My knees quake as a subtle warning.
“You loved him.” I catch my weight by gripping the sink as my chest caves inward and my damn heart begins to free-fall like a pathetic waste of meat.
Cold. Convince. Lie.
Cucumber next.
I prefer these long or grated—did Jord get carrots? I turn to the fridge and check. A little bag of orange sticks out, and a smile spreads as I snatch them.
I bite into one.
“Ivy, you need to see someone.”
My chewing slows as chunks clog my throat. It would be my luck to die this way.
Tearing off another chunk, I lay it on the chopping board. “I’m fine.”
“I have someone. She’s in-house, so you don’t have to worry about weaving through the filters. It’s someone you can see for yourself. Truly. She’s spoken highly of within the circles.”
I stop chopping, focusing on the phone screen. My throat constricts painfully, tears threatening to spill.
No! You will not show any weakness. What he says is not true. You will not expose yourself to this.
Even if it is Leon who I share a bond with that runs deeper than blood—forged in gunpowder residue and the metallic taste of survival. The kind of connection that only forms when someone pulls you from the wreckage of your own making, piece by shattered piece, and doesn't flinch at the sharp edges.
Even if it is Leon who taught me that safety could exist in someone else's presence. Who showed me what it meant to have someone check the shadows before you entered a room, not because you couldn't handle what lurked there, but because they refused to let you face it alone. The same man who sat with me through withdrawal shakes and never once looked at me with pity—only steady understanding.
Leon, who became my anchor when I was drowning in my own violence. Who crawled into my bed at 3 a.m when the walls closed in and the nightmares inside my head would become too much.
Too loud.
Too weak.
Who learned which whiskey silenced the noise and when to pry the glass from my grip.
If the tears break loose, if my hands shake, then every bullet I buried in his chest becomes a confession. That I let someone past the barriers I'd spent years building. That I was foolish enough to believe I could have something pure without contaminating it with everything I am. My fingers tighten around the knife handle until my knuckles bleach white.
“I think I killed the only man I ever loved.”
The words slip out like blood through gauze—slow, inevitable, staining everything they touch. That damn trauma bond. The one that makes Leon the only person who can see me shatter and still call me strong.
* * *
The fighting ring becomes my home for days. Leon's fists find me again and again—jaw fractured twice, ribs splintered, collarbone shattered, windpipe crushed beneath his knuckles.
Every time, my body pulls itself from the dirt.
My foot pushes against the ground, setting the hammock into a lazy swing between the archway posts. Sunlight pours over us, warming skin that's more bruise than flesh now.
Leon stretches out beside me, lost somewhere deep in his meditation, his breathing even and controlled.
“Sorry about this week,” He murmurs softly.
I roll my eyes. “No, you're not.”
Back and forth.
Blood splatters litter the dirt patch in front of us.
