Dream Chaser (Dream Team, #2)(70)

But I got my wrists captured, a man on me and my arms pressed to the bed at the sides of my head.

I was about to open my mouth and scream, terror racing through me not only about what might be about to befall me, but also, if whoever this was got to me, what had become of Axl, when I heard Boone whisper, “Chill, baby. It’s me.”

I went stiff.

Then I went lax.

And when I did and Boone’s hold on my wrists relaxed, the last three days hit me like a freight train, and I totally forgot my promise to take a moment and think about my reaction before I reacted.

I yanked my hands from his grip, lifted a knee high, and would have connected with this junk if he didn’t shift his hips so quickly.

“Christ, Ryn,” he bit off.

I made no verbal reply.

Commence massive wrestling match on my bed with me really going at it and Boone not. Instead he was trying to stop me from doing him harm, or the same to myself.

He did not succeed, since we rolled off the bed with me on my back and Boone’s entire weight landing on me.

I let out an “Oof” when my breath left me.

Boone instantly rolled so I was on top and not taking his weight.

I got my breath back and went at him again.

He knifed up to sitting, and with some difficulty (I could say proudly), he eventually got control of my wrists and yanked them behind my back.

This putting me in the position of straddling him with my chest pressed tight to his and my wrists bound behind me, which was sexy as fuck.

I wasn’t feeling sexy.

I was feeling raw, vulnerable, scared, sad and hopeless.

“Ryn, Jesus, what the fuck?” Boone clipped.

He was there and I had a feeling I knew why he was there in the middle of the night.

You didn’t wake up some chick to officially break up with them in the middle of the night.

I didn’t suspect he was there to get himself some either.

I suspected he was there because my last text ended us, and suddenly, after three days, he wasn’t down with that.

And Boone was the kind of guy who felt perfectly okay with waking a woman up in the middle of the night and scaring the crap out of her to communicate that.

Many women would think this was sweet and romantic (after they got over having the crap scared out of them, of course).

But me?

I was done.

“Let me go and get out of my house,” I returned, my voice cold as snow.

I felt his hands tense on my skin, then his body get loose under me, before he whispered gently, “Baby.”

“I’m serious, Boone.” I jerked at my wrists ineffectually, and then gave that up, but didn’t stop talking. “Let me go and get out.”

“Ryn, take a breath, yeah?”

I couldn’t.

I’d thought we were done.

I’d cried myself to sleep.

Cried myself to sleep.

Me!

And this time, they were not stressy tears.

They were the real enchilada.

Heartbreak tears.

I could feel it then, the results of that jag, my eyes scratchy and puffy.

I could feel something else.

My nose felt funny, my throat too.

Shit, it was going to happen again.

I turned my head away, even though it was dark, and he probably couldn’t see much of me, because I couldn’t see much of him, but I couldn’t hide my voice being husky when I said, “Please, Boone, just go.”

“I’ve been a dick,” he replied, his voice soft and filled with remorse.

Yeah.

He had.

And this was exactly what I was trying to avoid by not going there with him.

But no.

He’d talked me into it.

And what?

We’d had a couple of days?

And then he broke me.

Not once…

For years…

After my dad broke me…

Had a man broken me.

But Boone?

A couple of days and he’d broken me.

I decided not to speak anymore and maybe if I just absented myself (without, obviously, absenting myself since I was astride him and he had a lock on me), he’d get my message and leave.

He did not.

He transferred my wrists to one hand, slid the other in my hair and urged, “Sweetheart, look at me.”

I continued to look away and pretend, no matter how ridiculous it was, that he wasn’t there, but I did it breathing heavily through my nose.

“Ryn, fuck,” he bit out. Then back to soft and sweet, “I’m sorry, baby.”

I kept breathing through my nose, his apology getting to me, just a little bit, I could feel the prickle of it pushing through, and it gave me hope.

Hope I could not have.

We couldn’t do this.

We were both way too fucked up.

He was also too proud.

And I was too volatile.

We didn’t work.

“I fucked up going to Smithie,” he whispered, stroking the back of my neck under my hair with his knuckles, something I felt not only there, but also over my scalp and down my spine, and all of that was good, which meant all of it I was attempting to ignore. “I fucked up, getting pissed and walking out. I fucked up getting my pride stung and leaving it too long, coming back.”

“Yeah, you did,” I confirmed through sharp breaths. “But it gave me a chance to think and while I was thinking, I came up with the fact that we don’t work.”