Ellison was the last one. He didn’t only lose. He paid for it with an eye. I gouged it out. Slow enough that he understood exactly what was happening. Gruesome, even for me, which was exactly the point.
It bought me time.
Peace.
Not enough.
Yesterday, after dinner, Jacobson stepped up to my table and asked me to battle with him right in front of everyone. Stupid fuck. Apparently he needed a reminder, but I didn’t give him the full lesson. Just a broken leg.
My fingers flex, remembering the resistance, the give, the way pain translates through bone and muscle if you know exactly where to apply pressure. I don’t think about it. I know. The way I know how to breathe. How to stand. How to end things when they need to be ended.
That’s what Ashford men are raised for.
The lessons started before I was old enough to understand them. Before I had words for what was being done to me. I learned young that survival and obedience are the same thing. My jaw locks so hard it aches, as darker memories surface. I stop them before they can take shape.
That part of my life is over. Has been for a while.
No one gives me orders anymore.
No one touches me unless I allow it.
I made sure of that.
Jacobson didn’t last long. He got in a few hits before I put him down. Lucky ones. My ribs took the worst of it, and my cheek is swollen, but I don’t care. Pain stopped meaning anything a long time ago. It's background noise. I go through it instead of around.
Ignoring Becky, I grab a knife, my favorite one with the black handle and curved blade, and throw it hard, channeling all my restless energy, my frustration, into the motion.
Miss.
The blade plows into the dirt instead of the tree. Pain spikes along my ribs, awful enough to let me know a few of them might actually be broken, but underneath that comes a quick, unwelcome flash of embarrassment.
That she saw. Which is ridiculous. I don’t care what she thinks of me.
I throw again, and the blade drives into the tree. Much better. I wrench it free, already resetting, when a shard of bark breaks loose and snaps up into my eye.
Pain detonates. White-hot and blinding.
“Ahh,” I scream.
Chapter eight
Got You
Becky
“Ahh!” Carrson jerks back with a loud curse, his hand flying up to cover his eye.
“Shit—”
He stumbles, his movements uneven, disoriented. His voice rises, high with panic, until his foot trips on a rock andhe goes down hard, landing square on his ass. He sits there, tears streaming down his face, even though he’s clearly not crying.
“Are you okay?” I go to his side without hesitation, instinct taking over.
“Something’s in my eye,” he grits out, his hand cupped over it, trying to trap the pain. “A piece of bark, I think.”
“Let me see.” I crouch beside him.
“No.” He pivots away from me, turning his body to block me out. “Go away.”
