Page 364 of Faking the Goal

He slowly shakes his head, amusement flickering in his eyes. "Not Conrad. Charlie." His mouth curls into the faintest smile. "You should call me by my real name, little kitten. Just like old times."

Little kitten.

Every drop of blood drains from my face the instant the nickname leaves his mouth as I'm thrown headfirst into the darkest memories of my childhood. The air rushes from my lungs in something between a gasp and a whimper, while a wave of horror crashes over me so violently that every tiny hair on my body stands on end.

I wrench backward and lunge for the door, but he's faster. My back hits the wall hard enough to knock the air out of me, and both my wrists are pinned above my head before I can even process that he's moved.

"Now why are you trying to run away from me, kitten?" His body presses flush against mine, caging me against the wall. The sickly-sweet scent of wine and mint washes over my face as he buries his nose in my neck, breathing me in. His free hand slides from my waist up my side, his knuckles dragging slowly, deliberately, across the skin of my arm. A sound rises in his throat—half groan, half laugh. "So much softer than I remember."

His touch isn't just unwelcome; it feels invasive and violating. I bite down on the inside of my cheek until I taste copper, swallowing whatever sound is trying to crawl out of me. My stomach lurches, hot and sour, as his fingers drag higher.

"Let go of me," I say, but it comes out whisper-soft, and he smiles at the sound of it like I've said something sweet.

"Shh. It's okay. Don't be scared, Little Kitten. I would never hurt you." His mouth curls into a salacious grin. "Well... not again. I'm sure after that night, you already learned your lesson. Isn't that right?"

The memory flashes through my mind before I can stop it—the bat coming down, the first blow knocking me out, the next one exploding against my ribs while I curled into myself on the pavement and begged him to stop.

My eyes squeeze shut as terror floods through me all over again. My heart is thundering so violently that I can feel every beat in my throat, and my pulse pounds beneath his fingers where he has my wrists trapped above my head. For a few terrifying seconds, fear sinks its claws into me so deeply that all I want to do is shut down, disappear inside myself, and wait for this nightmare to be over.

But I can't.

Not right now.

I force myself to open my eyes and suck in a trembling breath. Detective Matthews is listening. His team is listening. The cameras are recording everything happening inside this apartment, and if I want this to end tonight, I need Charlie to keep talking. I need him to admit that he's the one who's been stalking me, and that he's the one who attacked me outside the hockey house. I need his own words on that recording before Detective Matthews and his team come through that door.

So open your fucking mouth, Taylor.

Get him talking. Make him admit it. Give Matthews what he needs so there's no chance this bastard can somehow twist his way out of it later.

Except knowing what I need to do and actually doing it are two completely different things.

Because fuck, it's so much easier to tell myself to bait a confession out of the man who has terrorized me for years when he isn't standing right in front of me.

"Are you—" My voice fractures. I have to start again. "Are you saying it was you? The stalking, the attack outside the hockey house—that was all you?

"Stalking?" Charlie repeats, almost affronted.

His brows pull together like I've genuinely insulted him, and for one bizarre second, he looks at me as though I'm the one who has said something cruel.

"Is that really what you call it?" A humorless laugh slips from him. "After everything I've done for you? Everything I've sacrificed just to find you again?" He slowly shakes his head. "God, Taylor. How can you belittle fourteen years of devotion to something as ugly and meaningless as stalking?"

His thumb strokes the inside of my wrist, right over the pulse point where my blood is slamming through my veins.

"As for what happened outside that house a few weeks ago..." His mouth curves faintly. "Yes. That was me."

The confession lands like a fist straight to my chest.

But I don't move.

I can't.

Not yet.

"And I didn't want to hurt you," he continues, his voice softening as though he's the wounded one here. "You need to understand that. I never wanted any of that to happen. You just... wouldn't listen to me."

My fingernails dig into my palms.

"I had already forgiven you for everything you did while we were apart. Every man you slept with. Every man you kissed. Every filthy pair of hands you let touch you." His jaw tightens, something vicious flashing through his eyes. "Do you have any idea what that was like for me? Watching them put their hands on what belonged to me?"