It’s a new level of bitterness for my thoughts, and I wish I could shove it away, but I can’t.
Hoofbeats and booted feet are jogging up behind me, and I swing my crutches forward again. “Don’t follow me.”
He does anyway. “Why are you angry?”
“I’m not angry.” But I am, and Isoundlike I am.
“Jax?” He sounds nonplussed.
I round on him so quickly that Mercy throws her head up and tugs at the reins. Tycho murmurs, “Steady,” but his eyes are on me.
“Don’tfollowme,” I say again.
He frowns. “I don’t—”
“Maybe you seek a reminder of what it felt like to be just Tycho, but I willneverbe anything more than just Jax. So if you need nothing from the forge, my lord, then please, just go away.”
He looks like I’ve slapped him.
For just an instant, it makes me regret every word. Not all of this anger is about him. Not even a quarter of it. But I turn away before emotion can tighten my chest and wring out my voice.
He doesn’t follow this time. My crutches stab into the ground with every step, my breath hot in my lungs. When I get back to the workshop, I recklessly shove the bow and arrows under the table. Wood cracks, but I don’t care. I don’t know what I was thinking.
I shove a lock of hair out of my face and stoke the fire in the forge, then drop onto one of the stools. When I look up, Tycho is still in the lane. Mercy is tugging at the reins again, pawing at the ground.
“Goaway,” I shout.
After a moment, he nods. His expression closes down, turning as cold as Lord Alek’s. “As you say.” He turns for his horse, drawing up the reins. He swings aboard, but I look away. I’ve seen him leave often enough. I don’t need to watch it again.
The door to the house slams behind me, indicating my father is home.
Excellent.
I don’t turn and look at him, but I can smell the ale from here.
He speaks from behind me. “What are you doing, boy?”
“I’m working.” I shove an ingot into the stove, even though it’s nowhere close to hot enough.
My father grabs my arm from behind, dragging me upright so roughly that I have to hop to keep my balance.
“Did you just yell at that lord?” he hisses in my face, and his breath is nearly enough to getmedrunk.
I try to jerk free. “Just go back to the tavern,” I growl.
He cuffs me across the cheek. It’s not hard enough to knock me down, not with the way he’s gripping my arm, but it snaps my head to the side and I taste blood.
Today is not the day. I hit him back.
This time he hits me so hard that I crash into the work table, and papers and bits of iron and equipment go everywhere. I grip the edge and scrabble for the tongs, but he’s quicker. He swings me around and cracks me in the jaw again, and I land in the dirt. Before I can decide which way is up, he kicks me right in the stomach, not once, but twice, and my body starts to reflexively curl into a ball. He grabs hold of my shirt and drags me upright again, and my vision spins. I see his fist coming, and I know this time is going to put me out for good. There’s a part of me that’s glad.
But the hit never comes. My father is jerked away so roughly that I go sprawling again. I put a hand against the ground and cough. Blood speckles the dirt. My breathing is ragged.
My father makes a sound that’s half-rage, half-roar, and I force my head to lift just in time to see him take a swing at Tycho. The young lord ducks the strike, then returns two of his own. Before I can blink, my father drops to the ground and moans. He tries to put a hand against the dirt, but it looks likehe’shaving trouble figuring which way is up.
“Jax.” Tycho is looking at me, extending a hand. “Jax, can you stand?”
I don’t know. I swallow and it hurts. Blood is bitter on my tongue, and my vision is blurry. There’s a chance I might empty my stomach right here in the dirt.
