The time to become strong enough to keep everything under control.
I stand in the shadows, where she can’t see me and stare at her, absorbing every detail. Becky’s stretched out on the ground, a blanket thrown over the dirt, a book open in front of her like this is some quiet little study session instead of my space.
I tell myself she’s nothing. My eyes stay on her anyway.
Like they don’t belong to me.
Her hair falls forward as she reads, auburn strands sliding across her cheek, catching on her lips when she chews at them. Her eyes flick up sometimes, and I feel it, that aqua gaze, even when I don’t look back. The second I do, she’s already staring down at her book, like she wasn’t watching at all.
She hides herself under layers. Oversized flannels, loose hoodies, as if she’s trying to take up less space than she actually does. It doesn’t work.
She’d be pretty if she made any effort at all. If she styled her hair. If she wore clothing that fit. But even now, there’s something about her that stands out, that refuses to blend in no matter how hard she tries.
Not that I’ve been paying attention.
I don’t like people. Not women. Not men. Not anyone, especially not her.
I finally step into the clearing, heading for the tree.
There’s a loud inhale behind me, and I glance over in time to see Becky bolt upright, her book forgotten in her lap. Her hand flies to her mouth, those blue eyes going wide.
“What happened to you?”
I blink, caught off guard by the sound of her voice.
We go days without speaking. Weeks, sometimes. I try to remember the last time she said anything to me, my thoughts dragging back through the usual silence until they catch on it.
Her pencil. I’d snapped it clean in half and dropped the pieces into her lap.
Childish. But effective.
She’d glowered up at me like she wanted to stab me with it, her cheeks flushed pink, her mouth a thin line, lips pressed together, those blue eyes sparking.
Not scared of me, the way she should be. Not backing down. Just furious.
Her voice now is different. Softer, lower, than I’ve heard before. Which I guess makes sense because when we do speak it’s usually to snap at each other or trade snide comments.
“Did someone do that to you? Did you get in a fight?”
Her gaze moves over me as she speaks, tracing the damage. My cheek, the bruises along my ribs. Everywhere her eyes touch, heat follows, spreading across my skin, an invisible palm smoothing overeach spot.
It’s not real. She’s not close enough to touch me. I know that but my body reacts like it is.
“Carrson?”
Her expression softens to match her voice, and that sits wrong. It doesn’t belong on her face. Not when she’s looking at me like that. Almost worried. Like I’m someone worth worrying about.
Awareness crawls over my skin, alive and buzzing. I roll my shoulder, trying to shake it off. It stays anyway.
I don’t like it.
Whatever this feeling is.
“It’s nothing,” I tell her, the words coming out flat, even as I wonder why I bothered answering at all. I turn my back to her, shutting her out, but I can feel her staring. It burns, an irritating, nagging heat between my shoulders.
She’s right. I did get into a fight yesterday. The one that left the bruises she sees now.
It’s been almost six months since anyone was stupid enough to challenge me for leadership of the brothers, long enough that I’d almost forgotten what it was like to have to prove it again.
