Marshmallows.
Sweet. Warm. A mistake.
“I want a weapon,” she says suddenly.
Her spine straightens. Chin tilts up. Defiance wrapped around fear like armor.
“You already have one,” I say. “Knife in your boot. Inside ankle.”
Her eyes flicker before she can stop them.
Caught.
“I need more than that,” she snaps. “I want a gun.”
I laugh.
Low. Real. The sound rolls out of me because the audacity of it—ofher,hits something feral in my chest.
“No.”
The word is final. Absolute.
I watch the frustration spark across her face, quick and bright. She’s calculating again, already adjusting her odds. She doesn’t beg. She doesn’t plead.
She plans.
I step back slowly, deliberately, never breaking eye contact. Circle the car like a wolf giving space before the bite. I pop the trunk.
Metal gleams in the low light. Tools. Weapons. Intent. I reach in and grab the brass knuckles. Heavy. Scarred. Familiar.
I turn and toss them at her feet. They hit the dirt with a dull, final thud.
Her gaze drops instantly. I watch her reaction, not the obvious one, but the microsecond before she schools her face. Interest. Recognition. Approval she doesn’t want to admit.
“Those aren’t a gun,” she says.
“No,” I agree. “They’re better.”
She doesn’t pick them up yet. Smart. Still deciding if it’s a trick.
“They’ll hurt my hand,” she says.
I tilt my head. “Only if you hesitate.”
Her fingers curl once at her side.
I step closer again. Close enough that she can feel the promise of me.
“Walk,” I repeat. “Or I’ll drag you.”
Her nostrils flare. Anger bleeds through the fear now, sharp and alive.
She bends, scoops up the knuckles, slides them on with practiced efficiency that makes my pulse kick hard.
She straightens, meets my gaze, and for the first time since we stopped the car—she smiles.
Feral.
