The crowd erupts. Someone wolf-whistles. I hearRoman's unmistakable “THAT'S MY SISTER” bellow from somewhere to my left.
Kyle's face has gone an interesting shade of red. His buddy films it all, which is going to be a problem for him later, but right now all I can see is the way his lip curls when he looks at me.
“Okay, so you can throw,” he says, loud enough for the cameras to pick up. “Bet you're good at handling wood too, huh? All three of your brothers teach you that, or just one at a time?”
The world goes very, very quiet.
So very fucking quiet.
For the first time in my life, I discover a degree past rage.
I'm vaguely aware of Holly shouting something, of Roman starting to move, of Tara's cameras swiveling toward the confrontation, their every instinct telling them there’s about to be a story. National news worthy. They sure as hell don’t plan to interfere.
Because ratings gold.
But mostly I'm aware of the axe in my hand. And the distance between me and Kyle's smug, smirking face.
Twenty feet. Maybe less.
I've never missed at twenty feet.
Every emotion I’ve been riding in the past week funnels into this one moment, this hot ball of viciousness growing in my gut.
Expectations.
Want.
The fear of disappointing everyone I love.
The fear of leaping into the unknown.
The bone-deep terror that if I screw this up, I’ll lose everything.
I let it all meld with this moment—because it’s easier to put something away when you’ve nailed it to a different target.
Starting toward him, axe loose in my grip, the crowd parts like I'm Moses and they're the Red Sea.
Kyle's face shifts from smug to uncertain to genuinely afraid in about three seconds flat.
“Hey—hey, wait, I was just?—”
“Sierra.”
Everett's voice cuts through the haze of fury.
He steps directly into my path, close enough that I have to stop or run into him. His hand wraps around my wrist—not hard, not forceful, just... there. Grounding.
“Give me the axe,” he says quietly. Just to me. Just between us.
“Did you hear what he just said?”
“Yes.” His thumb brushes the inside of my wrist, a tiny, secret touch. “And he deserves it. But let's skip dismemberment. Family show.”
I stare at him. At the steadiness in his eyes. At the way he's positioned himself between me and the cameras, shielding me from the worst of the spectacle.
Protecting me in what might be the first moment instinct didn’t have me protecting myself.
I relax my fingers, the axe slipping from my grip into Everett’s hand.
