Page 53 of Scarred Angel

Kid?

Did he just call me a fucking kid?

The same word he used for Matteo. That bastard. I’ll kill him.

“I think you need this.” Madden slides a glass of water my way, trying to hide his grin.

With a tight smile, I dab my mouth with a napkin.

“You okay?” Maksim asks. The audacity.

I hack up another cough and force saliva down my throat. “Fine,” I grit out.

His eyes narrow, brows knitting together like he's completely clueless. And maybe that’s why it hurts. That he doesn’t even realize how he's managed to cheapen the connection I thought we had, the ground we've gained with just one careless, fucking word. I’m not just fuming. I’m...sad. Maybe I am delusional like Matteo.

Twenty-One

VALENTINA

UNKNOWN: Another forfeit? Didn’t take you for the type. Don’t worry, we’ll save you a seat on the sidelines.

Balterra. Of course. That dick. His number’s blocked, but he’s the only one petty enough—and dumb enough—to play FBI, track me down, and text me this garbage.

I shove my phone back into my pocket. I’m not giving him the satisfaction, not lowering myself to his cheap power plays. I’ve got nothing to prove to him or anyone.

At least, that’s what I tell myself.

Because as much as I want to brush it off, I can’t. His words stick and dig under my skin. Between Maksim, my dad, and now this, I swear I might actually scream.

Maybe I’m blowing it out of proportion. Maybe my problems aren’t as heavy as they feel in the moment. But right now, everything just feelsfucked.

I limp past the hallway mirror and stop, glaring at my cast like it’s mocking me.

“Two more fucking weeks,” I mutter, letting the crutches clatter to the floor as I balance on my good leg. “Too long.”

I miss the rush. The thrill of winning. Hell, even showering without turning it into a whole production. But most of all, I miss my car—Poison Ivy. I need her. Need to lose myself in the speed, to burn all this shit off.

Instead, I’m stuck here, spinning out in my own head. Even Cole’s ghost won’t quit bouncing around in the back of my thoughts, haunting me when he shouldn’t matter at all. And he doesn’t. But the audacity of what he did, and who he did it with, still gnaws at me.

“You probably shouldn’t risk falling.”

I’m too pissed to feel the usual flutters Maksim’s presence stirs up.

“I’m fine,” I snap, harsher than I mean to, and regret it the second I catch his reflection, brows drawn together. “I’m sorry.” The apology slips out, but it’s just as tight.

I hate this, hate being treated like I’m fragile. That’s not how I want to be seen. Not by him. Not when he was raised by one of the strongest women I know.

“Something you want to talk about?”

I exhale hard. “Don’t do that.”

His eyes crease as he steps closer, but I don’t turn around.

“Do what?”

“First that shit you said at the table. Now you’re treating me like?—”

“Like you’re still in a cast.”