Page 156 of Traded

My torn skin throbs as he pushes the material into it with trembling hands. “Keep that on. I have to go. But I’ll fix everything, Ro, I promise. Stay here, and I’ll be back.”

His hands pause as I look up, and we meet each other’s eyes.

Through the agony and the haze of fear, there is… something else. Something that feels alien as he wraps me up in his arms and I hang limply like a doll.

Something that tells me his arms are exactly where I want to be, fighting with the horror and disgust that sits beneath.

“Stay here.” He steers me over to Gabe’s leather couch and nudges me down into it. “Half hour max.”

He takes a deep breath and pulls the door open.

Then… he’s gone.

Chapter forty-three

…

Iclimb the stairs in a daze.

Nobody is here now. The crowds have filtered back inside to watch the final period.

Only a few blurry workers mill behind the merch stands, chatting to each other as I slowly make my way past.

One foot in front of the other.

My feet feel like cement, dragging as I pull myself up the steps. A wall of heat crashes over my sweat-soaked skin, noise slamming into my skull that I flinch back from.

And all the while, my pulse throbs from the raw, burning brand in my neck.

I stumble my way past familiar faces, my lips mouthing an apology as I edge my way back to my seat. Lauren stands. Her face swims in and out of my vision. “Rosie?”

As I take my seat, I shake my head. “I’m fine.”

I stare blindly out at the arena, waiting for it to be over.

Cheers erupt around me, everyone around me jumping from their seats. But I… can’t move. Lauren slips her hand into mine. “Your skin is like ice. What happened?”

Every thought feels like sludge. Vaguely, I see faces peering at me in concern. Katie is frowning, her mouth opening and closing.

I feel the same way that I did beneath Carter’s shower. As if I’m floating, somewhere far away from my body. Except for the pain.

I am nothing, apart from pain.

My lips shape a word.

The same word. Over and over again.

My eyes find a figure on the ice.

Not him—

I find another, the number19printed on the back of his jersey. Somebody shakes my arm. “What’s wrong with her?”

Number19staggers, dropping down to one knee. A scarlet jersey skids to a stop beside him, hands gesturing before a navy jersey knocks him out of the way.

I watch from far away as the scarlet jersey skates to the boards below us. Gloved hands bang against the glass.

“Rosie?” A hand yanks at my sleeve.