Page 160 of The Pucking Wrong Man

I was stuck in place, unable to move.

I couldn't do it. Not now that I had Camden.

Anger flashed across his face. “Sorry, I should have said that differently. Let’s fucking go.” The genteel tone dropped, replaced by the one I was used to when I didn’t give him what he wanted. “Fight me on this, and I’ll release those fucking photos. Everywhere. See how much that NHL star wants you when the whole world can see your pussy, and he finds out how much you like to show it off.”

My shoulders fell. Camden had been so upset just on the notion that I was interviewing at a strip club. How would he feel when the whole world saw me naked?

Disgusted, obviously.

Trust me. I could hear his voice in my head saying that over and over again.

But in this case, it wasn’t about not trusting him. It was about not tainting him. I didn’t want him to have anything to do with Michael Carver.

He was way too good for him.

“Move,” he hissed, pushing me toward the exit behind me.

One problem with that, though—my phone was still in my locker. Camden would freak out when I didn’t text him and didn’t come outside after class.

“I need to grab my phone.”

Michael snorted. “Like I’m going to give you a chance to let fancy pants know there’s been a change of plans today. Get fucking moving. I’m getting annoyed, Ana, and you know what happens when I get like this.”

I did. Oh, I did. One time, he’d stabbed me with a fire poker just because he decided he didn’t like the sound of my voice—I hadn’t even been talking. Another time, he’d put his hands around my neck and choked me until I passed out.

There were a million stories in my back pocket like that.

The ride to his childhood house felt like a nightmare, every familiar landmark like a monster waiting to pounce. As we pulled into the Carver’s driveway, its familiar worn bricks and perfectly landscaped lawn sent waves of nausea through me. Mrs. Carver even had pink roses blooming this year.

The same roses that Michael used to pick for me, placing them in my hand and making me squeeze the thorny stems until I bled.

“Home sweet home,” Michael cooed, shooting me a grin that didn’t reach his eyes.

His hand pressed against my back as we walked up the sidewalk to the front door. It felt like a death sentence.

“Hello, Anastasia,” Mrs. Carver said when she opened the door, staring at me with the same lifeless eyes she’d had the entire time I was growing up. The house smelled the same, a mix of Pine-Sol and stale air. It made me want to run, but Michael’s fingers dug into my skin, pushing me across the living room to the dining table that was already set.

“Look who decided to join us,” Mrs. Carver said to her husband, her tone icy.

Mr. Carver sat at the head of the table, his stern face etched with permanent disapproval as he cast me a disinterested glance, eyes cold and calculating behind his glasses. Mrs. Carver settled herself rigidly onto the seat beside him, a tight-lipped smile on her pink stained lips, the same color she’d worn while I’d lived with them. Her posture was stiff and unwelcoming, but her gaze softened when she stared at her son. It looked like her blind spot for the psychopath hadn’t gone away.

It was obvious, as usual, whose idea it had been for me to come to dinner.

Michael’s hand slid down to the curve of my ass, and I lunged forward, sitting in a chair before he could do anything else.

After dinner, would he have something to show me in his old room? Would his camera be sitting on the desk? Would a silk blanket be draped across his bed? I was on the verge of a panic attack just sitting here.

There was a baked chicken on the middle of the table, expertly made I was sure because Mrs. Carver had always been a good cook.

I wanted to throw up all over it.

Suddenly, the doorbell rang. We all glanced at it, like a doorbell ringing was the oddest thing that could ever happen.

Mrs. Carver sniffed when it rang again. “That package is two hours late,” she huffed. She finally stood, her expression irritated as she went to answer it. I heard the faint murmur of voices—and one sounded awfully familiar. Sitting up straighter in my seat, my eyes darted towards the doorway.

But surely not...I had to be imagining his voice out of pure longing because I wanted him to be here so badly...protecting me like he had with everything else.

Her footsteps echoed on the tile floor, signaling her return—but there was another set of footsteps that had joined hers.

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