Page 366 of Faking the Goal

"And apparently," he murmurs, "breaking a few bones was the only way I could finally make you take me seriously. Because I'm not losing you again." His thumb traces slowly along my cheekbone. "I'm not letting anybody keep you from me."

His smile widens. "Not your friends."

His thumb moves toward my mouth.

"Not that hockey player."

His gaze locks onto mine.

"And not even you, little kitten."

"You're crazy."

For a second, silence stretches between us.

Then Charlie chuckles, the sound soft and almost affectionate, yet so deeply wrong that a chill skitters down my spine.

"No, baby."

His hand slides around the back of my neck.

"I just love you so fucking much."

Another quiet laugh leaves him—low and breathless and completely unhinged—as he leans closer.

Oh God.

His face comes toward mine, his breath spilling hot against my lips, and the second I realize what he's about to do, every instinct inside me revolts.

I jerk my head sharply to the side.

His mouth misses mine, brushing the edge of my cheek instead.

A few seconds later, my front door bursts open.

"POLICE!" Matthews's voice detonates through the apartment, sharp and thunderous. "HANDS WHERE I CAN SEE THEM!" The words echo back from the walls, from the ceiling, from the inside of my skull, and for a half-beat I'm too stunned to breathe. All I can see is Charlie's hand, the one not pinning my wrists, jerking behind his back like a snake, moving so fast I barely register the glint of metal before he yanks me sideways by the throat.

There's a gun.

He's holding a fucking gun.

He jams the tip of the barrel hard beneath my jaw, forcing my head back and exposing my throat. His grip on my neck turns crushing, a vise that cuts off both breath and blood. I claw at his fingers, stars bursting in my eyes as he wrenches my body in front of his, using me as a shield. The officers shout again—"DROP IT! DROP THE GUN, NOW!"—but Charlie's voice overrides all of them, torn open and raw.

"STOP RIGHT THERE OR I SWEAR TO GOD I'LL BLOW HER FUCKING BRAINS OUT!" The muzzle digs deeper under my chin. My jaw clicks and my teeth snap together, pain radiating up into my skull. I can feel his pulse through the metal—wild, arrhythmic, erratic. His arm shakes with adrenaline or rage or both.

Matthews is closest, gun still drawn but not aimed directly at Charlie. His tone changes in an instant from commanding to coaxing, measured and deliberate.

"Charlie," he says, "I know you don't want to hurt Taylor. You don't want to do this. Let her go, Charlie. We can talk. We can work this out."

"You think I want to fucking hurt her?" His voice spikes, and I feel the vibration of it in the bones of my neck. "You think any of this is my fault? You people—" He spits the word like poison. "You people are the reason she keeps running from me. You ruined everything before, and now you're trying to take her away from me again?"

Matthews takes a slow, careful step forward.

The other officers ripple with tension but hold back, like they've rehearsed this scene in a hundred training exercises. "Nobody is taking Taylor away from you, Charlie. But this isn't the answer." His eyes flick to mine, quick and sharp. "Just put the gun down and talk to me."

"There's nothing to fucking talk about!"

The gun digs harder into my temple, and a sob escapes me before I can swallow it.