**CHAPTER 8 - LIAM** Every fiber of my being strains to maintain composure as I listen to Rachel’s voice tremble, her anguish spilling forth, painting a vivid picture of how her pathetic excuse for a boyfriend sat idly by while that scumbag, Matt, unleashed a storm of violence upon her. It infuriates me. He just watched. He did nothing. If I ever caught someone treating my girl like that, I'd break his foot first, then snap every single bone in his body, one by one. As she recounts the brutal moment he dragged her back into their bedroom like a prisoner, my knee begins to bounce nervously beneath the polished wood of the table. "And then he told me to do what’s good for me and stay put," she says, her voice cracking. Tears that had previously brimming in her eyes now spill down her cheeks, glistening like fragile glass before she hastily swipes them away, just as our waitress glides past our booth. The server, sensing the tension in the air—thick enough to slice—quickly redirects her attentions, refilling coffee cups, while my mind churns over Theo’s sickening words. “What’s good for her,” I seethe inwardly, a tide of murderous rage surging through me. Rachel’s gaze drifts beyond the confines of our tables, a thousand miles away as she confesses, "I just kind of froze up, you know? My body was hurting, and I was so scared. I couldn’t even find the guts to climb out the window.” Gently, I reach for her hand—the one grasping the salt shaker—and run my thumb over her trembling fingers. “But you did leave. You found the courage to walk out that night. You drove for miles to escape him. That’s bravery, Rachel. You were incredibly brave.” She shakes her head, her eyes fixed on a distant point, as if she's lost to another time, another place. “I don’t feel brave,” she whispers. “I feel stupid for falling for him in the first place.” “Hey,” I respond, firmly patting her hand. “He deceived you. You’re not stupid. He's a lying bastard. A complete asshole. A cockwaffle. An absolute shit biscuit.” As the words leave my mouth, I detect the hint of a smile pulling at the corners of her lips. I lean into it, crafting ridiculous insults, concocting a series of curses that range from “fart blaster” to “fuckcicle.” “Gilipollas,” I throw in, switching to Spanish, letting my voice rise as I unleash a torrent of colorful curses, each more vulgar than the last, eliciting a half-hearted laugh from Rachel before I sit back, panting. But her smile falters, and she tilts her head, studying me intently. I notice how her long hair cascades gently over her shoulder, the smoothness of the moment fighting against the storm within me. “I don’t speak Spanish,” she murmurs after a beat, her voice a gentle whisper. “But I’d love to learn.” The enormity of her desire to diffuse the tension strikes me. She, battered and bruised, is trying to make me feel better. How twisted is that? I rub a hand down my face, attempting to break this cycle of anger. “Eres asombrosa,” I say finally, the words slipping from my lips like a well-worn secret. Her bright green eyes spark with curiosity, hinting at a smile. “What does that mean?” Swallowing hard, I focus on keeping my tone even, though it comes out ragged. “You are amazing.” Her lips part in surprise, delight flickering in her expression. “And I’m not saying that to make any kind of move,” I backpedal quickly, shifting in my seat, my arms resting on the table between us. “I mean it, Rachel. You are incredible. You left him. You limped out that door, and that makes you strong and brave.” Emotion wavers across her face, her jaw quivering as she bites her bottom lip, fighting back tears. I want to tell her she’s not just capable—she’s a warrior—but I hold back. Now isn’t the time. Gently resting my fingers on the back of her hand, I’m about to speak again when she gasps, “Where’d you learn Spanish?” Caught off guard, I realize she’s steering us back into lighter waters. I grasp at this saving grace. “My mama. She’s from México.” Her grin widens, illuminating her face. “I like the way you say that. Can you say something else? Like a whole string of stuff?” My lips curve upward as I burst into the lyrical flow of Spanish, telling her how beautiful she is, how captivating her eyes are, each word wrapped in sincerity. “Deberías decírselo a tu mejor amigo,” I add as an afterthought, “You should tell your best friend.” Laughing softly, she replies, “I have no idea what you just said, but it sounded beautiful. I think you said ‘friend’ at the end, right? Amigo?” As I nod, her smile grows radiant, a pure light amidst the shadows. “Can you teach me just one sentence before we have to go back?” she implores. “Why do we have to go back?” I counter. “We can stay out all day.” Her brows furrow in confusion. “Don’t you have class?” “I’d skip class for you,” I confess easily, smiling. “No, you will not,” she insists, pointing a finger at me, a stern look in her eyes, which only makes me chuckle inwardly. I resist the urge to mention I skipped my morning workout, a significantly larger sacrifice than missing a class or two. “One thing, and then we’re leaving. Por favor,” she pleads, giving me a look that would rival a puppy’s earnest gaze. “So you do speak a little Spanish.” Her soft snort breaks the tension. “I can say ‘please’ and ‘thank you.’” “That’s still something,” I chuckle before announcing, “Me alegro de haberte conocido.” She repeats it back, surprisingly accurate. “What does that mean?” “It means… I’m so glad I met you.” Her cheeks flush a rosy pink, yet she meets my gaze unwaveringly. “I’m glad I met you too. Thanks for being there for me last night and this morning.” She brushes her bangs aside, glancing down at the table. “And thank you for keeping my secret.” My heart swells as I lift her chin lightly, compelling her to meet my gaze once more. “You can trust me. I won’t say anything… but I really think you should tell Mick.” She pulls back from my touch, her smile twinged with stubbornness, a subtle indication that my advice might never see the light of day. I sigh softly, conceding, and follow her out of the booth. She insists on paying, her fingers trembling as she offers cash to the waitress. “Keep the change,” she murmurs, smiling at the server before stepping out into the chill air. I wave goodbye to the waitress, thankful for her kindness. Outside, a whimsical flurry of snowflakes dances in the air, and I can't help but grin up at the sky, catching a few on my tongue. It’s a childish moment until I glance over to find Rachel, shivering next to the truck, looking ready to freeze solid. I rush to her side to open the door, my instinct to sweep her up and help her inside just before I remember the bruises hidden beneath her layers. I stop, relief flooding me, grateful I avoided adding to her pain. Images of Theo's filthy friend delivering blow after blow to her abdomen flash in my mind, igniting a simmering rage that’s always coiling just beneath the surface. I slide behind the wheel, focusing on the road as silence envelops us. The drive home feels heavy, a reflection of our unspoken thoughts and shared burdens. Arriving back at the house, Rachel offers a fleeting smile, whispering, “Gracias,” before she retreats up to my room. I watch her long legs disappear up the stairs, leaning against the wall, grateful that the house seems empty. Everyone must have already left for class, and part of me knows I should follow suit. I gather my things reluctantly, then glance at my phone, wincing at the barrage of texts from Ethan. “I don’t mind you taking the truck, dude, but where the heck are you?” Three missed calls. I’d been so engrossed in Rachel's heart-wrenching tale that I hadn't noticed my phone buzzing incessantly. I typically keep it silent, relying on my watch for notifications—except I hadn’t charged it last night, leaving the gadget upstairs with Rachel. Sensing she needs solitude, I shoot a quick apology back to Ethan, racing upstairs to call out a goodbye to Rachel before I head to class. Once parked, I stride toward the building where I know Ethan will emerge. “Hey, Liam!” a familiar face calls out—a puck bunny whose name slips my mind. That girl danced with Asher all night at the last Hockey House party, undoubtedly lingering on the couch I barely managed to sleep on. Fantastic. I push past a grimace, forcing a polite smile in return as I quicken my pace, narrowly dodging the throng of students streaming from the building. Ethan’s imposing stature rises above a cluster of girls, but he’s too absorbed in his phone to notice me. “Ethan!” I call, raising my hand, my voice cutting through the chatter. As his eyes lock on me, I toss him the keys, which he catches with a frown. “I’m really sorry, man. I lost track of time.” “Where were you guys?” he interrogates, skepticism lining his features. I shrug, attempting nonchalance. “Took Rachel to Taffy’s for breakfast.” “Why?” I feign indifference. “We were hungry.” His frown deepens, suspicion glinting in his eyes. “You’re not making a move on her, are you?” “No,” the word escapes my mouth sharply, defensive defensively. The panic within me rises. Get it together, man. “I just… she’s Mick’s best friend, you know? If you guys didn’t work out, it’d turn awkward really fast. I don’t want anything affecting our friendship,” he warns. “So just… don’t go after Rachel, okay?” Frustration churns within, but I keep my composure intact. “She was a wreck last night,” I remind him. “That’s why I took her out. I had to get her out of the house.” “Which, what, him standing shirtless in the kitchen, flirting with her?” I challenge, already annoyed that he doesn’t trust my judgment. Ethan’s eyes soften slightly, admitting the truth. “I don’t want this to affect us, man.” I swallow back a snappy retort, hating this line of questioning. “And she needs to heal first, anyway. I think it’s sleazy to dive in when she’s dealing with a breakup, you know?” I roll my eyes, stifling a laugh. “You can’t stand there and tell me you’ve never done that before.” His face flushes crimson as he kicks at the snow beside him. “I’m not proud of it,” he admits quietly. With a quick snicker, I shake my head. “I’m not doing that. Rachel needed someone to talk to, and Mick was still in bed. So I took her for coffee and an omelet. It wasn’t a big deal.” “No big deal?” I can’t help but think as the words echo back, weighing heavy on my chest. What Theo and his loser friend did to her—this isn't a minor thing. I clenched my fists, fury boiling beneath the surface, knowing how vital it is to keep everything under wraps. This isn’t the time for revelations. Rachel’s not ready for that. I let the gravity of the knowledge wash over me, calming the tumult of emotions swirling inside. “I’ll catch you later, man,” Ethan offers as he pats my shoulder. “Yep. See you at practice.” Watching Ethan disappear into the crowd, I turn back toward the building I should be entering. Eleven minutes until my criminal justice lecture starts, but my legs refuse to move toward the classroom. Instead, I pivot, jogging away from the campus, my body yearning for release. I head to a small boxing gym where I train during the off-season. Upon entering, I wave at Hank, the owner, before shedding my gear and hitting the bags, the heavy thuds echoing through the space. I need to shred this pent-up frustration before it consumes me. Five minutes of pounding on the bag leaves my knuckles bruised but my spirit aching for more. I grab a spare pair of gloves, letting my rage morph into each punch—each jab, cross, hook, and kick is a blow released in memory of her pain. I channel it all into the bag, striking ferociously until I’m reduced to a sweating, panting mess. “Dude, you need to burn off some steam today or what?” Hank chuckles, glancing at me as I cling to the bag, breathless. “Yeah,” I rasp, laughing weakly. But all I can see is Rachel's lovely face, marred with fear and hurt, as she fought to escape the clutches of her tormentor.