Page 13 of Fractured Heart

“Roonie!” Tate suddenly grabs my hand and tugs me to the left, sending waves of pain through my ribs.

“Why did…oh.” I trail off when I see the rosebush I was about to walk into. “Thanks, Tate.”

He chuckles and doesn’t let go of my hand. His large palm envelops mine, his grip strong yet gentle. My heart rate accelerates, and I tilt my head to look up at him. Tate’s tall frame cuts a regal figure in the moonlight and his eyes drift to my lips. When he slows to a stop, I do too. Caught up in the moment, I start to lean toward him, and Tate yanks his hand away from mine.

“I have two roommates,” he says, stepping back until there’s an arm’s length between us.

“You have two roommates?” I repeat in confusion. Why is he suddenly acting like I’ve been struck by an evil curse? It’s like he can’t get away from me fast enough.

“We share one of the campus apartments. I just thought you should know.” Tate continues to back away. Any further, and he’ll end up in walking into the same rose bushes he just rescued me from.

“Tate…” I raise a hand to warn him.

“I’ll sleep on the couch,” he interrupts. “You can have my room.”

I flush as his meaning finally sinks in. Tate saw that I was going to kiss him and he’s trying to make it clear that he’s not interested. Going by the wide-eyed look on his face and how close he is to that rose bush, he’s clearly horrified by the idea.

“Tate, I—”

“I know,” he interrupts, though I’m not sure what it is he knows? That I’m into him? That I was about to kiss him? That I’m a mess and no guy could ever want me?

“I’m so sorry.” For all those things. I should have known a guy like Tate wouldn’t be interested in me.

“Hey, don’t apologize, Roonie. You’ve been through a lot. I would never take advantage of that.” He rubs the back of his neck and gives me a tentative smile. “We should get going. My apartment’s just this way.”

He takes the lead, but this time he keeps a healthy distance between us. I’m almost too embarrassed to follow, but I don’t have anywhere else to go.

When we approach a three-story building, he stops in front of a large, wooden door and pulls out a key card from the pocket of his jogging pants. “After you,” he says, unlocking the door and holding it open.

We enter the elevator and Tate pushes the button for the third floor. I can’t help but notice how well-formed his hands are, elegant and strong. His cheeks dimple when he turns to smile at me and my breath hitches in my throat. My body doesn’t seem to care that Tate’s not attracted to me, but my brain knows better. I can’t let myself hope that this Prince Charming could ever be mine. Not even for a second.

I’ve had my fairy tale, my princely rescue from the moonlit forest, and that is all I can ever hope for. A guy like Tate would never be interested in a mess like me. He’s made that clear. I’m lucky he’s even letting me stay the night, but by this time tomorrow, I’ll be out of his way.

Chapter 7

When we walk into Tate’s dorm room, I freeze in the doorway and stare. I’d expected a small, messy room with pizza boxes, takeout containers, and clothes strewn everywhere. This place…it belongs on the cover of a magazine.

The suite is massive. It’s even bigger than the entire house I share—shared—with Father. It’s also spotless, something I’ve never mastered, no matter how long I’ve spent cleaning.

There isn’t a single stain or speck of dust on the gorgeous white carpet or the crystal lamps. They shed light on the huge white couch that’s almost directly in front of the door; a couch currently occupied by a giant beast of a man.

With a squeak, I take a terrified step back and slam painfully into Tate’s chest. He steadies me and my cheeks heat as I quickly step away.

I refocus my attention on the huge, sleeping beast and barely contain a whimper. He’s at least a head taller than Tate and made of sheer muscle. His beard is wild, almost feral. There’s also something dark and foreboding about his clothes: black dress pants that stretch across huge, muscular thighs, a black, button-up shirt that barely fits over bulging muscles, and large—scratch that—gigantic black dress-shoes.

Then, my gaze lands on the book propped open on the Beast’s chest, and I gape in horror. I recognize it immediately—it’s Grimm’s Fairy Tales. Any fairy tale usually makes me squeal with joy, but not this book.

I take one look at the illustration on the front cover and tense with disgust. It is a sickeningly graphic image from Grimm’s repulsive version of Cinderella. In this one, she doesn’t drive off with the prince in a pumpkin-shaped carriage. Instead, her ugly step-sisters get their eyes pecked out by birds. On the cover, blood oozes from their eye sockets, the gruesomeness surpassed only by their mangled feet.

I’m familiar with this original story and the part where the stepsisters cut off their toes and heels so they’d fit in the glass slipper. I hate it. Fairy tales are supposed to be happy. In a fairy tale, the glass slipper fits, chirping birds help princesses dress, and the Beast’s exterior hides a warm, kind heart. What kind of person finds comfort in the darkness of such gory tales?

The Beast shifts and the heavy tome slips off his chest and onto the floor, startling him awake. He looks around in surprise and eyes as dark as crows lock on mine. They’re wild, like a predator’s tracking his prey. Whereas Tate’s gaze fills me with happiness and longing, the Beast sets my heart racing.

His eyes rove down my body, almost as if he’s stripping me, inch by mud-caked inch. Wherever he looks, a flood of heat follows, and my heart beats erratically in my chest. Then, his gaze lands on the gaping hole at my knee, and I flush with embarrassment.

“Roonie, this is Charlie.” Tate places a warm, strong hand on my shoulder. “Charlie, Roonie.”

I open my mouth, but Charlie’s glare dries my throat right up. When Tate mentioned having roommates, I didn’t give them much thought. I definitely never considered one of them might look like this.