“ADMIT YOU HAVE FEELINGS FOR HER.”
Citizen Soldier Playlist
“Hallelujah, I’m Not Dead”
“Weight of the World”
THREE DAYS LATER
Ican’t fix her. Can’t fucking fix her. All I can do is braid her hair.
And this.
I take out my anger like I normally do. Shirt off. Blistering icy wind pummeling my skin—slick with sweat. A good, solid axe in my hands. And the thick tree stump in front of me. The only light is the half moon above.
I swing the weapon, bringing it down in one solid split to the wood. My veins bulge in my forearms.
I don’t slow down. We will need everything for the winter. More than ever.
This is what I do. What I can do. What I always do.
Seth, the fix-it guy. Seth, fix the fence. Seth, repair the barn door. Seth, chop the wood. Stock the cabins.
My hands don’t shake, but my muscles flex under the weight of the task. Jolts of power surge through my arms, radiating into my chest.
Even that damn little skunk can help her more than me. Pew Pew stays by her side all day, only rising when Vincentbrings him food. Sometimes, he whimpers into the crook of her arm. Other times, he hisses and stomps his foot if we get too close. Mostly Rory and me. He likes Vincent for the food. And somewhere along the way, he got used to Jude. Probably senses the Hippocratic Oath or some bullshit.
I swing again. New calluses form over the old. They mirror the thoughts in my head. Always overthinking shit. So, I become a machine.
“Three days and ye’re still out here playing lumberjack for the little luv.”
I look up to find Rory leaning against the woodpile like he doesn’t have a care in the goddamn world. Arms crossed. Smirking. He just came from his butcher shop. No blood-soaked apron, but there’s a smear on his cheek.
I grip the axe handle tighter. My jaw clenches so hard, I swear my molars might crack. “Shut the fuck up, Rory. I’m not in the mood.”
He keeps going. “I can get Jude out of the way so ye can give her somerealwood. Maybe she’ll wake up.”
That’s it.
I lunge.
The world narrows to red and motion. He barely sidesteps, laughing like I’m a joke and wagging his fingers at me like some smug bastard preacher. He’s hankering for a fight. And I fucking know why.
“What’s next, Paul Bunyan? Carving her name into every tree till she wakes up?”
I snap.
Gripping the base of the axe, I swing it hard, the handle catching on his jaw. His head snaps back, and he howls in pain before locking his crazy eyes on me again. “Ye’re about to get devil-fucked, Sethy boy.”
“Before or after I bite off your other ear?”
He growls, but his eyes don’t lose that sociopathic glint. The kind that shows his temper with no mask—it promises war. He’s going to war with his own foster brother. Over her.
Because we both want her. We both need her.
Because she waltzed right onto our land with her purple hair and hazel eyes, curvy hips, and plump breasts. Because she threw down with Rory and took his blood just like she bit Jude. Because she swung my axe. And she stared into our psycho’s eyes and didn’t flinch.
She survived. And climbed right out of that goddamn pit like some beautiful bone witch resurrected from the dead.
