Did I want push back?
Did I want to be denied?
I stared at her face—wide eyes crowned by clumpy black mascara—and I had no plan for what came next.
11
NITRO
{One month ago}
My stomach grumbled. I should have eaten breakfast.
Also, should have put on a coat. It was fucking chilly out. I hated January.
The blade caught sunlight as it spun through the air, momentarily weightless before gravity pulled it back toward my waiting hand. I dared it to show me its lethal side. Dared it to embed its tip into my rough, calloused palm.
My fingers closed around the worn, leather handle—a perfect catch, again. Flip, spin, catch. I'd been at it for nearly an hour, standing in the compound's back lot where the late morning sun beat relentlessly down on the concrete, but failed to heat the day. I’d never understand how the desert could get so cold in the fucking ‘winter’. I wanted 107 degrees in July. I wanted to feel warmth invading my bones until my skeleton got hot enough to cook the surrounding flesh.
I shivered but ignored the discomfort. My focus remained entirely on the knife, willing it to miss just once, to slice into my flesh and give me what I really needed.
Confirmation I was still alive. Confirmation that the numbness snaking through my veins wasn’t all I had left.
The fucked-up part was that I should be glad the knife was staying true today. A couple months ago, I’d had a lapse. I’d gone nearly a month without being able to throw. Now, I was better than ever… so why did that seem to mean jack shit to me?
With a quick snap of my wrist, I flipped the knife higher than ever, adding a second rotation. The weapon’s recently sharpened edge glinted, momentarily blinding me as it caught bright rays at just the right angle. Still, my fucking hand somehow expertly snagged the handle. Muscle memory. Too much practice. Too much control. I couldn’t hurt myself even if I tried.
I felt so damn restless. Which, yeah, contradicted the pervading numbness. But it also made perfect sense—the world I existed in right now had gone stale. I felt nothing for the routine of it all: the repetitive shows with the repetitive stunts and the repetitive fans with their repetitive shouts. How many ways could I throw a knife? How many ways could it embed itself into a target or a piece of fucking fruit perched on some idiot’s fucking head?
There had to be more.I missed the days of constant broken bones and stunts gone wrong. We took every chance we could back then, trying to make a name for ourselves. The government had sanctioned us repeatedly. They’d fine us, then cite all the bullshit protection laws and how Alphas needed to preserve themselves for the good of society. We were supposed to be strong leaders, heading the pack. Top of the social hierarchy. We were meant to find mates and have a litter of pups. We weren’t supposed to choose mayhem, madness, and physical maiming.
Flip.
Spin.
Catch.
Over and over again.
A familiar voice grunted and cursed somewhere in the distance.
Disappointed it hadn’t offered me proof of life; I caught the knife one last time and began walking toward whichever pack brother was currently pissed off. They were somewhere over near the detached triple garage.
Absentmindedly, I rotated the knife in both hands. Handle in my left. Blade tip delicately worked between two fingers. I let the razor edge bite into my skin purposefully. My body hummed as the first trickle of blood dampened my skin, spreading down to pull between fingers and skim around knuckles.
“I must still be breathing,” I muttered under my breath. “Can’t bleed if you’re not breathing.”
Was that how it worked?
Did every inhale and exhale tell my heart that it too should pump blood through my veins? No, that was the fucking brain’s job. The brain, with all its mangled, mushy grey matter, told my organs to cooperate.
I thought back to the last time I felt not just alive, but powerful.
Standing on my bike’s tank, arms spread wide, careening towards a target. Pulling the knives one by one from their belt holsters and expertly launching them. Bullseye.
That damn stunt got banned after an amateur died. That asshole ruined it for real riders.
Seat standing felt like flying.
