I did it.
I look back at Jackson, reduced to a dark, hunched shape in the dirt, clutching the leg I stabbed, and a manic laugh bubbles up my throat. I want to dance. I want to scream loud enough that these ancient, indifferent trees know I’m still here. Surviving. Winning.
Another step backward as I plan how I’m going to find Carrson. All the things I want to say to him. I’m about to turn around when I slam into something solid.
Not a tree.
It’s warm. Alive. Breathing.
Chapter forty-three
Hilt
Becky
An arm snaps around my throat and locks tight, cutting off my air. I’m yanked hard against a solid chest, my feet lifting off the ground as I’m dragged backward. The knife slips from my fingers and lands on the ground with a dull thud.
It doesn’t make sense.
Jackson’s still in front of me.
So what? Who?
I twist, craning my head over my shoulder.
The world drops out from under me. He’s the same height as Jackson but broader. Older, but not weaker. He has Jackson’s eyes. Jackson’s mouth, straightened into a thin unforgiving line.
I can’t smell the forest anymore. Just him. Imported cigars and expensive liquor. The scent of boardrooms, ink on contracts, deals sealed with handshakes. It fills my lungs, thick enough to choke on.
“Well,” he says with a sigh, like this is nothing more than an inconvenience. “That was unexpected.”
His attention goes to Jackson. I follow it and watch as Jackson goes pale, his eyes wide, fear stark on his face.
“Jackson,” the man says, disappointment dropping his voice. “Seriously? A girl?”
“I’m sorry, Dad.” Jackson bows his head. “How was I supposed to know she’d find a knife all the way out here?”
His father exhales slowly, shaking his head.
I drive my heel back into his shin and get no reaction at all. Not even a grunt.
“Told you,” Jackson says from his position sitting on the ground. He’s recovered enough to sound smug. “She’s not easy.”
“No,” his father agrees, glancing my way. I shrink under that icy gaze. “She isn’t.” His grip tightens, just enough to make me gasp, hazy spots dancing across my vision. “But she’ll learn. They always do.”
Panic slams into me. I fight harder, kicking, twisting, clawing at his arm, but I might as well be hitting an oak tree. Something ancient and rooted that doesn’t move. Doesn’t feel. Doesn’t care.
“Shh,” he murmurs against my ear, a sound more terrifying than Jackson’s roar because it’s so much quieter. “Save your breath, Becky. You’re going to need it for the bonding.”
My strength ebbs, flowing out of me, used up. I stare down at my feet, bloodied and bare, dangling uselessly. My arms drop to my sides, my fingers twitching against the rough fabric of his suit.
Jackson’s father’s other hand rises into view, and the second I see the dagger in the black leather sheath, hope leaves my body.
I recognize it immediately.
The Latin inscription along the sheath gives it away,bond in blood. It’s the blade I saw before, in Carrson’s basement, in the room he called the Vault, where the air smelled like mold, metal, and blood.
Jackson sees me staring at the knife. “Don’t worry,” he calls out, dragging himself across the ground toward me, his injured leg trailing behind, leaving a dark smear in the dirt. “It’s not to hurt you, Becky.”
