Damaged (Boys of Winter 2)

I step into him, a smirk pulling at my lips as I raise my chin and meet his hard stare. “Well,” I say, hating to be the bearer of bad news. “It looks like you failed because every last word I said is true. Your father was planning to rule and corrupt Dynasty, and you missed it.”

Guilt flashes in his eyes and I see the exact second that he decides to trust my word, but after the shit that’s gone down between us over the last few days, neither of us is ready to back down. “You killed my father, Winter,” he says, his voice dropping low as he stares into my eyes. “I couldn’t ignore that.”

My stare doesn’t waver as I raise my chin, letting him see just how far he’s pushed me. “And he killed mine,” I state before pressing my hand into his chest and pushing him backward. “I couldn’t ignore that.”

I take three long strides until Carver steps out of my cell, and keeping my eyes trained heavily on his, I pull the cell door closed between us before reaching through the bars and sliding the lock back into place, letting him see just how much he’s hurt me. I twist the key and pull it out before tossing it far down the hallway and silently watching him.

Pain and regret twist across his handsome features for the slightest second before he rights himself and takes a step back. My heart races, the pain stinging my chest like a hot knife through butter.

Carver watches me for a silent moment, receiving my ‘fuck you to the ends of the earth’ message loud and clear. Things will never get better between us. That connection we once had is gone, the fire quickly sizzling out and leaving us both in ruins.

Then finally releasing me from the intensity of his stare, he drops his gaze and walks away, leaving nothing but a broken and shattered mess behind.

CHAPTER 7

Four days. Four nights.

I don’t know how much more of this I can take. I think I’ve slept a total of eight hours since first being locked up and my brain is beginning to sizzle. I can’t deny that the conditions are much better than the ones in Sam’s cell, but if I have to stay any longer, I’m going to start questioning myself.

Sam’s cell put me through physical torture. The constant sound of dripping water and the cold, damp floors mixed with the sound of girls screaming. Dynasty’s cells are different. This is mental torture. I’m alone with nothing but my own demons to keep me company, and trust me, they’re not friendly. Right now, I’m starting to think this is much, much worse.

I walk up and down my cell, my body itching to get out of here, itching to walk further than five steps at a time. I’d do anything just to be able to run, to go back up to the normal world above and ride my Ducati through the streets for hours on end.

I hate it here, but maybe I truly deserve this. Maybe after killing Kurt and Royston, this is exactly where I’m supposed to be. This is karma catching up to me.

My ass drops heavily onto the small bed and I pull my knees up into my chest as my back leans against the cold concrete wall. I’ve never felt so hopeless in my life. I’d give anything just to feel the warmth of the sun brushing against my skin and the soft breeze blowing through my hair. I want to be able to feel the boys’ touch on my body with the softness of a big bed beneath me, not these stupid metal bars holding me back. But most of all, I want to feel Carver’s skin underneath my fist as I beat the living shit out of him. That’ll never happen. Dynasty will never let me out of here.

Is this what depression feels like? I don’t think I’ve ever felt so dejected.

The familiar sound of someone walking down the hallway fills my cell and a small victory pulses through me. I love when the guys come to sit with me; it’s my favorite part of the day. They’ve been amazing through all of this, always staying as long as they can so I’m not suffering here by myself. Cruz even brought me a ball to keep me occupied. I’m pretty sure his intentions were for me to throw it against the wall and catch it on the rebound then repeat the process a million times more, but I can’t say that I’ve done that once. Instead, I tore the little ball to shreds and used it to funnel my anger. It was therapeutic, but like most good things, they always come to an end. The ball lasted for two hours and my fingers were aching afterward, but it left me feeling accomplished—plus it was a good time waster.