Page 15 of Broken Hearts

Later, I wander into the kitchen and then back to my room, lost in the relaxing evening. But then, suddenly, I’m encircled from behind. I don’t need to see to know it’s him. His scent, once a source of joy and comfort, now only brings hate and distress.

“You tell my friends I’m a predator.” Cole’s voice is a low growl in my ear.

“Case in point, Cole Westbrook. You just broke into my place, and you’re holding me against my will,” I retort, my voice steady despite the fear.

“Well, since you’re making me out to be a predator, maybe I should act like one.” His words send a shiver down my spine as he licks up my neck and catches my earlobe between his teeth, a gesture once beloved, now reviled.

“Lie as much as you want, but you know what they say. We never forget our first, and I was your first everything. Your first kiss, your first touch, your first orgasm… Tell me, Angel, if I slip my hand in your cotton panties, will I find the welcoming wetness I used to get drunk on?” His voice is a lustful whisper.

I hate myself for the memories his words evoke and more so for the involuntary response of my body. I stand rigid, a statue of contained fury.

“Evangeline to you,” I correct him, my voice ice cold. His use of “Angel” makes my scar throb painfully. “Yes, you were my first. My first regret, my first heartbreak, my first mistake.”

“What would your friends say if I told them you have my number tattooed on your lower back, huh? Number ‘9’ forever, isn’t it? Your favorite striker,” he taunts.

“Then they will know you’re lying. I have no number ‘9’ tattoo.”

His grip tightens around my waist, a sign I need to distract him, to lull him into a false sense of security. I lean my head forward, resting my chin on my chest, feeling his fingers at the back of my pajama pants. As he pulls them down, he discovers the truth—the butterfly tattoo that has replaced his number. Feeling his thumb trace its outline, a surge of warmth floods through me, a reminder of the pleasure his hands once brought, pushing away the memories of hurt from his past actions.

At that moment, I remember my training. Size can be deceptive. The human body has weak points, regardless of size. My aim is to exploit them. I strike quickly and fiercely, slamming my head back with full force. Despite the sharp pain at the back of my skull, the satisfaction of hearing his groan and the sound of something cracking is immensely gratifying.

He releases his hold, and I take a few steps away, grabbing the golf club I keep under my bed for protection.

I clutch the club tighter, ready to defend myself further if needed. His eyes meet mine, searching for something, maybe an understanding or a hint of the old me. But that girl is long gone.

“Are you happy now? Are we even?” he spits out, his voice laced with a bitter edge as blood trickles down his nose.

“Even?” I echo with incredulity. How could he possibly think anything between us could be squared away so simply? “You think this is about getting even?”

His glare hardens. “I stood you up at prom; you stood me up tonight. Seems fair.”

A hollow, disbelieving laugh escapes me. It’s absurd, almost pitiful, that he would reduce everything to such petty equivalences. “You think I’m mad about prom?” My laughter grows, tears streaming down my face, not from joy but from the sheer ridiculousness of his notion. “The prom is the least of it! I couldn’t care less about that night or you, for that matter. I would take a thousand prom pranks over—”

Stopping myself, I realize the futility of explaining. He wouldn’t understand, not really. He’s too caught up in his own narrative to see the depth of the damage he’s caused.

I grab my phone from the nightstand, my hands shaking. “Leave now, or I’m calling campus security.” My voice is firm, leaving no room for negotiation.

He stands there for a moment as if weighing his options, then with a sneer, he turns and strides out of my room. His parting words, “We’re not done,” hang in the air like a threat. I stand firm and unyielding, my stance trying to project intimidation.

As I hear the door close behind him, I’m left with a short-lived triumph and a deep, unsettling realization. This isn’t over, not by a long shot. Cole Westbrook is persistent, but so am I. In this twisted game, I’m no longer a piece to be moved at his will. I’m a player in my own right, and I’ll fight with everything I have.

I stand there, gripping the golf club tightly, my heart racing with adrenaline and fear. His retreat is a temporary relief, but the air still feels heavy, tainted by his presence. Lowering the club, my arms trembling, I let out a long, slow breath. The room is silent now, but the echoes of our confrontation hang thickly in the air.

In this stillness, my mind drifts back to a different time, a memory etched deep within me. It was after the first time we made love. The intensity of our connection had overwhelmed me, and in a moment of impulsive passion, I decided to get a tattoo—his number, number nine, a symbol of my love for him.

I remember walking into the tattoo parlor, my heart pounding with excitement and nervousness. The buzzing sound of the tattoo machine was intimidating, yet there was a thrill in the air that I couldn’t deny. I was shy as I explained what I wanted. The tattoo artist gave me an understanding smile and guided me through the process.

A couple of days later, when the tattoo had started to heal, I remember how my heart fluttered with anticipation as I prepared to show him. I was in my room when he came in, his presence filling the space with an electric charge. I hesitated for a moment, unsure of how he’d react. Gathering my courage, I turned and lifted my shirt and pulled down my skirt just enough to reveal the small tattoo on my lower back.

His reaction was immediate. His eyes widened, and a look of alpha male pride washed over his face. He strode over to me, his steps sure and domineering. “You did this for me?” he asked, his voice a low rumble filled with awe and a hint of possessiveness.

I nodded, feeling a blush creep up my cheeks. “I wanted something to remember how I feel about you,” I admitted, my voice barely above a whisper.

Cole traced the tattoo with his finger, the touch sending shivers down my spine. “This means you’re mine, Eva. Only mine,” he said, his eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that left me breathless.

“I am,” I whispered back, and at that moment, I believed it. I was his, completely and irrevocably.

Because now, standing alone in my room with the ghost of that memory, I feel a pang of sorrow for the naive girl I was. The tattoo, once a symbol of undying love, has become a mark of my greatest regret. I had it covered with a butterfly, a sign of transformation and new beginnings, but the memory of what it once was still lingers.

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