Page 63 of Boots & Scars

I got back in my car and drove to the rink, my mind racing the entire time. I couldn't believe what had just happened. I had never lost control like that before. Not even with Matthews. But seeing Zach, knowing what he had done to Everly, had pushed me over the edge.

I pulled into the parking lot and sat there for a moment, trying to compose myself. I took a deep breath, trying to push the anger aside.

I could have killed him.

I could have killed Zach.

I would have too. And I would have slept like a baby, knowing he couldn't hurt her again.

I looked down at my hands, bloodied and broken. Was this what Ashley saw after what I did to Matthews? A monster, out of control? A monster who would one day turn these hands on her? Was that why she ran?

And what would Everly do when she found out what I had done? Would she run too?

Maybe she should.

Maybe that was for the best.

Because right now, I couldn't. I'd stay by her side until she pushed me away. And I knew, deep down, the day would come.

But it hadn't yet.

19

Everly

Cooper returned, his hands bloodied and bruised. The sight of them sent a chill down my spine. We locked eyes, and I swallowed hard.

"What happened?" I asked, my voice barely a whisper.

"I think you know," he replied, his tone carrying a weight I couldn't ignore.

He stood there, waiting. Something unspoken passed between us, an understanding. I moved closer and took his hand in mine. The roughness of his skin contrasted with the tenderness I tried to convey.

"What are you doing?" His question came out more as a statement of confusion than curiosity.

"Your hands are hurt," I stated the obvious. "We need to clean your cuts and get some ice on the swelling."

"Killer," he muttered, almost as if surprised by my concern.

"Come on," I urged, keeping a gentle hold on his hand and leading him into the kitchen. The fluorescent light buzzedoverhead as we walked in, casting a harsh glow on the reality of his injuries.

I grabbed a clean dish towel and ran it under cold water, squeezing out the excess before wrapping it around his knuckles. The redness of his blood seeped through the fabric almost instantly. He winced but didn't pull away.

"Hold this," I instructed, pressing the towel firmly against his hand. "I'll get the first aid kit."

He stood silently as I rummaged through the cabinet. The white box with its red cross felt heavier than usual as I brought it to the table and opened it up. Antiseptic wipes, bandages, gauze—everything we'd need to patch him up.

"Sit," I said, pointing to a chair. "Please."

Cooper lowered himself into it, his gaze never leaving my face. I knelt beside him and began cleaning his wounds with careful precision. Each touch drew a sharp intake of breath from him, but he stayed still.

"You don't have to do this," he said after a while, breaking the silence that had settled over us like a heavy fog.

"Of course I do," I replied softly. "Someone has to."

We continued in silence after that, my hands working methodically while his remained steady despite the pain. The air between us felt charged with something unspoken yet deeply understood.

Finally, with his cuts cleaned and bandaged, I looked up at him. His eyes softened for just a moment before returning to their usual guarded state.

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