.

Yet now, he growls.

I can’t explain why, but when he moves toward me, hand outstretched, something deep inside me misreads the motion.

Dean never hit me. Not once. But his temper was so sharp, so unpredictable, that I lived in constant fear that he might.

And now, with Sven closing in—not even aggressively, just moving—my body reacts before my brain has the chance to catch up. I jerk away too fast, my balance giving out, and suddenly, I’m crashing onto my ass.

Arms flying up to shield my face, I squeeze my eyes shut and yell, “No!”

The room falls into dead silence. The only sound is my rapid and uneven breathing, hovering on the edge of hysteria.

I’m curled in on myself, head down, lungs working overtime, and for a second, I think maybe he has left.

He hasn’t.

When I peek up, he’s still standing in front of me, fingers wrapped around one of my crutches, like he was about to hand it to me. Maybe that’s all he was doing. I don’t know.

But when I meet his eyes, I forget how to breathe entirely.

Hestaring at me, mouth slightly open, eyes wide with horror. His free hand is palm-up, held out like a surrender. Everything about him, his stance, his expression, reminds me of one word.

Stricken.

“Ava,” he whispers, a voice I’ve never heard from him before. Soft, careful. The way you’d speak to a young, frightened child. Or a wild animal backed into a corner.

Embarrassed, heat rushes over me, crawling up from my chest to my scalp.

What the hell am I doing down here?

I try to stand, but the moment I put weight on my ankle, pain zips through me, and I squeak, dropping right back onto my ass.

“Will you let me help you up?” Sven asks, his voice measured.

Since I don’t have much of a choice, I nod and look away. I may never be able to meet his eyes again. I’m such an idiot.

But Sven doesn’t just tug me up by the arm.

He leans my crutch off to the side, then, in one swift motion, drops an arm beneath my knees and another across my back, right where my bra strap rests, lifting me effortlessly and setting me down on my own massage table.

Thespace behind my eyes and nose stings, but I refuse to cry in front of him again. Otherwise, he’ll think I’m too emotional, maybe even someone not worth his time.

But Sven has other ideas. He tips my chin up, waiting for me to meet his gaze.

"I need to ask you something,” he says, voice low, steady. “And I need you to answer me honestly and completely this time. Do you understand?”

His voice is stern, similar to his sex-daddy tone, but far graver. Almost somber. Or maybe angry. But as his thumb glides gently over my cheekbone, I know that anger isn’t meant for me.

“Yes,” I whisper.

He clenches his jaw, his voice low. “Has someone hurt you?”

It’s a simple question, but it locks me in place. I want to shake my head. To scoff and say, of course not. But that wouldn’t be the truth. Not quite.

“Not… Not physically,” I manage to get out, but even as the words leave my mouth, they feel hollow. They don’t explain why I reacted the way I did. If I’m not a victim of some violent psycho, why the hell did I flinch like one? Even I don’t know.