Something very,verybad.
Chapter 8: Colton
Thewalkbacktomy place is mind-numbing. I want to track my father down and pull his spine from his body, but I can’t. This is one time I must exercise patience. My hands hurt. My knuckles are a split mess, blood in the lines like cracked red glass.
The dorm’s front door bangs open and dents the wall in my fury. Inside, the common room stinks of stale beer and someone’s failed attempt at curry. Julian’s on the couch with his feet on the table, three empty bottles lined up like trophies. He’s watching something on his phone, probably porn or one of the fight compilations he thinks are edgy.
He sees me but doesn’t move, doesn’t even blink. Just tracks me with his eyes as I cross to the make-shift gym room at the back, ignoring everything else. I can hear the smirk in his silence.
I go straight to the heavy bag.
Bam installed it when he realized the walls wouldn’t survive his temper. When he broke the old one, I ordered a replacement. His temper is far too volatile to risk the drywall. It’s black leather, branded with his initials in silver marker. There’s already a constellation of dents from when we beat the shit out of it after a few drinks. That day, it felt like violence might be enough to quell the anger inside.
Today, I’m not sure.
I don’t bother with gloves. I want the pain, the blood, the impact as it rattles my bones.
How fucking dare he touch my girl?
The first punch is nothing. The next one lands with more power, enough to make the chain rattle and the bag sway. I fall into rhythm: left, right, hook, knee. The burn is instant, muscles screaming, but it’s the right kind of pain. Real, measurable, mine.
I picture his face. Harrison Ellis. I see him on top of Eve, teeth bared, her fear. I couldsmellher fear. I see the blood on my hands, the split skin on his cheek when I hit him. The sound her body made when she hit the dirt.
I hit the bag harder.
Again.
Again.
My hands go slick, sweat mixing with blood. The leather is spattered now, red smears overlapping old stains. I lose track of time. I stop when the world gets blurry and my legs feel like they might fold. My breath rasps, chest tight and lungs shuddering. The only thing left is the ache in my hands, sharp and perfect.
Julian stands in the doorway, watching. He’s not smiling anymore.
“Feel better?” he asks.
I ignore him, wipe my hand on my shirt. The white goes pink, then red.
“Did you kill someone this time, or just pretend?” Julian’s tone is sarcastic, but there’s something behind it—something almost careful.
I crack my knuckles, even though it hurts like a bitch. “He touched her.”
Julian raises an eyebrow. “Which her? Which he?”
I stare him down. “The only girl that matters. And Harrison.”
He shrugs, takes a lazy sip from his beer. “Your father’s a classic. Always said you’d fuck up and prove him right.”
“He tried to rape her,” I say. The words sound stupid in the air, like they shouldn’t belong to me.
Julian doesn’t blink. “Your dad’s a dick. Welcome to the club. What are you going to do about it?”
I don’t answer right away. Instead, I strip off my shirt, toss it onto the floor, and run my hands under the tap in the tiny sink by the weights. The water goes pink, then clear. It stings, but not enough.
Julian waits, leaning in the doorway, the beer dangling loose in his fingers.
“I’m going to win,” I say.
He frowns. “Win what?”
