Chapter 397
[ 524 words ]
Chapter 397:
He stared at the closed door, the physical barrier a perfect metaphor for the one she had just slammed down between their hearts. The throbbing, searing pain in his hand was nothing. It was a dull, distant echo compared to the sharp, clean agony of watching her choose to walk away.
The silence from the other side of the door was worse than any shout. It was a dead, heavy weight pressing against the wood, against her ears, against her sanity. Caroline stood in the middle of the sterile dorm room, her arms wrapped tightly around herself. Each beat of her own heart was a hammer blow, counting out the seconds since she’d heard the sickening crunch.
The sound replayed in her mind, a looped nightmare. The dull thud of the heavy door hitting the frame. His choked grunt of pain. She could feel the vibration of the impact in her own bones. Guilt, thick and suffocating like mud, filled her throat. She had done that. In her blind panic, she had hurt him.
She couldn’t stand it. She crept toward the door, her stockinged feet making no sound on the linoleum. Her hand trembled as she reached for the knob, but she pulled it back. What if he was gone? What if he was standing right there, his eyes filled with that cold, unforgiving fury?
𝘋𝗶ѕс𝗼𝘃𝖾𝘳 𝘩𝗂𝗱𝖽𝗲n g𝗲mѕ 𝘰n 𝗴a𝘭𝘯𝗼𝘃𝗲𝘭𝘀.𝘤о𝗆
Her eye found the small, brass-ringed peephole. It was a coward’s way out, but it was all she had left. She pressed her eye to the cool metal, her breath held tight in her chest. The distorted, fisheye view of the hallway swam into focus.
He hadn’t left.
The sight made her stomach clench so hard she thought she might be sick. Jarrod wasn’t standing there in anger. He had slid down the opposite wall, his long legs sprawled out in front of him. He was slumped over, his head bowed, the harsh fluorescent lights carving a lonely, desolate silhouette. With his uninjured right hand—carefully working around the rigid, restrictive field splint that still locked his right arm against his ribs—he was clumsily, almost tenderly, trying to examine the crushed, purpling fingers of his left.
He looked broken. The raw, unguarded vulnerability of the posture shattered her defenses into a million pieces.
A sob tore from her throat. She fumbled with the lock, her fingers clumsy and useless, before finally turning the deadbolt. She yanked the door open.
The sound of the latch echoed in the hallway. Jarrod’s head snapped up. His eyes, wide and dark with pain, met hers. A flicker of surprise crossed his face, quickly replaced by the wounded, confused look of a dog that had been kicked for no reason.
“I’m sorry,” she tried to say, but the words were trapped, choked by the lump of guilt in her throat. Nothing came out.
She took a hesitant step into the hall and knelt in front of him, her gaze fixed on his swelling, purpling fingers. She wanted to touch them, to fix it, but she didn’t dare.
He just watched her, his expression miserable. Then, in a voice so quiet and hoarse it was almost a whisper, he murmured, “It hurts.”
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