“You hate me. You said it earlier,” he says, voice low and husky. “Say it again.”
“I hate you,” I whisper, but it comes out shaky. Unconvincing. Almost…breathless.
Because right now?
I don’t know if I want him far away or close enough to kiss.
He leans in just a fraction. His body doesn’t touch mine, and yet I feel himeverywhere.
This time, I don’t flinch from his nearness, but I don’t move toward him either.
Because, for the first time in months,I’mthe one in charge and it feels incredible.
Like I’m on fire.
Like I could burn this whole world down.
***
Carrson
We practice for over an hour, mostly Laurel throwing wild, furious punches while I dodge, taunt, and occasionally let one land. She’s sloppy, unpredictable, way too emotional. Everything I shouldn’t want in a fighter. Everything I shouldn’t want, period, but hell if she doesn’t keep coming at me, again and again, like she’s got something to prove.
Even with her inexperience, I see it. That spark. The potential in her. The way she learns fast, how her eyes narrow with a determined kind of focus, how she resets her stance without me telling her. I shouldn’t be impressed.
I also shouldn’t be watching her mouth, her eyes, the way her chest rises when she’s breathless. But I am.
Finally, she collapses onto the floor, flat on her back, her chest heaving like she’s run a marathon. “Can’t,” she pants. “No more.”
I drop down beside her, not too close, leaning against the bed with one leg stretched out, the other bent at the knee.
She presses a hand to her chest like she can physically slow her heart. Her gaze slides to mine, wary and curious. “How’d you learn it?” she asks. “To fight like that?”
I’m quiet for a minute, wondering how best to answer her.
I could shut her out. Leave her hanging. The less she knows about me, about The Order, the better. It’ll make it easier for her to walk away when I graduate. Cleaner. Safer. No messy attachments.
On the other hand, we’re stuck together for the next year, and something tells me she won’t make it easy. She’s too curious. Too damn smart. She notices things, picks at loose threads until they unravel and fall apart.
Maybe it’s better if I give her something. Not the whole truth, just enough to quiet that relentless, sharp mind of hers. Enough to keep her from digging deeper and finding things she can’t unsee.
I stay quiet a minute longer, weighing the risks. Then I make my decision.
“I already told you I grew up with tutors,” I tell her. “Mornings were for Latin. World history. Calculus. Anything academic.” I pause, longer this time, the next words heavier in my throat. “Afternoons?” I glance at the floor, jaw tight. “Those were for war.”
Laurel’s eyes are on me, I can feel them, but I don’t look over. I don’t want to see what’s written on her face. Disbelief. Horror. Maybe pity. God help me if it’s pity.
“By the time I could walk, I was being trained. Martial arts. Hand-to-hand combat. Knife work. Marksmanship. Every skill I’d need to survive.” The memories come back sharper than I expect, bone-deep bruises, blood on my palms, my father’s voice barking orders until I forgot how to cry.
“Tracking was my favorite,” I murmur. “Father flew in the best instructor in the world to teach me the art of pursuit. How to move in silence. How to follow without being seen. How to wait.”
She finally speaks. “Seriously?”
I nod once, my jaw tight. I remember exactly what my father told me, word for word, like it’s etched into my mind.
“Your opponent may flee from you,” he’d said. “Theyshouldrun. Don’t let them get away, son. Track them down. Eliminate the threat. Otherwise,I promise, they will come back to finish what they started. No loose ends, Carrson. No mercy.”
“First, my instructor had me practice with animals,” I tell Laurel. “I liked that, being out in the quiet of the forest, wandering along the path of the deer or the rabbit.” I smile, remembering eight-year-old me, tiptoeing through the woods, thinking I was being so careful. So silent.
