My Fake Boyfriend Is the School Bad Boy novel Chapter 57

Chapter 57 Bruised Knuckles and Unspoken Tension Part 2

I missed on purpose, he muttered, his jaw tight.

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I paused, looking down at his dark, messy hair. “What?”

“Miller, Ryder clarified, his tone completely flat. “I aimed for the locker. If I had hit his jaw with that swing, I would have shattered it. I

just wanted him to shut his mouth.

The air stalled in my lungs. He had calculated the violence. He had possessed enough control, even in the middle of a blinding rage, to redirect the punch into the metal rather than the boy, just to make a point.

“You still punched a locker, Ryder,” I breathed, tossing the bloody paper towel into the small biohazard bin near his boot. I grabbed the

brown bottle of hydrogen peroxide. “You broke your own hand.”

“It’s not broken,” he stated dismissively.

“It’s going to sting, I warned him, unscrewing the cap.

I tipped the bottle, letting the clear liquid pour directly over the split knuckles.

The peroxide immediately foamed, bubbling up bright white as it hit the raw, torn flesh and the heavy silver rings. It was a harsh, burning

chemical reaction. I knew exactly how bad it hurt.

Ryder didn’t make a sound.

His fingers didn’t twitch. He didn’t pull his hand away. He just sat there, completely motionless, letting the chemical burn eat away at the

open wounds.

I grabbed a sterile cotton swab, gently dabbing away the white foam and the lingering traces of blood. I worked slowly, meticulously,

terrified of causing him any more pain. The contrast between my careful, trembling touches and the brutal, violent damage on his skin

was staggering.

He was a human wrecking ball, and I was trying to patch him together with cheap cotton and medical tape.

The silence in the room stretched, thick and heavy. The adrenaline from the hallway was completely gone, leaving behind a raw, highly

charged intimacy that made my skin prickle.

I unscrewed the cap of the antiseptic ointment. I squeezed a small, clear bead onto the tip of my index finger.

I pressed my finger gently against his bruised, split knuckle.

His sharp intake of breath was the first reaction he had given me.

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Chapter 57 Bruised Knuckles and Unspoken Tension Part 2

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It wasn’t a hiss of pain. It was a deep, fractured pull of air, as if the soft, deliberate pressure of my fingertip against his skin was far more

agonizing than the peroxide.

1 froze, pulling my hand back a fraction of an inch.

“Sorry,” I whispered quickly, my heart giving a frantic flutter. “Did I push too hard?”

Ryder slowly lifted his head.

He didn’t look at his bleeding hand. He didn’t look at the metal tray of supplies.

He looked directly at my mouth.

The shards of gold and green in his hazel eyes were incredibly dark, completely swallowed by the dilated, heavy black of his pupils. The feral, unhinged rage from the hallway was entirely gone, replaced by a raw, starving intensity that pinned me to the linoleum floor.

He wasn’t tracking the pain. He was tracking the slight, nervous parting of my lips.

My breath completely stopped.

The memory of Friday night crashed through the sterile room. The plush gray carpet. The green glass bottle. The overwhelming, crushing weight of his mouth devouring mine. I could suddenly taste the sharp edge of peppermint and dark coffee all over again.

I stood paralyzed between his knees, my finger hovering just above his bruised skin. The air in the clinic grew impossibly hot, the sterile scent of the rubbing alcohol completely overpowered by the heavy, intoxicating smell of his leather jacket.

“You didn’t push too hard,” he murmured.

His voice was a dark, rough whisper that scraped against my frayed nerves, sending a massive, liquid heat pouring straight down my

spine.

He didn’t look away from my lips. His gaze was a physical weight, tracing the shape of my mouth with an agonizing, deliberate slowness. He remembered the kiss just as clearly as I did. He was remembering exactly what it felt like to tangle his hand in my hair and pull me

flush against his chest.

My pulse began to roar in my ears, a frantic, deafening war drum.

I tried to swallow, but my throat was completely dry. I forced my eyes away from the hypnotic, bruising pull of his stare, looking back down at his injured hand. My fingers were shaking so badly I could barely hold the tube of ointment.

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