I reach the gate. The latch is stiff, but I ease it open, barely breathing. I slip through, pull it closed behind me.
The sun is bright and merciless now, burning off last night’s rain, painting everything with a sharp, unforgiving light. I walk fast, then faster, ignoring the way my thighs ache, the way my lips feel swollen from their kisses. The ache inside me is sharp and endless, but it belongs to me. When I reach my car, I pull out my keys that I slipped from Levi’s cut. I don’t know where I’m going yet. Away is enough. Away, until the ghosts fade and I remember who I was before I let three men touch me like I mattered.
My hands shake as I reach the apartment door. The whole drive back I’ve been haunted by the thought of running into Marcy. The shame claws at me, cold and sharp—because while I was tangled up with Jinn’s brothers, she was probably tangled up with Jinn himself, doing the very thing that broke me in the first place. The image of her in his bed makes my gut twist. I hate how much it still hurts.
I let myself in, bracing for her voice, for the sound of her in the kitchen, for her shoes kicked off in the hall, for anything that will mean I have to face her. I’m already working through excuses in my head. I was out late. I crashed at a friend’s. I’m fine. I’m always fine.
But the apartment is empty. The silence is thick and sudden. No keys by the door, no jacket on the hook, no perfume clouding the air. Her room is dark, bed perfectly made, her phone charger coiled neatly on the nightstand. She isn’t here. She hasn’t been here all night.
Relief rushes through me.
I don’t have to see her. I don’t have to lie, not yet.
I collapse into the chair by the window, the big one that barely fits me. The cushion flattens under my weight, thighs spreading wide, belly soft and visible between the buttons of my jeans and the hem of my old T-shirt. I catch my reflection in the dark glass, and the sight makes my breath catch. My face is still flushed, lips swollen and bitten. My hair’s a wreck, wild from sleep and hands. There’s a fading print of a mouth on my neck. Finger marks on my hips, red and bruised and obvious if you know where to look.
I stare at myself, really stare, seeing every soft part I’ve tried to hide my whole life. The belly that pushes against the arms of the chair. The fullness in my cheeks. My breasts pulling at the fabric, my arms thick and heavy. I think of Marcy—her little waist, her legs, her pretty face—and for a moment, shame pricks up again, mean and familiar.
Last night, three men—three—ran their hands and mouths over all of it. They touched my belly, bit my thighs, sucked bruises into my breasts. They spread me out and took what I offered and begged for more. There’s a red mark on my neck where JC’s teeth grazed, finger-shaped bruises blooming along the curve of my ass, an ache low in my body that feels like proof.
How is this even real? My reflection looks skeptical, almost mocking. Fat girls don’t get three men. Fat girls don’t get any men, not really, not without apology. But last night, there was nothing but hunger. Nothing but hands greedy and careful, mouths desperate, eyes dark and full of want. They looked at me like I was something rare and ripe and absolutely theirs.
6
BLADE
The outbuilding coffee pot is old, metal dented, the kind you have to coax to life. I manage to get it sputtering, the air filling with that bitter, burnt smell that always makes me feel alive. I pour a paper cup full, the heat warming my hands. This isn’t for me—it’s for her.
I saw her slip out earlier. Thought she just needed air after what went down last night. Hell, I figured she might come back in once the sun burned off the chill. So I made the coffee, planned to hand it over like a peace offering, something normal after all the chaos we spilled in the dark.
I push the door open with my shoulder. The yard is wet and gray, rain still dripping from the eaves, puddles catching dull streaks of light. The cot inside is empty. The stoop is empty. The whole damn yard is empty. Carrie’s gone.
My chest goes tight.
I step out further, scan the fence line, the trash bins, the path toward the clubhouse. Nothing. She’s not hiding, not walking it off. She’s just gone.
The cup in my hand suddenly feels like a joke. I crush it in my fist, hot coffee spilling over my knuckles, dripping into thedirt at my boots. Heat sears my palm, but I don’t care. My hand throbs with the burn. I let the twisted remains drop, dark coffee bleeding into the puddles.
The noise pulls Jace from inside. The door creaks again and he steps out, shirt hanging open, hair mussed.
“What the hell was that?”
I wipe my hand on my jeans, jaw tight. “She’s gone.”
He freezes. “Carrie?”
“Yeah.” My voice comes out rough.
Levi steps out next, tugging his shirt over his head. He reads the air in one look—me empty-handed, Jace tense, the yard silent. “What happened?”
Jace doesn’t take his eyes off me. “Carrie’s gone.”
Levi’s mouth hardens. His gaze sweeps the fence line like he expects to see her ghost. “She ran.”
The three of us stand in the damp yard, rain dripping from the eaves, the outbuilding behind us still stinking of sweat and sex.
My brothers beside me. The space where she should be empty.
And all I can think is how right it felt—and how wrong it feels now that she isn’t here.
